One Of Those Girls In Love With The Moon @beckiguess - Tumblr Blog

𝐃𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬: 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝? 𝐗𝐈𝐗 ⚕ 𝐉.𝐀.

summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?

tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, angst, guns mentioned, injuries

word count: 7.8k

a/n: thank you all for still being here! i appreciate you lots. love reading your comments <33 i hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33

i'm not keeping a tag list for this series!

Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist The Pitt | Masterlist Main | Masterlist

Previous part | Next part

Olivia's never experienced a more painfully awkward breakfast in her life. And she's sat through her parents 'let's-tell-our-child-we're-divorcing-over-croissants' breakfast and survived. But this takes the prize. Because this time she's hungover, struggling for her life as she fights the nausea and throbbing in her head, while she has to watch as the two of you slowly torture yourselves over toast and coffee.

It's mostly quiet except for the occasional scrape of cutlery and chewing—something hungover her usually would appreciate, but today it's killing her. It's like you take turns to look at each other, just missing the other by seconds, and she can see both of you wanting to speak, but neither of you does. When she tries to force conversation, everything dies in short, flat answers.

Olivia had come ready for damage control after your phone call—the one where you'd sounded so heartbreakingly sure everything was over. But after seeing Jack at the party? The gifts, the speech, flying her out, the way he'd looked at you all night. The problem had never been feelings.

She had liked Jack the first time she met him because it had been obvious then, too. The man loved you. Desperately. The problem was that everyone seemed to see it except the two of you.

So, she was certain that things would be okay again. She only needed to give you slight pushes—saw it in the way you didn't deny her every time, how your eyes looked hopeful when she talked about him—and then that kiss happened, and somehow everything got worse.

Olivia still didn’t know what the hell had gone wrong. You hadn’t been in bed when she woke up, and she hadn’t had a chance to corner you yet. But something had shifted. Yes, you'd been upset when she found you afterwards, but not like this. She still thought it could be salvaged with a few encouraging words—the man had kissed you in private for fuck's sake! If that wasn’t a sign that it wasn’t just pretend, what was?

But you looked different now. Quieter. Defeated in a way that made Olivia’s stomach sink.

She sits and watches as you barely touch your food, keep your eyes fixed stubbornly on your plate—except every few minutes, when you’d glance toward Jack before catching yourself and looking away again.

And Jack—

Jesus Christ. He looked awful. Kept reaching for things that didn’t need reaching for to end up closer to you. Refilling your coffee before you asked. Sliding the jam toward you without a word. Every few minutes, Olivia also catches him looking. Quick little glances when he thinks you aren't paying attention. Checking if you’d eaten. Watching your face. Looking away the second you turned.

Two idiots. Clearly sad. Clearly in love. She's seconds away from grabbing both your heads and smashing them together.

"I’ll be right back," she announces suddenly, shoving her chair back.

Your head snaps up immediately, panic flickering across your face. Jack looks up, too, but neither of you says anything, which somehow makes it worse.

She shuts the bedroom door behind her with a long, suffering sigh and collapses onto the edge of the bed, grabbing her phone.

Robby picks up on the second ring. "You're alive," he teases, voice still gruff with sleep.

"Barely," she groans. "These two are gonna kill me."

He laughs softly. There's a rustling sound on the other end, and she imagines him sitting up in bed, sheets falling down on his lap, chest bare—she needs to focus.

"That bad?" he asks.

"You have no idea," she says, rubbing her temple. "We need to do something about it—it's even worse than I thought."

Robby's silent for a moment. "Hmm," he says, voice turning serious. "I think I might have an idea."

Olivia sits up immediately. "I knew there was a reason I liked you."

"Oh?" Robby replies, sounding far too pleased with himself. "You like me?

Her ears flush. "Oh, shut up!" she snaps, shifting on the bed. "Tell me your plan!"

"Yes, ma'am," he laughs.

"Any progress?" Parker asks as she leans against the counter, coffee cup balanced in one hand as she watches Shen stare blankly at the computer.

"None," Shen answers after a moment, drumming restless fingers against the desk. "Absolutely none."

Parker sighs and turns her attention down the hall as Abbot rounds the corner, a tablet tucked under his arm. He moves more slowly than usual—quieter, with less of his usual bark and bite.

"He's miserable," Parker murmurs. "Honestly, I’d prefer him to chew me out than to see him like this."

Shen follows her gaze and exhales through his nose. "Yeah."

Abbot pauses near the board, scanning patient updates. His jaw shifts like he’s grinding his teeth.

"Did you see her at rounds?"

Parker nods. "I think she looked even worse than Abbot does." She frowns, contemplating. "Do you think something happened?"

Shen bites the end of his pen. "No way, right? They seemed fine at the party."

Parker watches Abbot again. "...Yeah."

Jack knows he shouldn't be doing this. He'd promised himself that he wouldn't go back. But it's been weeks since the surprise party, weeks since that kiss, and weeks since he’s had a proper conversation with you.

You're still stuck on day shift, too. Through no fault of Robby’s this time—Gloria had stepped in, and suddenly you were staying put 'temporarily'. Temporary, his ass. At this point, he hardly ever sees you. Just quick hallway glances, elevator rides, and once in a while, a brief hug—but those are growing rarer.

So when the text came—the one he’d ignored for months—he answered. He put on his uniform, convincing himself it would be simple. Routine. A warehouse break-in—nothing major. Just in and out. But then someone panicked. Shots were fired, and everything went sideways.

Luke—a tall guy Jack barely knew—went down hard, hit in the side, then the jaw. Training kicked in before his mind could even catch up. Jack moved instinctively, dragging him to cover while bullets cracked overhead, stabilising him and applying pressure where needed.

After that, things blurred. Sirens. Movement. Noise. The Pitt. He barely registered the burning in his shoulder by the time Luke had already been rushed upstairs. Even then, he’d ignored it. Because Luke was alive. Because it barely hurt. Because—

Because maybe part of him didn’t care all that much lately. That thought sat ugly in his chest.

In the midst of it all, he had instinctively searched for you. Even in the chaos, he hadn’t seen you. Now that things had settled, he still can't find you. No glimpse of you in the hub, no voice echoing down the hall, no familiar figure moving between rooms. You're probably in an exam room, likely avoiding him.

His shoulder throbs harder.

"Fuck," he mutters. He steps toward the first empty room he sees, closes the door and pulls the curtain shut behind him. He gathers supplies one-handed, jaw tightening as he starts peeling off his shirt. It catches on the edge of the wound, and he bites back a hiss of pain.

Just as he throws the shirt on the bed, the door slams open. The curtain is ripped to the side violently as the door bangs shut. You stand there, breathing hard like you sprinted through the entire hospital. Your eyes are wild and desperate as you frantically sweep your gaze over him—face, chest, arms, stomach.

"I thought you got shot," you breathe out when you don't see anything out of place.

"You heard about my dramatic entrance?" he remarked lightly. "I was hoping for flowers, at least." He sits down on the bed, beginning to tear off the tape for the dressing.

That gets nothing from you. No eye roll. Not even an annoyed huff. Your chest is still rising too fast.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" you snap, voice cracking halfway through. "Why were you out there?"

"I—"

"Since when do you do that?"

Jack rubs at the back of his neck. "I've done it for about a year."

Your expression changes from confusion to hurt. "What?" Your brows furrow. "Have you done it while we've—" you trail off, hands gesturing between you.

"No," he says quickly and firmly. "No."

Your shoulders relax a bit, your breathing slowing as you watch him squeeze out saline and reach for a cotton swab. You frown, only then realising that he's sitting shirtless in front of you with a tray of medical supplies in front of him. The way he's favouring one arm, the ugly scrape across his shoulder— "Oh my god."

You move instantly, snapping on a pair of gloves, gently slapping his hand away. "Let me."

"It’s fine," he says automatically, even though he knows he can't reach it.

You shoot him a look sharp enough to silence him.

The room falls quiet as you step closer, reaching for a cotton swab with shaking fingers. You don’t say anything as you start cleaning the scrape. Your fingertips brush briefly against his skin as you adjust your grip, and something in his chest twists painfully. You haven’t touched him in weeks—not properly. No absentminded shoulder bumps, no hand on his back, no leaning into him during rounds—none of those quiet little gestures that used to come so naturally.

And now here you are, jaw tight like you're holding yourself together by sheer will, dabbing at the wound gently, fingers holding onto his shoulder to keep him still.

"Why do you do this?" you ask quietly as you place a dressing over it.

He tilts his head instead of shrugging. "It's better than golf," he jokes. You don't laugh. He tries again, "Midlife crisis?"

Maybe you’ll call him old, maybe you’ll roll your eyes—anything that’ll show him that he hasn’t ruined everything with that kiss. Instead, he hears a sniffle behind him.

Jack stills, turning to look over his shoulder. You're staring down at his back, jaw still tight, but now your eyes are also glassy.

"Whoa, hey," he turns around as you tear off your gloves and throw them into the bin forcefully. "Hey."

"I'm fine," you mutter, not looking at him.

"You're crying."

"I'm not." Your voice cracks on the final word, and Jack hates himself for choosing to respond to that text.

"Sweetheart," he says quietly, the word slipping from his lips before he can stop it. He hasn’t called you that in weeks.

You wrap your arms around yourself and sniff once again. You're still not looking at him. "You really scared me. I thought you got shot."

"Hey," he encourages softly. "Come here."

You hesitate, but then take a step closer to him. He reaches for your hands—they're still shaking a little. He’s not sure if you’ll let him, but you do. Before he can think better of it, he pulls you in between his knees.

He tilts his head, waiting until your eyes meet his. "I'm okay. My vest caught it—it’s just a graze."

"This time, maybe," you stress. "What about next time? You can’t control what happens out there, Jack."

He fights the urge to look away.

"You could’ve gotten seriously hurt," you add quietly.

"I know."

"I just—" Your voice wobbles again. "I don’t know what I would’ve done if—" You bite your lip hard and look away again.

He squeezes your hands gently, bringing your attention back to him. "I'm sorry," he says, and he means it. He wants to promise he won't do it again, but the words catch in his throat. You’ll be out of his life soon—not for good, but in a way that’ll tear the rest of his heart out, and he knows he won’t be able to fight it.

Then a tear drops down your cheek, and he can't stop himself. "If you hate this," he says softly, his thumbs brushing your knuckles subconsciously, "I won’t do it again."

You peer up at him, teardrops beading your waterline. He wipes your cheek gently. "What?"

"I won't go," he promises.

"Jack—"

"I mean it." The thought of seeing you cry breaks him. Not over him.

"Really?"

He can't say no when you look at him like that, like it means everything to you that he's safe. "Yeah," he says. "Really."

You stand there for a second, searching his face like you want to believe him, then something shifts in your face. You step back, drop his hands and wipe your face harshly.

You snap on a new pair of gloves and busy yourself with throwing out the supplies. "You don’t have to do that," you murmur. "I—I overreacted. You can do what you want."

Jack’s heart sinks, unsure what changed so suddenly. "You didn’t—"

"I did," you interrupt, a tiny laugh escaping you. "I just…" you trail off, letting the unfinished sentence hang in the air. Whatever it is, you swallow it down.

"You should get some sleep," you say quietly instead. "You have to be back in a few hours."

Jack opens his mouth, but you’re already turning away.

"I didn’t mean to—" he starts. He isn't sure what he means, just that he wants you to look at him again.

"It’s fine," you cut in too quickly. You leave him sitting on the bed, staring at the closed door.

The next day, Jack comes in early, shifting awkwardly in front of you until you look up from the computer.

"Uh," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "You got a minute?"

You nod, instinctively looking at his shoulder. "Yeah?"

He gestures vaguely. "The dressing thing... It's kinda tricky one-handed."

You close the chart immediately. "Okay."

The exam room he leads you into seems to shrink, feeling even smaller with him standing there, his broad shoulders taking up space as he awkwardly settles onto the bed.

You stand in front of him with gloves on. "Take your shirt off," you say.

His mouth twitches. "You buying me dinner first?"

You raise an eyebrow at him.

He sighs. "Tough crowd." Slowly, he slips his shirt off.

You try not to stare and begin peeling back the dressing. The scrape looks better. You work in silence.

"How’s it look?" he asks eventually.

"Fine." You finish taping fresh gauze over the scrape. "You should still be careful," you say softly.

"I am careful."

You don't answer him.

He sighs. "…Careful-ish."

You almost smile. Almost.

"Thanks," he says quietly when you finish.

"No problem."

He lingers like he wants to say something. You do, too. Eventually, duty calls when rounds begin.

After that, you start looking at apartments like you'd promised. Stealing glances at listings between patients—careful not to let anyone else notice. Scrolling through options when sleep refuses to come. It gives your hands something to do when the house feels too quiet.

You try very hard not to think about how much you don't want to leave. You love this little house. You love sitting on the terrace, listening to the birds. You love curling up on the couch. You even love the coffee machine you can't figure out how to use.

For the first time, moving doesn’t feel impossible. Not with your new salary. It would be tight, sure. Painfully tight. Your student loans aren’t magically gone just because you graduated, but—

You could make it work.

A studio. A shitty kitchen. Questionable plumbing. Somewhere small. Somewhere yours. Somewhere that doesn’t make your chest ache. Jack would probably appreciate it if you left. Sooner rather than later. You wouldn’t blame him.

Ever since the shoulder thing, something had shifted again. Or maybe you had.

Because the embarrassment lingered. You’d panicked. Ran through the hospital like a crazy person because someone mentioned gunfire and Jack. Cried and acted like losing him would ruin you.

You’d scolded him like you were together. Like you had any claim over what he did with his life. And then he’d agreed too easily to stop. That somehow made it worse because obviously he’d just been trying to calm you down. Keep things easier and less awkward.

The sooner you could release him from his shackles, the better. Then he could live his life how he wanted.

One morning, you don’t hear him come home. You’re curled sideways on the couch, laptop balanced against your knees, rental listings spread across the screen. You barely register movement until a familiar hand sets a paper bag down beside you.

"Breakfast," Jack says.

You glance up too quickly and slam the laptop halfway shut, like you'd got caught doing something you shouldn't have been doing.

His eyes flick downward, catching the word lease. He stills, and something unreadable passes over his face. "Didn’t mean to interrupt," he says quietly, then he heads for the kitchen fast.

You stare after him, chest twisting.

"Hey, sweet cheeks," a familiar warm voice greets you as you round the corner.

You glance over, offering a tired smile. "Hi, Myrna. You doing okay?"

"Yeah," she says, raising her cuffed wrists slightly. "Better if you let me out of these."

"No can do," you say, already walking backwards toward the hub. "Sorry."

She lets out an exaggerated grumble that usually makes you laugh, but today, you simply rub the heels of your palms hard against your eyes. Sleep has been awful lately. Even worse than before. For weeks, the same haunting images replay in your mind: Jack bleeding, Jack unconscious, Jack upstairs, Jack—

You stop yourself before your brain can finish that thought. Because imagining what would’ve happened if he had been the one shot, if that shoulder graze had been just inches over—

"You okay, sweetie?" Dana asks, lifting her glasses to look at you more closely.

You immediately straighten and drop your hands. "Yeah, I'm fine," you say quickly. "Just tired."

Which isn’t technically a lie. You are tired. Exhausted, honestly. Still adjusting to attending life. Still trying to prove to the hospital that they didn't make a mistake when hiring you. Simultaneously cursing and praising them for keeping you on day shift a little bit longer.

"We’ll get through it," Dana says, mistaking your expression for stress about the overflowing waiting room and how you'd been running around all day, barely able to catch your breath.

You nod once. "Yeah."

But honestly? The day has been good—busy, but good. You caught a medication error that could have had serious consequences and handled a complex consult. You kept the board moving. The pace allowed you no time to think, and if you just pushed through another few hours, maybe you’d be tired enough not to dream tonight.

Suddenly, the ambulance bays swing open behind you. "Agitated on scene," Ziggler reports as they wheel a patient inside. "Had to give midazolam en route. Vitals stable, but he’s a big guy—took three of us to get him on the stretcher."

You step in beside them, nodding. "Any known head injury?"

"Not clear. Witnesses reported he fell before we got there. Could be alcohol involved."

You exhale slowly. "Okay." Turning, you catch Trinity's eye and nod for her to join you.

Ziggler adds, "No obvious trauma on primary survey," as you guide the stretcher into a room. The transfer goes smoothly—monitor hooked up, vitals steady, respirations normal.

As you step closer to the bedside, the patient stirs slightly. You watch Trinity adjust the pulse oximeter and check his pupils.

"His respiratory rate’s picking up," you note.

"The sedation should still hold," she states.

You don’t answer immediately. You’ve seen this before. "He’s coming up early," you say.

And then—

His eyes snap open. Not slowly or smoothly, but suddenly; confused and unfocused. His head turns slightly, and his breathing sharpens.

"Hey," Trinity says quickly, her voice calm. "You’re in the hospital. You’re safe."

The patient shifts too quickly, his upper body attempting to rise.

"Sir, don’t sit up yet," you say calmly.

Trinity moves in. "Hey—" she starts.

"Trinity, don’t—" you start to warn, but it’s too late. The patient surges forward, and you react without thinking, grabbing Trinity's arm and pulling her back.

This leaves you at an awkward angle, and his elbow strikes your side as he moves. A sharp, crushing pressure slams into your ribs, knocking the breath out of you mid-inhale.

You try to steady yourself with your hand on the railing, but your fingers slip, and your head catches the side of the bed. Everything dulls for half a second as you crumple to the ground, groaning.

Trinity’s voice slices through the chaos, calling out your name in concern. You can't respond. "Hola Hoop!" she screams. She moves back, trying not to further agitate the patient, keeping her eyes on him when all she wants to do is glance down at you.

Footsteps sound in the distance—fast, hurried. The room fills with more people, and you catch glimpses of arms securing the patient. You hear shouting, someone calling for more sedatives.

You attempt to sit up but instantly double over as pain flares in your side. Gentle hands reach down to assist you. It’s Dana. You blink hard, struggling to breathe.

"I'm okay," you manage to say, slowly standing. Dana keeps her hands on your arm the entire time, her brow furrowed with worry.

"I just got the wind knocked out of me," you say, lifting your head. Something drips down on your nose, and when you wipe it away, your fingers come back bloody.

"Mm," she mutters.

Robby appears beside her, panting. He scans you quickly, already assessing the situation, barely glancing at the chaos behind him. "What happened?" He grabs gauze and gives it to you. It stings when you press it against your forehead.

"She hit her side and her head," Trinity blurts out. "Hard." You shoot her a glare.

Robby shares a glance with Dana. "Okay," he says, replacing her touch on your elbow. "I've got you."

"I can walk," you say.

"Great," Robby says. "Walk to an exam room, then." He ignores your groan and guides you out the door into an empty room. "Sit."

"I'm fine," you mutter, taking in shallow breaths.

"Mm," he says while snapping on a pair of gloves. "Let me be the judge of that. Sit down." You listen this time.

He stops in front of you, his voice softening as he looks down at you. "What exactly happened?" He gently touches the edge of your wound, shifting your face around. The bleeding has slowed, and when he doesn't immediately do anything, it confirms that it's superficial.

"I'm fine."

He frowns, pulls out his flashlight, and begins checking your pupils.

"Patient woke up early," you sigh. "Too little sedation. He was confused." You shrug and regret it instantly. Pain flashes white-hot. You mask it.

"You get hit anywhere besides your ribs?"

You glare at him, knowing he already knows. Still, you indulge him. "My head."

"Did you black out?" He lifts his finger, and you follow it.

"No."

"Nausea? Dizziness?"

"No." You answer all of his questions and follow his orders, knowing it's the only way you can get out of this room.

He nods when he's satisfied with your neuro exam and then gestures at your scrub top. He pulls it up slowly. The bruise already blooming along your ribs looks ugly. Robby presses lightly on it, and you hiss despite yourself.

"That bad?"

"It’s not bad," you correct him, but he raises an eyebrow as if not buying it. He presses again, and when your breath catches painfully, you finally admit, "…It hurts."

He rolls his stool back. "Okay. I’m ordering you a CT and chest X-ray."

"Robby, no. I'm fine," you protest. "I just need a moment."

He doesn't answer you.

You try again. "Robby, we’re understaffed."

"You’re not going back on shift like this," he turns and types something into the computer. "Jack would kill me," he mumbles, mostly to himself, but you hear it all.

"Don't call him."

"What?"

"Don't call him. I'm fine," you say. "He doesn't need to worry."

"Too late," Robby says as he takes a seat again. "Dana already filled him in."

"What?" You close your eyes slowly. "Great."

Robby frowns as he begins preparing to clean the wound. "What's going on with you two?"

"Nothing," you retort sharply, then let out a sigh. "Really, nothing. I just don't want him to worry over nothing."

You don't want a lecture again. You don't want a reminder of what he thought of you the last time this happened.

You straighten again, looking at Robby hopefully, "Can I come back if things look fine?"

Robby exhales slowly. "Maybe."

The usual ten-minute drive to the hospital is cut to a reckless five when Jack receives the call from Dana.

You got hurt. That's all he needed to hear before he was up and out of the house. A patient hit you. You hurt your side and your head.

Dana hadn't sounded panicked, but head injuries could be serious. You could be bleeding internally while he was driving. While he wasn't there with you.

He parks haphazardly in front of the ambulance bay, not caring that he's blocking the entrance. He tosses the keys to Whitaker, who stands outside with his phone, then pushes through the door without waiting for a response—he ignores the dumb expression on Whitaker's face.

"Where is she?" he calls, the second he spots Dana.

"In there," she replies, pointing. She grabs his shoulder before he can take off. "Easy there, soldier; she’s okay."

Maybe so, but he needs to see it for himself before he’ll believe it. He flings the door open and finds you sitting on the edge of the bed. He quickly assesses you: one hand is bracing your side, your breathing is shallow, and you blink more slowly than usual. Your jaw is tight, brows furrowed, and there’s dried blood on your face.

His jaw tightens before he can stop it. He hears Robby start to explain—

"Possible rib injury, head strike, CT ordered—"

You cut him off. "I’m fine," you say, then look at Jack. "You can go home again."

His brows furrow. He knows what you're like when you're in pain—how you downplay it and try to hide it. He steps closer instead.

"I don’t need a CT," you insist, starting to rise.

Jack exhales. For some reason, you’re negotiating this like it’s optional. It isn’t. "Sit down." He keeps his voice steady. "No," he says as your mouth opens. "Sit down."

You scowl but sit after a second, your breath catching slightly. A flicker of pain crosses your face before you manage to mask it. It lasts barely a second, but he sees it.

His tone softens. "You’re going for a CT." He glances over at Robby. "I can take it from here."

"Jack—"

He doesn’t respond, just holds his gaze steady, and Robby steps back with a sigh. "The wound is superficial. Neuro exam is clear."

Jack nods, snaps on a pair of gloves and sits down. He’ll do his own assessment after cleaning you up.

"I'll come get you when it's your turn," Robby says, shutting the door softly behind him.

"So," Jack says, tilting your face to get a better look at the wound, "you come here often?"

You huff an annoyed breath, easing the tension in his chest. Annoyance is a good sign. "Very funny."

He continues to work in silence, cleaning the blood away, irrigating the wound, and closing the cut with a butterfly stitch. "This probably won’t leave a scar."

"Good. I was really worried about that," you mutter. "Don’t want my face to look like Scarface."

"Even if it did, you'll still be the prettiest woman in the E.D," he says with an exaggerated wink as he turns around to discard his gloves.

You huff another breath, but this time it's softer, less annoyed.

"Can I see?" he says softly, nodding at your side. You nod, and he pulls up the fabric slowly. His jaw tightens again, his fingers hovering just above the bruise before settling cautiously against your side.

"Jesus," he mutters quietly. He pulls the shirt down again after a moment.

You fiddle with the ends of it. "I didn’t do it on purpose," you say quietly.

"What?"

"I didn’t mean to get hit," you say, eyes fixed somewhere near his shoulder instead of at him.

"Hey." He waits until you look at him. "I know."

Your brows pinch together like you don’t believe him.

Jack exhales through his nose and drags the stool closer until he’s right in front of you. One hand settles carefully over your knee. "Sweetheart, I’m not angry at you. I'm—" scared. The word sits right there, lodged somewhere behind his teeth.

He looks away instead, jaw working once before he settles on, "I’m just glad you aren’t hurt badly."

You study him quietly.

"I just…" He glances down, shakes his head once. "Dana called and said you got hurt, and suddenly I’m thinking about head injuries and internal bleeding and all the shit that could be wrong before I even get here."

His voice stays steady, but only barely. "And then I walk in, and there’s blood on your face."

You look down at your hands. "I didn’t mean to scare you."

"I know, sweetheart." He waits until you glance back up. "I promise I'm not mad. Not at you."

You nod, looking like you accept his answer. He keeps your gaze for a moment, then stands and helps you settle more comfortably onto the bed.

As soon as Jack’s certain you’ll be fine alone, he storms out of the room to find Robby. Spotting him, Jack pulls him into the break room and struggles to steady his breathing.

"Jack—" Robby starts, already sensing where this conversation is headed.

Jack crosses his arms tightly, straining the fabric of his shirt. "She shouldn’t have been in there by herself."

"She wasn’t alone," Robby replies.

"You know what I mean." Jack's voice remains low but cutting, controlled in a way that shows he’s trying hard not to lose his cool. "She got hit hard enough that she needs a fucking CT scan."

Robby leans back against the counter, arms crossed. "Yeah," he says. "But she also pulled Santos out of the way before things turned worse."

Jack’s jaw clenches.

"Jack," Robby says softly now. "You’re scared."

"I'm pissed."

"No," Robby says simply. "You're scared, so you're pissed."

Jack looks away. Because yeah. Fine. Maybe.

Robby continues, "That doesn’t mean she stops being good at her job."

"I know she’s good at her job." That's not what this is about.

"Then trust her."

Jack doesn’t answer immediately. Because he does trust you. That’s the problem. You were good enough to run toward things that could hurt you. He knows you'll do it again.

Robby sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "Look, if I thought she was being reckless, I’d speak up. If I thought she couldn’t handle herself, she wouldn’t be here right now." He pauses. "She made the right call. The patient surged. Santos froze. She did what you’d have done."

Something in his expression shifts despite himself. Jack exhales slowly, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. "...I hate this job sometimes," he mutters.

Robby chuckles. "Join the club. We’ve got t-shirts if you’re interested."

That gets a faint laugh out of Jack.

Robby nudges his shoulder lightly. "Go check on her before she decides she’s medically cleared and sneaks back onto the shift."

Jack’s eyes narrow at the thought. It’s not a question; you would absolutely do that. He shakes his head and pushes away from the counter. "...Thanks," he mutters.

Jack stays with you through it all.

From the CT scan to the X-ray, and through the heavy silence in between, he never leaves your side. He positions himself just out of the technologists’ way but remains close enough to notice if you shift incorrectly. The only time he steps away is when he isn’t permitted to stay, and he’s quick to return the moment he can.

When you’re wheeled back into the ER bay, you insist on getting into the bed by yourself, but you can feel his hands hovering just behind you.

You shift wrong, and pain flashes through your side. "Fuck," you hiss quietly.

Jack’s there before you can even regain your balance. One hand rests on your waist, the other steadies your arm. "Easy."

You blink at him as he helps you settle in. His hand remains firm on your waist while the other supports your arm until you're fully seated. It’s only once you’re steady that he takes a small step back—still close enough to catch you if you sway.

And then there’s nothing to do but wait. That’s the worst part. Waiting gives you time to feel things you’ve been outrunning.

"I’m fine, Jack," you say again. "You can go home."

Jack doesn’t answer immediately. Just looks at you, not angry but also not convinced. Just… steady in a way that says he’s not participating in the argument.

Trinity appears at the edge of the curtain before either of you can speak again. She hesitates when she sees both of you. "I—I’m really sorry," she blurts out. "I didn’t think—he moved too fast and—"

You lift a hand slightly. "Hey, it’s fine," you say. "You couldn't have known."

Trinity still looks like she might combust from guilt. Her eyes flick to Jack, then back to you, unsure where to land. "I can—do you need anything? I can stay—"

"No," Jack interjects immediately.

Trinity blinks at him.

He continues, quieter but still firm: "You’ve done enough. She needs rest."

Trinity hesitates one second longer, then nods quickly. "Okay. Okay, yeah. Sorry again." She slips out, letting the curtain fall back into place.

"You didn't have to be that harsh," you murmur.

"You got hurt because of her. She needs to know that," he says.

You sigh. "It was an accident. She couldn't have known what would've happened."

"Maybe," he says, leaning back in the chair with his arms crossed. He sighs after a second, "These chairs suck."

You snort, wincing slightly. "Well, what did you expect? If the hospital can't afford more nurses, we're not getting the good chairs."

He huffs. "Still."

Jack calls out from his night shift. You tell him three separate times that he doesn’t have to. He ignores you all three times.

By the time you're discharged, he's there, clearly settled in for the long haul. And as you walk into the house, he keeps one hand on your elbow, as if afraid that if he lets go, you might just collapse.

"I can walk," you grunt for the fourth time.

"Congrats," he says flatly, still not dropping his hand.

You roll your eyes but don’t pull away. Mostly because your ribs feel like they’re trying to murder you. Also because—

Well. His hand is comforting.

Inside, he hovers like a worried shadow. He guides you to his room and then to the closet for a change of clothes. When you mention wanting to shower, he frowns. He glances at the door and then back at you.

"I won't lock the door," you assure him with a sigh.

He nods, exhaling reluctantly. "I'll be right outside. Just yell if you need anything."

You raise an eyebrow. "It's just a shower."

His expression remains serious. Before you can say anything else, he rummages through his closet and emerges with one of his button-up shirts. "You can’t lift your arms properly," he points out, awkwardly holding it out. "This is easier."

You look at the shirt, then back at him. You have your own shirts, but you take it anyway. "…Thanks."

He shrugs in response.

The shower sucks. Everything hurts. Washing your hair hurts. Breathing hurts. Existence hurts. By the time you’re done, your head is throbbing again. It's not a concussion. Robby had been annoyingly clear. You got lucky. No concussion, no fractures, no internal bleeding. Just bruised ribs and a nasty bump on the head. You don't feel particularly lucky.

Jack fusses the second you emerge. He follows you to the dining room table, makes you food, and then proceeds to stare until you eat it. After a few painful bites, he helps you stand, his hand finding your elbow again. You don’t mention that you’re perfectly capable of standing on your own this time.

He starts steering you down the hallway toward his room.

You stop. "What are you doing?"

"You can sleep in my bed."

"What?"

"It’s better for your ribs."

You frown. "My bed is fine, Jack."

"Mine is firmer," he says immediately.

You stare. He's right. Your mattress is softer, cheaper, but perfectly fine under normal circumstances. Less ideal when every breath feels like a knife.

Still, you hesitate. "That’s really not necessary."

Jack exhales slowly, visibly trying not to argue. "There’s also more space."

You blink.

"For pillows," he adds hastily. "You’ll probably need to stay propped up. Plus, you hit your head, and I need to keep an eye on you."

You narrow your eyes. "I don’t have a concussion."

"You still have a head injury."

"It’s minor," you say, crossing your arms, only to regret it as pain flares up. You uncross them gingerly. Jack notices but stays quiet.

"You shouldn’t be alone tonight," he says, quieter now.

You look away first. "…I’ll be okay."

"I know," he says softly. "I just wanna keep an eye on you."

Something in your chest aches worse than your ribs because he sounds so careful, so concerned. You shake your head and slowly turn toward your room, hoping he’ll let you go. "I’ll be fine."

Jack doesn’t argue, which somehow feels worse. You take three steps before hearing movement behind you. He returns from the dining room, carrying a chair.

"What are you doing?"

He shrugs. "If you’re sleeping in there, I’m staying in there."

"Jack," you protest.

"What?"

"Your back’s gonna hurt."

He shrugs again and pushes your door open with his shoulder. "I’ll survive. I've slept on worse things." He sets the chair down beside your bed and sits down, like that’s the end of the discussion.

You stare at him from the doorway. At the chair. At him sitting there with crossed arms waiting for you. He means it—he’ll stay there if necessary, on that hard chair rather than crossing any lines by sharing your smaller bed. It's gone too far echoes in your head, but the image of him sitting there all night for you is too much. You're too tired, too sore, to keep this going.

With a long, exhausted sigh, you finally relent. "…Fine."

Jack looks up.

Avoiding his gaze, you mumble, "Your room... I’ll sleep in your room."

His expression softens in an instant—too quickly, almost as if he had been trying hard not to hope you’d agree. "Okay," he says quietly. Then, gentler, "C’mon."

And when his hand brushes lightly against your back as he helps you toward his room, you don’t move away. He helps you get into bed, positioning the pillow so you hurt the least amount. There’s a glass of water and some painkillers on the bedside table. His fingers brush back your hair, and you lean into his touch before you can stop yourself. For a moment, both of you freeze.

He steps back first. "I'll be right back."

You can hear him rummage around, and then he enters with the chair in his arms again.

"…Jack."

He sets it beside the bed and angles it towards you. Then he sits again, arms crossed.

You stare at him. "What are you doing?"

He frowns like the answer should be obvious. "Looking after you."

"No," you say slowly. "Why are you sitting there?" The whole idea of sleeping here was so he wouldn't stay in that chair.

He shrugs. "You’re hurt," he adds. "It's better if I—." He nods down at the chair, like that explains everything.

You exhale slowly and pat the mattress beside you. "C’mon. I didn’t mean to take your bed from you."

He hesitates, which somehow stings more than the chair itself.

You try to hide your hurt with humour. "Okay, well, I guess this way, there’s more distance from your snoring."

Jack just shakes his head at you. He lasts maybe forty minutes in the chair before you wake in pain, attempting to turn and failing without hissing.

Before either of you thinks about it too hard, he's helping reposition the pillows, one hand braced carefully at your ribs. It's easier for his leg to crawl onto the other side of the bed, and he stays there waiting until you fall back to sleep. He doesn't even realise when he falls asleep half on top of the blankets.

Jack checks on you constantly during that first night. He’s alert every time you shift, every breath that seems off, and even the tiniest sounds. The moment you move, he’s awake.

You don't say anything when you see that he's moved to the bed, and he doesn't either. But he keeps his distance, lying rigidly on the far edge of the mattress like touching you might somehow make things worse. Somewhere during the night, still half-asleep and in pain, you inadvertently shift closer. When you awaken again, you find his hand loosely wrapped around yours. The second he realises you're awake, he instantly lets go.

"Sorry," he murmurs quietly.

You don't answer. You just close your eyes again, a different ache settling in your chest.

The second night, you're not sure why you wake up. There’s a blanket tucked around your shoulders. Jack’s still asleep with one arm stretched awkwardly toward your side of the bed like he’d fixed it without waking properly.

By the end of the first week, things have shifted. You stop waking every time you move wrong. Breathing no longer feels like punishment, and turning in bed has become more uncomfortable than impossible. Sometime during that first week, Jack quietly stopped pretending the chair was still an option.

Somewhere along the way, the physical distance between you also disappeared. Sometimes you'd wake to find yourself closer than you remembered falling asleep—your shoulder brushing his chest, one of his hands loosely curled near your waist like he'd reached for you in his sleep and stopped halfway.

For the first time in weeks, despite the pain, you sleep. No nightmares. No gunfire. No waking up imagining Jack bleeding out somewhere you can’t reach. Because with him there—warm, solid, and close—your brain finally quiets down.

You tell yourself it’s practical. His mattress really is better. Firmer. Easier to breathe on. Less painful to get up from. You tell yourself that staying another night makes sense. Then another. Then somehow—

Another week passes. And you’re still there. By then, you don’t technically need help anymore. Breathing feels almost normal, and the bump on your head is gone.

You could return to your room—probably should. But every night seems to end the same way: you drifting closer in your sleep, Jack pulling you in without thinking, one arm heavy around your waist, your face nestled against his chest.

You tell yourself it’s just because moving hurts. Because untangling yourself would disturb him. Because his room is colder. Because—

You stop examining it too closely. It’s easier that way because you know what you're doing is only gonna hurt you in the end. It almost starts feeling normal again, and with every little thing, you catch yourself hoping. Then you remember the hallway.

I should’ve never agreed to this.

The hope curdles again.

Going back to work takes another week.

Jack hates it, insisting that it's too early and that you should take another week off. Eventually, he relents since you'll be back on night shifts—with him. You assure him you’ll stick to light duty: no lifting, no trauma rooms unless absolutely necessary. You listen—mostly—trying to let your residents take charge whenever possible.

You're still hurting, and maybe you should’ve taken a few more days off, but that's not the worst part. That's how normal everything has started feeling again. The heating pad after shifts. Coffee waiting while you chart. Pain medication offered before you even remember it's time for it. Parker and Shen grinning whenever they see the two of you together.

It should’ve felt reassuring. Instead, some days it made you want to scream. Because none of it made sense anymore. Not after the kiss. Not after the hallway.

The longer it goes on, the harder it becomes to ignore that eventually something will have to give. You needed to move back to your own bed. Look at apartment listings again. Print out the divorce papers.

One morning after rounds, Robby lingers like he’s debating something. "Hey," he says. "You two got a second?"

"No," Jack says flatly.

Robby ignores him. He herds both of you toward a quieter corner near the supply room. You lean back against the wall automatically, careful of your ribs, relieving the dull ache after twelve hours of work. Jack's hand lifts like he wants to steady you, but he drops it again after a second.

Robby notices but says nothing. Just pinches his brows together and hopes that what he's doing won't backfire. "There’s a convention in Cleveland this weekend," he says carefully.

You groan immediately.

Jack blows out a frustrated breath. "Why do I feel like this is about to become my problem?"

"Because it is," Robby admits, wincing slightly.

"Seriously?" you sigh.

Jack exhales through his nose. "Fine. I’ll do it."

You turn toward him instantly. "What? No. You have the weekend off."

"You’re still recovering," he counters.

"I’m fine."

Jack shoots you an unimpressed look. "You’re leaning against a wall right now."

Before you can argue further, Robby clears his throat, looking surprisingly guilty. "Actually…"

Both of you turn to look at him.

"It’s a two-person thing."

Silence hangs in the air.

"…Oh," you say slowly.

Robby immediately starts retreating before either of you can object. "Thanks, guys," he says quickly. "I owe you one."

"Robby—" you start, but it’s too late. He steps around the corner fast.

You let out a sigh, and Jack follows suit.

"Well," he says after a second. "Looks like we’re going to Cleveland." He doesn't sound particularly happy about it.

You aren't exactly thrilled about it either. Hours trapped in a car. A convention neither of you cares about. He could have gotten a weekend to himself, but now, instead, he was stuck with you.

He sighs, then says, "I'll bring the car round."

You nod. "Okay."

There’s a beat where neither of you moves. Jack shifts his weight like he’s about to say something else, then doesn’t. Instead, he just gives a short nod and turns away.

a/n: ahhh almost there!! and we finally get trouble's injury scene that i have had planned since the start. a few of you have suggested it as well and i've just been waiting in excitement for it!! :DD

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

One Of Those Girls In Love With The Moon