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@bittersweet-daydreams29
Just a reminder that this story isn’t going anywhere!!! I have so many cool ideas and heartbreaking scenes in the vault (i love making you suffer a little bit). It has just been an incredibly busy time in my life, but I am just as excited to get back to writing this as you are to read more of it. Soon, I promise 🤍
I’ve taken a bit of time off from writing, there’s been a lot going on in my life and i’ve been super emotional which makes it harder to write fun romantic fluffy stuff and i love this story so much i only wanna write if i know i can do a good job. Thank you for your patience I appreciate it a lot.
nova if u can hear me 🙏🥹
https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZP8s9vdDV/
oh absolutely, your wish is my command
Also I’ll finish uploading the remaining chapters on here tomorrow for the people who don’t like reading on AO3. I’ve been procrastinating but i’ll get it done.
A little spoiler for chapter 10:
Matching face-masks.
Get. Excited.
Send me your favorite Abbot x Reader fics i need inspiration i wanna feel something again
Chapter 9 is up now!!!!!
guys chapter 9 is coming soon i promise, it’s almost done. midterms fucked me up severely but i’m still alive and kicking so be ready to have your feet kicked and your hair twirled
Chapter 9 sneak peek
Skip if you don’t want to read anything about it until the full chapter is up
That Sunday, Jack is fixing the cabinet above the stove when he asks you to hand him something from the counter.
“I need the Phillips,” he says distractedly.
You stare at the toolbox dramatically. “You know, your instructions become significantly less useful when I don’t know what any of these things are called.”
“The screwdriver with the blue handle.”
You hand him the tool he asked for.
“Thank you,” he says, already reaching for the screws in front of him. “Now hold your hand out, I need somewhere to put these.”
You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously while doing as he says. “You’re already bossy at work. You gonna boss me around here too?”
Jack glances down briefly while adjusting something inside the cabinet before answering casually:
“Well. Depends.”
His voice stays perfectly even.
“Do you want me to?”
__________________________
TEEHEEEEE IM SO EXCITED TO POST THIS Y'ALL ARE GONNA GO FERAL
Who wants a SUPER SMALL SNEAK PEEK of chapter 9? I’m writing a scene that has me GIDDY and I have to share this with someone.
omg hiii
Just saw your fic off the record on my feed like ... putting together jack abbot and Kate bush aka mom and dada ?!?! need to catch upon that ASAP, can't wait to read it 🩷🩷
omg i KNOW. I was like “what would be the most iconic thing this man could be listening to?” and the answer was pretty clear. Come back to update me on your thoughts when you catch up!!!!
Song inspo for chapter 8 was this specific remix of white feather hawk tail deer hunter. Like imagine the intro to this playing in the background as Jack is getting scary pissed at the imaging team. Hot.
Should I make a spotify playlist with all the chapters songs so far? Or a song masterlist on here?
Off the Record
Chapter 5
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader
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Chapter Summary: Living with Jack Abbott starts with coffee, Kate Bush and pastries shared a little too easily. Then night shift hits and you learn the hard way that in the trauma bay, there is no space for outside noise.
Author’s note: Hi hi hiii. First and foremost, raise your hand if you feel personally attacked by Shawn Hatosy whimpering and moaning in your ears? I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since the episodes dropped. Everyone say “thank you Quinn.” Second, I kept giggling and twirling my hair as I wrote this chapter, I hope it’s not too cheesy, I just can’t control what this man makes me feel and I need to let it out SOMEHOW. Plus, this is my birthday week chapter so I wanted to make it extra cute. Anyways, I’m so happy you have been enjoying this story, I have so much in store, ya’ll don’t even know.
Word count: 5.5k
୨୧ Read on AO3 ୨୧ Masterlist ୨୧
You don’t really register where you are as you start waking up. All you know is the bed feels heavenly. The sheets are, without question, the softest you’ve ever felt, and the room is so dark and warm you’re pretty sure someone is gonna have to physically drag you out of it.
Honestly, you wouldn’t have woken up at all if it weren’t for the noise outside. Soft footsteps. A cabinet opening. Something shifting. A machine turning on.
That, unfortunately, wakes you right up.
For a second you sit up and take a deep breath, your body reacting before your brain can catch up. You’ve lived alone for so long that hearing someone moving around outside your bedroom door is nothing short of terrifying.
But the relief that comes with remembering you’re not in your apartment anymore lasts about two seconds.
Because yeah—this isn’t your apartment.
And you’re not alone.
Which means there’s someone outside that door. Someone you’re not willing to admit how many times you’ve dreamt about waking up next to.
How do you prepare yourself to say good morning to Jack Abbot after spending your first night sleeping just one wall away from him?
That question alone could make your head spin for hours, but then your brain starts feeding you flashbacks from last night, one by one.
Last night was curry chicken and Fleetwood Mac, and him saying please never move out like it wasn’t the most dangerous sentence he could’ve ever said to you.
Last night was wine on the terrace, his voice low and steady, and him seeing you. Not just your skills or your competence, but the ugly little parts you keep tucked away where no one can reach them.
The only person who’s never going to leave is me.
The words echo again, and your stomach twists. You can’t believe you said that out loud.
To him.
You rub a hand over your face and groan into your pillow.
Before you can come up with a plan to make a graceful escape without having to face him, there’s a knock at the door.
Soft. Careful. You guess he’s trying to figure out if you’re awake without being the reason you wake up.
Then, from the other side—
“Hey.”
What a feeling. Having the first person who talks to you that day be him.
You force yourself out of bed, silently begging your body to cooperate and act normal—as normal as this situation allows. You walk to the door and pull it open.
And immediately realize nothing could’ve prepared you for this view.
His salt-and-pepper curls are slightly messy, there’s a little more scruff on his jaw than usual and his eyes are still puffy, making it clear he didn’t get up that long ago himself.
You already know this is a mental image you’re going to revisit an unhealthy amount of times.
“Hi,” you say, offering him a smile you hope doesn’t look as stupid as it feels.
It takes him a second to respond. His eyes flick over you slowly, as if he meant to be discreet but ends up failing terribly. They linger a little too long. It would’ve made you self-conscious if you hadn’t noticed the sudden blush taking over his cheeks or the subtle smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“I, um…” he starts, clearing his throat. “I made coffee. I don’t know how you take your breakfast, so I wanted to wait until you were up.”
“Coffee is good,” you say, voice softer than you mean it to be. “I’ll be there in a second.”
He nods, already turning back toward the kitchen.
“Thank you, Jack,” you add.
He doesn’t reply. He just turns his head slightly, meets your eyes, and returns your smile.
You take a few minutes before joining him in the kitchen, making an attempt to look a little more presentable. You put your hair up in a bun, brush your teeth and splash some water in your face trying to look more awake than you actually are.
When you do walk out, Jack is leaning against the counter with his coffee mug, staring absentmindedly out of the terrace’s glass door. He looks… annoyingly at ease. Like waking up in the same apartment as you isn’t a life-altering event.
Which is insane, because for you it has felt like being transported into an alternate universe.
He glances at you when he hears you coming out.
“Coffee’s fresh,” he says, nodding toward the pot.
You grab a mug, one of his matte black ones which seem very much his style.
When you fill up your mug, the warmth instantly hits your hands and you let out a quiet breath, shoulders relaxing.
For a few seconds, it’s just… quiet. You’re not usually good with silences, but Jack makes it easy to be comfortable around him, even when nothing is being said.
After a couple beats, Jack clears his throat.
“What do you want for breakfast?” he asks. “I can make eggs. Or toast. Or… whatever.”
You blink at him.
“Oh, you don’t have to cook for me, I got it.”
Jack gives you a look. “You cooked for me last night.”
“That was different,” you argue automatically.
“How?”
You open your mouth, then close it again because you don’t actually have a logical answer. You just know it felt different. Like that was what you were supposed to do for the person saving you from homelessness.
Jack watches you for a second, amused.
“Come on,” he says. “Tell me what you want.”
You take a sip of coffee and make a face like you’re thinking deeply, just to mess with him.
“Well,” you say slowly, “I was actually thinking…”
Jack raises an eyebrow, patient.
“There’s this bakery I love,” you admit. “It’s not far from here. I used to go after my shifts when I was on mornings.”
Jack nods once, considering it.
“They have some great pastries,” you add. “And the coffee is good too.”
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s go.”
You stare at him, suddenly second-guessing yourself.
“Sorry, I didn’t even ask if you’re busy or if you have plans for the day. I can totally go alone, if you—”
Jack shrugs. “Nothing going on today unless you count the unfinished crossword sitting on the couch.”
You can’t help the chuckle that slips out.
“That’s funny?” he asks, mildly offended but clearly entertained.
“I forget your age sometimes,” you say, biting back a grin. “You always make sure to remind me.”
“Shut up,” he mutters, but there’s a smile in his voice. “Go get ready.”
“Fine.” You lift your free hand in defeat. “I won’t take long. I’ll definitely be ready before that crossword is finished.”
“Haha,” Jack deadpans. “Hilarious.”
But you can hear the smile anyway.
____________________
Ten minutes later, you’re out of the house.
Outside, the air is cold enough to make you pull your jacket tighter around yourself. Jack walks ahead to open the door for you and you fight the urge to say that’s not necessary. You don’t think that’s a battle you’ll ever win.
Once he’s on the driver's seat, the familiar smell hits you—woodsy, rich and warm. You can’t think of many words to describe it, it’s just… him.
You don’t miss how he turns on the heating and directs all the vents towards you. He then turns the key, and the radio comes alive immediately.
Music spills into the car before either of you can say anything. You hear Kate Bush singing her heart out through the speakers and it makes you immediately smile.
Jack doesn’t react at all. Just backs out like this is completely normal.
You glance at him slowly.
“First Fleetwood Mac, now Kate Bush. I really can’t put you in a box, can I?” You bite the inside of your cheek, trying not to smile.
“I contain multitudes,” he says, dead serious.
You snort.
For the first time in weeks, the knot in your chest loosens.
Maybe this won’t feel strange forever. Maybe, eventually, it’ll just feel like… life
It doesn’t take you long to get there. The bakery is small and warm and smells of sugar, butter and happiness—the kind of place that makes you temporarily forget your life might be falling apart.
Jack walks in behind you, scanning the place like he’s assessing a trauma bay out of habit. He looks through the glass of the display case, seeing all the different pastries and breads laid out. Then he glances up at the menu board above the coffee machines, at all the different flavors and variations they offer.
You stare at him for a moment, then let out a breathy laugh.
“What?” he asks.
“You look overwhelmed.”
“I’m not overwhelmed.”
You stare at him, silently calling bullshit.
“I don’t know what to get,” he finally admits.
“Well, I’m getting the pistachio croissant,” you announce. “It’s my favorite thing here.”
Jack’s eyebrows lift. “You like pistachio?”
You turn to him furrowing your brows.
“I love pistachio,” you say seriously. “Like… spiritually. Emotionally. It’s a core part of my personality.”
Jack gives you a long look. “That’s concerning.”
“You just don’t get it.”
He clicks his tongue, unimpressed. “Must be a young people thing.”
Then you glance back at the display case, already plotting.
“Do you want me to order for you?” you ask.
Jack’s eyes narrow slightly. “Is that a trap?”
“Trust me. Let me order. I’ll get a variety.”you tell him, smiling sweetly.
Jack hesitates, acting as if this is a bigger decision than any medical procedure he’s ever done.
Then he exhales. “Fine.”
He looks at you, voice a little quieter when he says it.
“I trust you.”
The words hit harder than they should.
You swallow it down quickly, turning to the cashier before your brain has time to spiral.
“Okay,” you say. “We’ll do one pistachio croissant, one almond croissant, one chocolate brownie, the nutella cookie and that lemon poppyseed pound cake.”
Jack’s eyes flick toward you, faintly impressed.
“And,” you add, almost as an afterthought, “two coffees, please. One black. One with oat milk.”
The cashier smiles, unfazed. “Anything else?”
You glance at Jack, checking for some kind of reaction.
“Nope,” you decide. “That’s all.”
You reach for your wallet out of habit—then pause when you realize Jack’s already tapping his phone against the reader, smooth and automatic, as if this was always the plan. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t even look at you. And somehow leaves a tip that feels almost insulting to your bank account.
You blink at him.
“Thank you,” you say, because it’s the only thing you can muster up.
Jack just shrugs, completely unbothered.
“My pleasure.”
Outside, the air is still cool, but the sun takes the edge off enough to make it bearable. You soak it in whenever you can. That’s one of the many things night shift teaches you—how to appreciate daylight like it’s a luxury.
Once you sit down at one of the patio tables, Jack takes a bite of the almond croissant and pauses.
Then he takes another.
“This is ridiculous,” he says.
You grin. “Told you.”
He chews slowly, as if he’s trying to understand how something this simple can taste this good.
You take a bite of your pistachio croissant and nearly moan, because it’s perfect. Flaky, warm, stuffed with cream.
Jack watches you, amused.
“What?” you ask around the bite.
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
You narrow your eyes. “No, say it.”
Jack leans back in his chair. “You look like you’re having a religious experience.”
You point at him with your pastry. “Because I am.”
Jack takes a sip of his coffee. “You’re so dramatic.”
“I’m so correct in my opinions,” you say, smiling.
You take turns trying everything you ordered, passing pastries back and forth over the table. Jack, reluctantly, likes all of it.
“How did you find this place?” he asks, taking a bite of the chocolate brownie.
“I was about to pass out after one of my first shifts at PTMC,” you say. “I had—because I’m an idiot—only packed food that needed to be heated in a microwave. I didn’t realize I’d barely have thirty seconds to pee every six hours.”
Jack huffs a quiet laugh.
“So I just looked for the closest place that could shove as much sugar into my bloodstream as possible, and I found this hidden gem.” You take a sip of your coffee. “After that I made it a habit to come here after a brutal shift. It always cheered me up.”
You pause, then add more quietly, “I honestly would’ve come more often if I had someone to come with me and do… this. Order a ridiculous amount of stuff and share it.”
Jack’s gaze stays on you, attentive.
“But apparently I’m friends with a bunch of health freaks who’ve sworn off sugar,” you finish with a shrug. “So I was on my own.”
Jack nods once, thoughtful. Then, after a beat, he says, “Well. Now you’ve got me.”
You lift a brow.
“We can be unhealthy together,” he adds, tone casual.
“Oh, don’t threaten me with a good time.” You take another bite of your pistachio croissant, swallow, and start to say, “I actually know this other place—”
But Jack reaches across the table before you can finish.
It’s automatic. Instinctive.
He wipes the corner of your mouth with his thumb, slow and careful, the touch so gentle it completely derails your brain. Your words die somewhere in your throat.
Then you watch, frozen, as he brings his thumb to his own lips and sucks it clean.
Jack seems to realize what he’s done a second too late.
“Sorry,” he says, clearing his throat. “You had… pistachio right there.”
“It’s fine,” you manage.
Your heart, unfortunately, does not agree.
____________________
The two of you agree that it’s for the best to walk into the ER separately, even if Jack drove you there that night.
You sit in the passenger seat with your bag on your lap, watching the hospital come into view through the windshield. PTMC looks the same as it always does—incredibly unassuming for the level of chaos that goes on in there at all hours of the day.
Jack pulls into the employee lot and kills the engine.
For a second, neither of you moves.
He taps his fingers against the steering wheel once, twice. Not nervous. Just… thinking.
“Go ahead,” he says finally, voice casual. “I’ll give it a few minutes.”
You nod, even though your chest feels tight.
“Okay.”
You open the door, step out into the cold air, and sling your bag over your shoulder. Before you shut it, you glance back at him.
He’s already staring straight ahead, jaw set, face blank—back in the version of himself the hospital expects.
You close the door and walk away.
It feels wrong. It shouldn’t feel wrong, but it does. You’ve only been living with him for one night and already your body has adjusted to his presence in a way that makes distance feel unnatural.
Which is ridiculous and also dangerous.
So you keep walking.
The automatic doors slide open and the familiar smell of antiseptic hits you immediately. The sound does too—phones ringing, monitors beeping, voices layered over each other in controlled chaos. It’s the kind of noise that used to overwhelm you when you were new, but now it’s background music.
Santos spots you first.
Her face lights up like she’s just been handed a surprise day off.
“Oh my god,” she says, walking toward you with her arms open. “Look who crawled out of the dead.”
You laugh, because you can’t help it. “Shut up.”
She hugs you anyway, squeezing hard enough to crack your spine.
“Since when are you a hugger?” You ask, surprised by her affection.
“I’m not, but you being here means night shift is about to start and that means I can get the fuck out of this circle of hell,” she explains, not letting go of you yet.
You chuckle at her desperate tone and rub her back affectionately before she finally frees you.
“I haven’t seen you in forever,” she says, pulling back dramatically. “Are you alive? Are you thriving? Are you still emotionally unstable?”
“Barely,” you admit. “But thanks for asking.”
Mel appears behind her, tablet in hand, hair pulled up, dark circles under her eyes showing how the concept of a good night’s sleep has become completely foreign to her.
She stops mid-step when she sees you.
“Oh my god,” she says, just as dramatic. “You’re back.”
“Not back back, I’m still on night shift, just a bit early today,” you confirm.
“Oh,” she says, a little disappointed. “Well, it’s good to see you.”
“You too, Mel,” you reply sincerely. “How was your shift?”
“I’ve had better,” she says with exhaustion. “But I’ve also had way worse, which I guess counts as a win.”
Santos huffs next to you. “I don’t know, this one is shaping up to be up there in my top three.”
“That bad?” you ask. “We’re gonna have to clean up your mess, huh?”
“Yes,” they both say in unison.
You snort.
Santos points at you. “You look… weirdly well-rested.”
Your smile freezes for a millisecond.
Mel narrows her eyes. “Yeah, actually. What’s that about?”
You shrug, forcing your voice to stay light. “I slept. For once.”
Santos scoffs. “Oh, yeah. Shove it in my face a bit more, why don’t you.”
“I’m one lucky girl, what can I say,” you throw back while going over to the board to assess what the state of the ER actually is.
There are a couple lacerations, someone with inhalation pneumonia, a guy with a torn ACL. Not too bad.
You don’t wanna say that too loudly, even in your head. The last thing you wanna do is jinx this shift.
You grab a tablet and start looking through the charts. You’re trying to figure out what case you want to take first when Jack walks in. You don’t even hear him at first, you just feel the shift in the room. The subtle change in energy that happens when a senior attending steps onto the floor.
You look up instinctively.
And there he is.
He looks… composed. Collected. Like he didn’t spend the morning drinking coffee with you in his kitchen. He’s in his black scrubs, hair still damp at the edges, ID clipped on. His expression is neutral as he walks toward the desk, greeting Dana with a nod.
Dana gives him a tired look. “You’re early.”
Jack shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.”
You swallow.
Lena is there too, leaning on the counter with a chart in her hand, looking amused by the sheer misery radiating off the department.
She sees Jack and smirks.
“Look who decided to grace us with his presence,” she says. “I thought maybe you’d finally retired and left us to die.”
Jack doesn’t even blink. “Not that lucky.”
Everything feels normal. Normal is good.
It makes the whirlwind of emotions inside of you feel a little less overwhelming. It’s always been fascinating to you how the chaos of the ER can turn into such a grounding force, taking up so much mental space you can’t even think or worry about anything else.
Jack stays focused on the board, scanning it with the same intensity he uses to scan trauma patients. His face doesn’t change. His posture doesn’t shift.
Dana is in the middle of saying something when the siren of an ambulance cuts through the silence. Soon after there are paramedics wheeling a gurney inside.
“Trauma incoming. Multiple vehicle collision. Three critical.”
Robby is already moving. “Okay, let’s go. Trauma bays, two, three and five. We need hands.”
Jack is moving before anyone finishes speaking.
You follow without thinking, adrenaline already flooding your system.
The first gurney comes in fast.
A woman. Late thirties, maybe. Conscious, but barely. Her face is pale, lips blue-tinged, eyes glassy and unfocused. Blood streaks her forehead, soaking into her hairline.
“This is Sarah. Thirty-eight,” the paramedic calls out. “Driver. T-boned. Hypotensive on scene. Possible abdominal bleed. Chest pain, shortness of breath.”
Jack steps in immediately, voice cutting through the chaos.
“Ma’am, can you hear me?”
Her eyes flick toward him.
“Yeah,” she whispers, voice weak but stubborn. “Yeah. I’m here.”
You move to her side, checking her pulse, her skin temperature, her breathing.
Jack’s hands are already working, assessing her abdomen, her chest wall, looking for instability.
“BP?” he asks.
“Ninety over fifty,” a nurse calls out.
Jack exhales sharply. “Okay. FAST exam now.”
You grab the ultrasound.
Your hands are steady. Your mind clears. Everything else disappears.
The screen flickers to life as you move the probe across her abdomen. As soon as the image starts getting clear, your stomach drops.
“Free fluid in the right upper quadrant,” you announce.
Jack’s jaw tightens.
“Okay,” he says. “We need blood. Massive transfusion protocol. And page OR—tell them we’re coming up.”
The woman hears him.
Her eyes widen.
“No,” Sarah says, voice suddenly stronger. “No. No blood.”
Jack pauses for half a second, caught off guard by the sheer force behind it.
“Ma’am,” he says, firm but calm, “you’re bleeding internally. You need a transfusion.”
“No,” she repeats, breath hitching. “No. I’m not doing that.”
You glance at Jack, heart pounding.
He looks at you, and in his eyes you see the same thought you’re having.
This is going to be difficult.
The woman shakes her head weakly. “I’m a Jehovah’s Witness. I’m not doing that. I can’t die while betraying my beliefs.”
“Listen to me,” Jack says, voice low, grounding. “You’re not going to die today. But you will if we don’t stop the bleeding.”
She swallows, terrified. “No.”
Her fingers grip the sheet, knuckles white.
Then the second gurney comes barreling in.
A man.
Not conscious. Blood is everywhere. His left leg is twisted at an angle that makes your stomach turn.
“Male, forty-five,” the paramedic shouts. “Unrestrained passenger. Decreased breath sounds on the left lung. GCS eight. BP dropping fast.”
Jack’s head snaps toward Trauma Two.
“Is there another attending?” he asks sharply.
“Shen’s out with EMS,” Dana replies. “Robby’s with the kid in Three.”
Jack looks back at you.
The woman is still refusing treatment. Still panicking. Still bleeding.
“You’re in charge,” he says, not hesitating for a second.
Your brain stutters. “What?”
Jack’s eyes hold yours, steady and unwavering.
“Do whatever she says,” he announces to the nurses and residents, calm as if he’s assigning you a sprained ankle.
Your mouth goes dry. “Jack—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he cuts in, and there’s no softness in his voice. Only certainty. “You’ve got this.”
He takes a step closer, just enough that no one else can hear.
“I’ll come back as soon as I can,” he says. “But you’re running this room.”
Your heart slams against your ribs.
You look around—nurses watching, residents waiting. Trusting. The woman breathing shallowly, eyes wide with fear.
You look back at Jack.
He’s already half-turned toward the other trauma bay, but his gaze stays locked on you.
“Show them why you’re the best resident here.”
And then he’s gone.
You swallow hard, forcing your lungs to work. Then you turn back to the patient.
“Okay,” you say, voice steady. “Ma’am. Listen to me.”
Her eyes dart to you, desperate.
“I don’t want surgery,” she whispers. “I don’t want blood.”
Her gaze is glossy, fixed somewhere past your shoulder, like she’s already halfway gone.
You nod once, slow. Controlled. Like you’re not standing in the middle of a trauma bay with a woman bleeding out in front of you and an entire team waiting to see if you’re about to crumble.
Your mind races, scrambling for anything that might reach her.
Then you look down. The glint of her gold wedding band catches the harsh trauma lights.
Bingo.
“Okay,” you say. “Then let’s talk about what you do want.”
Her brow furrows weakly.
“Do you have kids?”
She swallows, struggling more and more to speak by the second. You don’t have time.
“A girl,” she rasps. “She’s five.”
Your chest tightens.
You glance at the monitor. Her pressure is hanging on by a thread.
“You want to be there for her,” you say, voice softer but no less firm. “When she starts elementary school. When she hits high school. When she has her first crush and comes running to you because she doesn’t know what to do with herself.”
Her eyes begin to fill up with tears.
“You want to help her get ready for prom,” you continue, “help her pick out her wedding dress someday. See her become a mom. Hold your grandkids.”
Her lips tremble. She stares at the ceiling, blinking fast, trying not to cry.
“Sarah,” you say. “I want you to be there for her. Please let me help you go back home to your little girl.”
Maybe yanking on her heartstrings isn’t the most ethical thing to do when it comes to religious beliefs, but you don’t have time for ethics. Not when her BP is still dropping and you can hear it in her breathing how close she is to losing this fight.
It takes her about ten seconds to look back at you.
And when she finally speaks, her voice is barely there.
“Do it.”
A nurse is already moving.
“Hang two units O-neg,” you order, and your voice comes out sharp enough to cut glass. “Wide open.”
The bag is spiked.The line is flushed. Blood starts running into her vein.
You got this, you say to yourself. That was the hard part.
And then the monitor screams.
Her heart rate spikes, then drops.Her blood pressure hits critically low levels and her eyes instantly roll back.
“Fuck,” you breathe.
“BP’s sixty palp,” someone calls out.
“She’s crashing,” a resident says, already moving toward the head of the bed.
Her skin is turning gray, lips losing color in real time. You look at her abdomen again, distended and rigid. She’s bleeding out faster than the blood can go in.
She’s not making it upstairs.
Your brain runs through options at lightning speed. You don’t have time, you don’t have OR. You don’t have a choice.
“Page OR,” you snap. “Tell them to come down. Now.”
One of the nurses blinks at you. “We’re doing the procedure here?”
“We don’t have a choice.”
The room shifts instantly—everyone moving at once, the chaos snapping into something sharp and organized. Sterile drapes come out. Betadine. Gloves. Instruments. The crash cart gets dragged closer.
You grab the trauma shears and start cutting through her shirt, the fabric splitting open.
Her skin is cold and her stomach rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths. Once her abdomen is exposed and prepped, you take one deep breath, forcing your hands to stay steady.
“Scalpel,” you say.
Jesse is already there, sliding it into your palm.
You don’t know when he came in, but you know Jack had something to do with it. Jesse is the kind of nurse you want next to you when the world is ending—steady hands, quick brain, no wasted motion.
His presence alone settles something in your chest.
“BP’s unreadable,” Jesse says.
“We need to start compressions,” one of the residents blurts.
“No,” you snap. “Not yet. Give me ten seconds.”
You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until the blade is already moving.
Clean cut. Fast. Decisive.
Skin splits. Blood wells immediately. You open her abdomen with hands that don’t shake.
Someone swears behind you.
“Jesus Christ,” a med student whispers, horrified.
You don’t respond. You barely hear him.
All you see is blood—dark, pooling, flooding the cavity so quickly it feels unreal. Organs slick and swollen, everything drowning in red. The source is hidden beneath the mess, buried under panic and fluid and time running out.
“Suction,” you bark.
The tip is in your hand within a second, and you start clearing the field, searching for anything that makes sense. You push deeper, sweeping, clearing, trying to find the source before she bleeds out right in front of you.
And then you see it.
A jagged tear high up, tucked near the liver—bleeding violently, relentless. It isn’t a clean laceration. It’s ugly and ragged, making your job of keeping Sarah alive much harder.
This is worse than you thought.
“Pack it,” you order immediately.
Gauze comes at you from both sides.
You shove it in with force, compressing hard enough you can feel your own arms strain. You press until your fingers ache, until the bleeding slows even slightly.
“Hold pressure,” you tell Jesse.
He doesn’t hesitate. His hands replace yours, firm and relentless, compressing like his life depends on it.
You look up, eyes wild.
“Where the hell is OR?” you snap.
“Walsh is on her way down,” Jesse answers, voice tight.
You can feel the room shifting again, the fear creeping in. It’s the kind of thing that makes people sloppy. But you refuse to let it touch you.
You reach for the hemostatic agent. Your hands move fast, practiced, dumping it into the wound like it’s a ‘fix-all’ potion. You repack tighter and harder, layer after layer, forcing compression.
She is still bleeding, way too much for your liking
“Clamp,” you say sharply. “I need vascular clamps. Now.”
The MS hands them over, eyes wide.
You move higher, careful but fast, finding the thick structures at the top of the abdomen. You clamp down, cutting off the main blood flow feeding the liver.
And suddenly—
The bleeding slows.
It doesn’t stop, not fully. But slows enough to give you a fighting chance.
You swallow hard.
“Okay,” you breathe. “Okay.”
Her rhythm picks again. Ever so slightly, but enough to give you a shadow of respite.
“Hang another unit,” you order.
You’re elbow-deep in a stranger’s abdomen, holding her life together with gauze and pressure and sheer fucking will. And you’ve never been more aware of how thin the line is between saving someone and losing them forever.
Then the doors slam open. Walsh storms in, gown half-on, eyes wild.
“What the fuck—”
She stops mid-sentence when she sees the open abdomen.
Then her gaze snaps to you.
“Who started this?”
You don’t look up.
“I did,” you say.
Her face tightens, but there’s no time to argue.
She steps in, hands already gloved.
“Alright,” she says sharply. “Keep suction. Give me exposure.”
You move instantly, making room, shifting the retractors with a steadiness that surprises even you.
Walsh takes one look and mutters, “Shit.”
You swallow.
“Doesn’t look promising,” she says.
“She’s not dying on my watch,” you answer.
“Ambitious. I like it,” she throws back sarcastically. “Just don’t let it become delusional.”
You watch as she clamps, sutures and works fast. You assist in whatever you can, keeping an eye on the monitor. And slowly—so slowly it almost feels like a hallucination—the bleeding starts to slow.
The monitor steadies. Her blood pressure creeps upward. It’s not ideal but she’s alive.
Walsh exhales hard. “Alright. Good enough. Close her up, we’re taking this upstairs.”
The room exhales with her.
Someone laughs, breathless and disbelieving.
Jesse squeezes your shoulder, quick and hard.
“Holy shit,” he mutters. “You actually did it.”
You peel your gloves off with hands that are finally starting to tremble. Your lungs burn and you can feel every single strand of hair sticking to your forehead.
You look back at Sarah one last time before they wheel her out. She’s alive. You pray to whoever is willing to listen that she makes it out of that OR.
Once she’s gone, you stand there for a second, frozen in the aftermath. Your hands are empty now and the adrenaline that fills your body has nowhere to go. It makes your stomach turn.
You hang your head low and close your eyes, trying to figure out a way to make yourself come down from it.
Then you hear a voice behind you.
“Well,” Jack says, stepping back into the trauma bay, his scrubs stained and his expression unreadable. “Looks like you didn’t need me.”
You turn.
He looks just more composed than you, all those years of experience giving him more of an ability to keep his shit together. Or at the very least look like he is.
Your mouth opens. You want to tell him that you saved her, that you were elbow deep in her while her stats were dropping and yet she was wheeled out of here alive.
But for some reason, nothing comes out.
Jack’s eyes flick over the bloody mess, the supplies, the residents and nurses removing their gowns.
“You won’t believe the procedure she just pulled off,” Jesse tells him.
“Yeah?” Jack asks back, not taking his eyes off of you.
“Patient is alive, being taken up as we speak.”
A subtle smile starts pulling at the corners of his mouth. “That’s my star resident.”
Then he says, quieter, just for you to hear.
“Hell of a job.”
Off the Record
Chapter 4
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader
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Summary: It’s move in day. Jack is feeling very calm about it. Not over reacting at all.
Author’s note: Hellooo, did you miss me? I certaintly missed you. So, I took a bit longer to write this chapter but in my defense its 7k words so… I guess we’re even here. I like how this story is shaping up a LOT. I’m having so much fun writing these two and I hope you guys have fun reading. Anyways, enjoy the chapter, let me know what you think, I love hearing from you!!!
Word count: 7.1k
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He forgot the damn pillows.
Jack had been working on making the guest room presentable for weeks now, ever since the day he’d promised it to you. Not that it had been messy or dirty—more like it had been nothing. Bare walls, empty corners, a room with absolutely no purpose. Not even a bed.
When he’d bought the apartment, Jack had planned to do a lot of things with that room. First, he’d thought about turning it into an in-home gym, which didn’t work out too well considering he was someone who enjoyed the getting out of the house part more than the exercising.
Then he’d considered making it into a home office, which he later realized was stupid because, one: he was an emergency medicine doctor; and two: the last thing he ever wanted to do after finishing a shift was go home and work some more.
So naturally, the room had been left empty and neglected.
Until now.
Suddenly Jack realized he hadn’t thought through the logistics of this arrangement he’d gotten himself into for even a second. It’s not like he regretted it—he was sure that if he could go back in time, he’d probably still offer you the room—but the need to fix things for you, to ease your worry even slightly, had won over his rational thinking skills.
That very same night, he’d arrived home, opened his laptop, and spent hours searching for a bed that suited your needs… whatever those might be.
It had to be comfortable. A decent size. Supportive enough that you’d stop complaining about how terribly your back and shoulders hurt.
Eventually, he settled on one with a light wood bedframe. Pretty. Elegant. Soft. It suited you.
Then came the sheets. And the duvet. And the duvet cover.
There were too many options. Too many designs and colors and textures. He was overwhelmed, to say the least. At one point he even considered texting you, letting you pick—because it would’ve been easier, and technically it made sense.
But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. For some reason, admitting he was going on a whole shopping spree just for you felt like the kind of thing he needed to keep to himself.
He was already on the verge of insanity by the time he finally found a set that screamed your name.
Over the months you’d been working with him, he’d noticed you liked the color pink. He didn’t know for sure if it was your favorite, but you always seemed to gravitate toward it. When you first registered onto a shift, you were asked to pick a color to help identify the cases you were currently working on and the ones you’d discharged. People sometimes changed their colors.
Not you, though. Yours was always pink.
Your water bottle had pink accents. Your backpack was a pastel shade of pink. The pen you carried around in your scrubs had a pink sticker wrapped around it. Little things.
So when he saw the matching set of pale pink sheets and a white duvet cover with the most delicate pink flowers on it, he didn’t even hesitate. He just bought it.
Then he bought a lamp. He moved one of his nightstands into the room—he only needed one anyway. He bought hangers. He bought blackout curtains to replace the cheap, paper-thin ones the room had been stuck with since the day he moved in.
He’d thought of every little detail.
Some people would call him obsessive. Crazy, even.
He would argue he clearly wasn’t crazy enough, considering he’d forgotten the damn pillows.
________________
Jack decides it’s fine.
He can just give you one of his pillows. That’s a completely normal and satisfactory solution.
And it’s definitely not eating him alive that the bed will look slightly mismatched. Not even a little.
That’s what he keeps telling himself as he walks into the ER, coffee in hand, dead-eyed and running purely on spite and whatever adrenaline his body had left to offer him.
Dana is still there, sitting at the nurses’ station with a chart open in front of her and the kind of expression only someone on hour thirteen of a shift could pull off.
Jack stops beside her, setting his coffee down.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re still here?”
Dana doesn’t even look up. “Yeah. Turns out when the universe hates you, time becomes meaningless.”
Jack huffs a laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. “Alright. Do me a solid. Give me the nicest case you’ve got. Something easy. I’m still not awake enough to deal with anything that screams or spurts blood.”
Dana finally lifts her eyes to him, slow and unimpressed, like he was the last thing she needed to be dealing with right now.
“Slim pickings, buddy,” she said flatly. “They all suck.”
Jack clicks his tongue, eyes already scanning the board. “There has to be something.”
Dana shrugs. “There’s a guy in bed six who swears he’s having a heart attack but his only symptom is ‘vibes.’”
Jack grimaces. “Pass.”
“And a kid in pediatrics who has a slight cough, his mom is convinced it’s meningitis,” she adds.
“No.”
Dana gestures vaguely toward the hallway. “And someone in a psych hold who’s been screaming the word ‘antichrist’ since noon.”
Jack stares at her. “You’re joking.”
Dana’s smile was tight. “I wish.”
He sighs, already regretting every life decision that had brought him to this exact moment. His eyes flick back to the board again.
Then he sees it.
A new case, just opened. Barely anything in the notes.
HAND LAC.
Jack’s entire body relaxes like he’d just been handed a lifeline.
“Oh,” he says, satisfied. “There we go.”
Dana follows his gaze, squinting at the screen. “Lucky bastard.”
Jack chuckles lightly, already reaching a tablet to look for the chart. “It’s perfect. I can pretend I’m doing something important while my brain wakes up.”
“Love that for you,” Dana deadpans.
Lena, who had been hovering nearby with a stack of papers in her hand leans over the desk and glances at the screen too.
And then she smiles.
Not a nice smile.
A Lena smile.
“Oh,” she says, voice sweet as poison. “Would you look at that?”
Jack doesn't look away from the tablet. “What.”
Lena points with her pen. “Your favorite resident is already on that case.”
Dana blinks. “Favorite resident?”
Jack stops reading for exactly half a second. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t react. Just keeps staring at the chart like it is the most interesting thing he’s ever seen in his life.
“I don’t have favorites,” he says calmly.
Lena hums. “Uh-huh.”
Dana’s gaze shifts between them, suspicious now. He knows she would archive this new acquired information for later.
Jack puts down the tablet finally, his face composed and unreadable like always.
“Excuse me,” he says, voice flat. “Some of us have jobs to do.”
Lena’s grin widens as he walks away. “Have fun, Dr. Abbott.”
Jack doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t do anything that would make it obvious she’d hit a nerve. Because God forbid anyone finds out about his pathetic little crush.
________________
The woman in central six looks like she’s just gone to war in her own attic.
Her hair is half up in a bun that had clearly been done in a hurry, the ends already slipping out, and there is a smear of dust on her cheek like she wiped sweat with the wrong part of her hand. It’s clear by her oversized hoodie and worn-down leggings that whatever she had planned on doing was supposed to be something quick that inevitably turned into an entire afternoon of suffering.
Her left hand is haphazardly wrapped in gauze, blood blooming through the fabric in slow, ugly patches. Jack can’t tell if the sour expression on her face is from pain or exhaustion.
You stand at her bedside, chart pulled up on a tablet while the nurse finishes taking her vitals. The triage note is short and unhelpful—hand laceration, unknown object, occurred while moving boxes—which usually means there is a story attached.
“So,” you say gently, “tell me what happened.”
The woman lets out a breath that sounds like she’d been holding in her anger since noon.
“I was in the attic,” she says, shaking her head. “Moving boxes. Clearing things out because we’re going to be remodeling soon.”
You hum, already grabbing her hand and starting to unwrap the gauze. Once her palm is in full view, Jack can see she cut across almost her entire hand, skin red and angry around the edges of the laceration.
“And my husband…” she continues. “My lovely husband… a few days ago decided it was a wonderful idea to make some stupid joke about how I’d be lost without a big strong man to help me out.”
You raise your eyebrows.
The woman rolls her eyes. “Yeah. Exactly.”
The nurse snorts, clearly trying not to laugh.
“And I don’t even think he meant it in a mean way,” she adds quickly, like she needs to clarify. “It was just one of those jokes that comes out wrong, and then you hear it out loud and you’re like—wow. Okay. Fuck you too, I guess.”
You nod sympathetically, evaluating how deep the laceration actually goes.
“But then he doubled down,” she continues, horrified. “Like he saw my face and instead of shutting up, he kept going.”
“Classic,” the nurse murmurs.
The woman groans. “So I told him I didn’t need him. I told him I could handle it myself. I told him I could carry every box in this stupid house with one arm if I had to.”
There’s this cheeky smile on your lips, almost like some pride is seeping through at how she stood up to her husband. Like you would’ve reacted the exact same way.
Jack notices it.
“And then,” she says, voice dropping, “I reached into one of the boxes to pull stuff out and got nicked by something, I’m not sure what. Then I pulled my hand out too fast and sliced it open on a piece of broken glass, I think.”
You keep your face neutral as you gently flex her fingers, checking her range of mobility.
“Any numbness?” you ask.
“No,” she says immediately. “Unfortunately I can still feel everything.”
You smile despite yourself. “Okay. Can you move your fingers for me?”
She does, wincing slightly but managing.
“Good,” you say. “This is for sure going to need stitches.”
The woman lets out a long sigh and stares at the ceiling like she’s begging it to collapse.
“Of course it does,” she mutters. “Just what I fucking needed.”
Jack glances down at the chart. “Did you drive yourself here?”
“Yeah,” the woman admits, sounding almost embarrassed. “I wasn’t going to call him. I was trying to prove a point.”
The nurse raises her eyebrows. “Ma’am, you were bleeding through gauze.”
“I’m aware.”
“And you’re going to need pain medication,” Jack adds. “Which means you can’t drive yourself home.”
The woman groans, covering her face with her good hand. “Good thing I like late night walks.”
The nurse looks at the chart again. “It says your address is on the other side of town.”
“Well,” she says defeatedly, “I guess I’m getting my ten thousand steps in today.”
You let out a quiet laugh, mostly because she sounds like she’s trying to convince herself more than anyone else.
Jack’s eyes flick to you at the sound. Not for long, but long enough. Like he’s clocking the way you laugh at her because you understand her.
“Why don’t you,” Jack starts, tone gentler than usual, “let me find you a ride.”
The woman sighs, shoulders slumping. “I’m fine. I can manage.”
It isn’t arrogance. Not really. It’s more like desperation. Like she needs to believe it, because admitting otherwise would mean she lost whatever argument she’d been having in her head all day.
“You can,” Jack throws back. “You can also get pneumonia out of spite. Doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.”
The nurse softens slightly. “Just call him.”
The woman’s jaw tightens again, stubbornness flickering back to life. “He’s been saying sorry for three days straight. He knows he messed up. I’m not mad anymore, I’m just… I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.”
You look at her, slightly confused. “The satisfaction of what?”
“The satisfaction of being right,” she says, exasperated. “Of being able to say ‘I told you so.’”
The nurse makes a face. “Men.”
The woman nods. “Exactly.”
“Well,” you tilt your head like you’re searching for the best way to convince her. “Maybe it’s not so bad that you need him. I’m sure you’re more than capable of doing whatever you set your mind to, completely on your own. Even if there are some… setbacks,” you signal to the open wound in her palm. “But isn’t that part of what makes marriage so great? That even though you can do it alone, you don’t always have to?”
Jack feels something in his chest tighten at that.
Because you sound so sure of it when you say it. Like you believe it. Like you’re giving advice you’d actually follow.
And yet he can’t help thinking that if the roles were reversed, you’d bleed out in your own apartment before you ever called anyone for help.
The woman looks down at her lap, almost like she’s replaying your words in her head and arguing with herself.
Finally, she lets out a breathy laugh, shaking her head. “Fair.”
Jack takes a sip of his coffee, feeling like he's had this conversation a hundred times.
Still, for some reason, it feels like the words are landing differently tonight.
“Fine,” the woman mutters. “I’ll call him. But I’m going to be insufferable about it.”
His mouth twitches again, almost amused. “Good. He deserves it.”
The woman laughs, soft and tired, and finally reaches for her phone.
As she starts dialing, Jack’s eyes flick briefly toward you again, almost waiting for you to land on the familiarity of the situation. To see the irony of your current position.
If you catch it, you don't let it show.
Finally he nods at you.
“You got it?” he asks.
You nod back. “Yeah.”
Jack steps back toward the doorway. “Alright. Stitch her up. And don’t let her walk home on principle.”
The patient calls after him, half joking, “Hey, for the record—I almost made it.”
He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head slightly.
“Yeah,” he says. “And now you’ll have a cool scar to show for it.”
________________
By the time the shift finally starts winding down, Jack feels like he’d been awake for three days straight.
The department is still busy like always, but the frantic edge has dulled. The waiting room is no longer overflowing, the board isn’t bleeding red, the residents have stopped sprinting and started walking again, which is usually the first sign that they were being given a slight break.
Jack leans against the counter at the nurses’ station, coffee in hand, watching Dana wrap up handoffs like she is trying to physically wrestle the last few patients into submission.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.
Dana looks at him and sighs.
“You’re doing that thing again,” she mutters.
Jack blinks. “Doing what thing?”
“The thousand-yard stare,” she says. “It’s unsettling.”
Jack takes a slow sip of coffee. “It’s called being tired.”
Dana’s eyes narrow. “You’re always tired. This is different.”
Jack ignores her, gaze flicking to the board out of habit. He’d gotten good at pretending he was thinking about work when his brain was actually elsewhere.
Because his brain had been elsewhere all shift. In a spare bedroom that didn’t have pillows.
It was stupid.
It was such a stupid detail to be bothered by, and yet it had been gnawing at him since he walked into the hospital. Like an itch under his skin. He doesn’t know why he’s like this, but it wasn’t entirely about you. There had always been this primal instinct to fix things, to handle everything and take care of everyone. To feel useful.
It was mostly a good quality, aside from when he failed at something, no matter how small. Then it became a dark cloud of smoke in his head, making everything else hazy and stopping him from seeing how inconsequential some things were.
And on the rare occasion when he made a more grave mistake, that cloud got a lot darker, a lot quicker.
Today, it might be something dumb, like a small purchase he forgot to make in the midst of all the others he did make. But it is important to him, you are important to him. He should’ve bought the pillows weeks ago. He should’ve been more prepared. He should’ve—
“Abbott.”
Dana’s voice snaps him back.
He looks at her.
She is watching him with that expression nurses got when they were about to ask a question that wasn’t technically their business but absolutely was their business anyway.
“What?” Jack says flatly.
Dana’s mouth twitches. “You okay?”
Jack exhales through his nose. “Yes.”
Dana holds his gaze for a moment longer than necessary. Then she nods like she doesn’t believe him, but knows better than to push it.
“Alright,” she says. “If you say so.”
Jack goes back to scanning the board, mostly so he doesn't have to talk.
Across the ER, you’re finishing up notes at one of the computers, hair slightly messy, shoulders slumped, looking like you’ve been carved out and left hollow by the shift. Mateo says something to you that makes you laugh quietly, but even that sounds tired.
Jack watches you for a second too long.
Then he forces himself to look away.
The last thing he needs is to get caught staring. Again.
Lena walks up beside Dana, dropping a stack of papers onto the counter.
“End of shift,” she announces like she is proclaiming a national holiday. “God bless.”
Dana groans. “Don’t jinx it.”
Lena shrugs. “What’s left, a meteor?”
Jack doesn’t say anything. He just keeps his face neutral and his posture relaxed, like his brain isn’t spiraling around a single thought.
Tonight.
Tonight you were moving in.
Tonight, after the two of you had slept this exhaustion off, you were going to show up at his apartment with boxes and bags and whatever else you’d crammed your entire life into, and you were going to walk into his space like you belonged there.
Jack’s stomach twists at the fact that it already feels like you do belong there, even if you haven’t even set foot in the damn place.
________________
He doesn’t sleep much after the shift ends.
He goes home, showers, eats something that barely qualifies as a meal, and stands in the spare room staring at the bed like it’s going to suddenly unmake itself.
It looks good. Better than good, actually. The sheets are tucked, the duvet cover neat, the lamp plugged in, blackout curtains hanging properly. Even the mismatched pillow looks fine, it is white thankfully so it’s not that obvious.
He then tries to occupy his mind with anything else. He tries watching a documentary about whales on the discovery channel, he soon finds out it’s about mating and turns it off. He tries to read something too, but his brain is mushy from exhaustion and he has to re-read the same paragraph multiple times because he keeps getting distracted.
Finally the clock strikes seven and he grabs his phone to text you, asking you for your address and letting you know he’s ready to head out to go pick you up.
It doesn’t take you long to reply. A sweet “I’m ready whenever, thank you!!” staring back at him under your name on his screen.
Just like that, he was grabbing the keys and closing the door behind him.
The drive takes about twenty minutes. Jack’s place is already only ten or fifteen minutes from the hospital by car, something he knows you don’t have. He finds himself oddly relieved at the thought that, at the very least, the shorter commute will be one less thing weighing on you.
Your apartment building is older than he expected. Narrow hallway, dim lighting, the kind of place where the stairs creaked under your weight. He walks in through the main door, putting in the code you’d sent him just some minutes ago. When he finds your apartment and knocks, he hears some movement inside—shuffling, a muffled curse, something heavy being dragged across the floor.
Then the door swings open.
You stand there in sweatpants and a t-shirt, hair pulled back messily, a bit of sweat making your cheeks glisten. You look exhausted and annoyed and somehow still… bright.
“Hey,” you say, breathless. “Sorry. It’s chaos.”
He steps inside and waves you off. “I’ve moved places a million times, I know how it gets.”
“I underestimated how much stuff I own,” you admit.
Jack looks around and notices that there are at least ten boxes and some black trash bags waiting to be brought.
His mouth twitches. “Clearly.”
You groan. “Don’t.”
He glances at a box that says MUGS!!! written in thick marker, with three exclamation points like you’d been emotionally overwhelmed while labeling it.
Jack points at it. “How many mugs do you have?”
You look away. “I plead the fifth.”
Jack lets out a quiet huff of amusement and looks around some more, trying to figure out where to start. “You pack all this yourself?”
“Victoria helped,” you replied quickly. “Mostly. She’s a saint.”
Jack nodded. He can certainly tell.
There’s a pause, then you rub your hands on your pants like you were trying to get the nerves off of you.
“If you can help me out with the bags, I would be very grateful. The boxes are the heaviest so it might take me a couple trips but I’ve got it.”
Jack doesn’t even dignify your attempt of a plan with a reply, he just looks at you, half offended that you thought he would ever let you carry those boxes down alone, and walks over to figure out which one to start with.
You hesitate. “Dr. Abbott—”
Jack shakes his head slightly. “Nope. Don’t start.”
You let out a laugh, half disbelief, half exhaustion. “I’m not trying to start anything.”
“You are,” Jack says, deadpan. “You’re about to apologize for being a human being with belongings.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m just saying you don’t have to help me carry all of this.”
Jack steps forward, grabs the nearest box, and tests the weight like it was nothing.
“You’re right,” he says. “I don’t have to.”
You watch him warily.
Jack nods toward the hallway. “But I’m going to. Because if I leave you alone with these boxes you’re going to carry them wrong and end up back in the ER with a herniated disc.”
You scoff. “That’s dramatic.”
Jack gave you a look. “Wanna bet? We can call Ahmad, start a betting pool.”
You stare at him with a serious look for half a second, then huff out laugh like you’re beyond trying to hold it.
That perfect sound… Jack’s grip tightened on the box. He didn’t let himself react the way he would’ve wanted to.
“Keys?” he asked.
You blinked again, still smiling. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”
You grabbed your keys off the counter and led him out.
________________
It took two trips.
Maybe three.
Jack lost count after the second time you nearly tripped over your own feet because you refused to let him carry the heavier boxes. He let you try with a couple, then took over once you started looking like you were gonna pass out.
By the time the last box is wedged into the trunk, the sun has already dipped low enough to stain the street in that dull, end-of-day gold.
When he turns to look at you, he notices the rosy tint on your cheeks—flushed from sheer exhaustion, but also… proud. Like you couldn’t quite believe you’d actually pulled it off. You stare through the backseat windows at the stacked boxes, probably in disbelief at how your entire life could be packed away so neatly.
“That’s all,” Jack announces. “You ready?”
You look back at him, a slight glimmer in your eyes. “I’m ready.”
He opens the passenger-side door for you, and you follow his gesture with a sweet little thank you before buckling yourself in. When he slides into the driver’s seat, he catches you looking back at the old building through the window—longer than necessary.
“Did you live here long?” he asks as he starts the car and pulls away slowly.
“A few years. Pretty much since I started med school.” You exhale softly. “It’s not like I’m too sad to leave. That place was falling to pieces, and I knew I’d have to move out sooner rather than later. But…” You pause, eyes still fixed on the building as it disappears behind you. “I don’t know. I guess that apartment saw some of my most chaotic yet joyful years. Leaving feels like closing a chapter I don't know if I’m ready to let go of yet.”
Jack is quiet for a moment, thinking over your words. He was never one to get too attached to things or places, he was always too busy running towards the next thing. But he understands what you mean.
You like routine, consistent habits, and stability. He’d gathered that much from working with you. Maybe that’s why you’d always been such a grounding presence for the night shift.
A grounding presence for him.
“You can keep the chapter going,” Jack says finally. “Regardless of where you’re living.” He pauses, then adds, almost like it’s an afterthought, “Or maybe this is the universe giving you a sign that you’re starting a new one. Might even be better than the last.”
You turn to look at him, quiet for a beat, almost caught off guard.
Jack immediately regrets it. It sounds cheesy. Too pretentious. Too much.
But then a warm smile spreads across your face.
“I didn’t know you were so wise, Dr. Abbott,” you tease.
Jack can tell you’re not using his title as a formality anymore. There’s something lighter behind it now. Something playful.
He smiles back. “I can be very deep when I try.”
You look down at your lap, biting back an even bigger smile, and all Jack wants to do in that moment is kiss it right off your lips until his go numb.
________________
By the time you finally make it to his apartment, you’re not out of breath anymore, and Jack’s sweaty shirt has stopped clinging uncomfortably to his back.
This time around, you let him help a lot more with the boxes, quietly accepting that you’ve probably hit your physical limit for the day.
On the first trip up, he lowers the box he’s carrying to the floor so he can dig his keys out of his pocket. When the lock clicks open, he picks the box back up and pauses, glancing over his shoulder when he senses your hesitation.
“Please,” Jack says. “Make yourself at home.”
You look at him with something grateful in your eyes—like you don’t even need to say it anymore—and step past him into the apartment.
Jack watches you take it in, your gaze flicking between the living room and the kitchen. He catches himself scanning the space too, mentally checking for anything he forgot to clean, straighten, or put away.
“Where can I put this?” you ask, polite as always.
“Let me show you to your room,” Jack replies, heading down the hall.
He opens the door and, for the first time all day, holds his breath. Like he’s waiting for you to tell him it’s not good enough. Like he’s waiting for you to regret all of it.
“I cleaned it up for you,” he adds, a little too quickly. “I hope it’s okay.”
You don’t answer right away. You just stare at the room like it’s not real.
Then you blink and finally say, almost quietly, “This is definitely so much nicer than what I’m used to. It’s so… pretty.”
Jack lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding—one he hopes you don’t notice.
“I’m glad you like it,” he says, voice steady.
You set the box down near the wall and walk over to the bed like it’s pulling you in.
“I love the pink,” you add, brushing your fingers softly over the duvet cover.
Jack smirks, an absurd amount of pride filling his chest—something you’ll never even know about.
He chose right.
He knows you well enough to choose right.
You and Jack carry the boxes and bags into the spare room and stack them neatly—almost obsessively—like you’re trying to keep your existence contained.
Jack watches you for a moment from the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Then he sighs.
“I’m starving. Are you hungry?”
“Yes, actually.” You straighten up, brushing your hands against your pants. “I wanted to cook dinner for you tonight. You know… to thank you. For all of this.”
Jack waves you off gently. “That’s not necessary. You’re tired. We can just order something.”
“We could,” you agree easily. “But doesn’t a home-cooked meal sound much better right now?” You glance at him, a little smile tugging at your lips. “Besides, I love cooking. I’ll be done before you know it.”
He hesitates, weighing how much of a lost cause it would be to convince you to sit down and rest for once in your life.
“Please,” you add, softer this time, almost like you’re bargaining. “I promise you’ll love it.”
And how is he supposed to say no when you look at him like that?
You were right when you said you’d be done before he knew it. It doesn’t take you long to rifle through his fridge, pulling out random ingredients like they’re puzzle pieces you already know how to fit together.
You put him in charge of the music, and he goes with Fleetwood Mac. A safe option. Everyone loves Fleetwood Mac.
He keeps asking if there’s anything he can do to help, and every time you tell him he’s already being very helpful by keeping you company and making conversation.
So he sits at the breakfast bar and watches you.
You’re turned away from him, facing the kitchen, moving with an ease that makes it look effortless. Chopping, mixing, stirring. Opening cabinets like you already know where everything is. Digging through his spice rack, which he’s irrationally grateful is well-stocked enough not to embarrass him.
Every now and then you hum along to the music, quiet and absentminded.
Jack has to try very hard not to think about how much he’s going to enjoy waking up to the sound of you in his apartment.
Not even half an hour later, you hand him a plate of curry chicken and rice. It smells heavenly—and somehow looks even better.
Jack stares at it for a second, impressed despite himself.
“So,” he says, glancing up at you, “you’re a doctor and a chef. Anything else you’re hiding from me?”
You grin. “I guess you’ll have to find out.”
You grab yourself a plate and follow him to the dining table, which he’d set not long before. Jack waits until you’re settled before he finally takes a bite.
One single mouthful leaves him completely speechless.
He hums, low and involuntary, because apparently his body has decided to betray him.
You laugh softly at his expression. “That good?”
Jack swallows. Slowly. Like he needs to recover.
Then he looks at you, dead serious.
“Please never move out.”
You let out a light laugh, mirroring him as you take a bite of your own food. “Told you I’m good.”
The conversation drifts easily after dinner. It’s so effortless with you, like you two have known each other forever. You talk about work, about med school, about old friends.
When you’re both done eating you start reaching for the plates and Jack immediately swats your hand away.
“No,” he says, already stacking dishes. “Absolutely not.”
You blink at him. “What?”
“You cooked,” Jack says, like it’s obvious. “I clean.”
“I can help—”
“You can sit,” he cuts in, tone firm but slightly playful still. “Or I’ll have to write you up.”
You huff out a laugh. “We’re not in the ER, Jack.”
He just points at the chair with the dish towel. “Sit.”
You stare at him for a second, like you’re deciding if you want to fight him on it, but then you give up with an exaggerated sigh and sink into the chair anyway.
Jack turns on the faucet, rolls his sleeves up, and gets to work.
He doesn’t do it lazily either. He moves with the same efficiency he has in the ER—quick, methodical, practiced. Like washing dishes is just another procedure.
For a few minutes, the only sounds are the running water, the clink of plates, and Stevie Nicks still humming low from the speaker. The apartment feels different now—warmer, lived in, like the air itself has softened.
Jack dries his hands, sets the last plate away, and checks the time on the microwave.
Late. Not late in the ER sense, where time is meaningless and shifts blur into each other. Late in a normal-person sense. Quiet-night late.
He clears his throat.
“I’ve got wine,” he says.
You look up. “You drink wine?”
Jack gives you a look. “I’m an adult.”
You squint. “I know, you just seem like the beer type.”
Jack snorts, “I’ll try not to take offense to that.”
He opens the cabinet anyway, pulling out a bottle like it’s been waiting for this exact moment. He grabs two glasses, pours without measuring, then slides one across the counter toward you.
You take it carefully, fingers wrapping around the glass.
“Thanks,” you murmur.
Jack nods like it’s nothing. Like his hand didn’t just brush yours. Like he didn’t notice.
He gestures toward the sliding door. “Come on. I haven’t shown you the terrace.”
You follow him outside.
The night air hits Jack’s face immediately, cool enough to wake him up a little. The city stretches out in front of you, lights scattered across the dark like someone spilled glitter over Pittsburgh. No alarms, no shouting, no overhead pages.
Just quiet.
You sit down, curling into the chair, glass balanced in your hand. Jack sits across from you, shoulders loosening as he leans back.
For a while, you don’t talk. You just drink slowly and let the silence settle into something comfortable.
Then you speak, voice softer than before.
“That woman today,” you say. “With the hand lac.”
Jack’s gaze shifts to you. “Yeah.”
You shake your head slightly. “What did you think of her?
Jack takes a slow sip of his wine, eyes fixed somewhere past you, out over the city lights. The skyline is soft from this angle, blurred by distance and exhaustion, and for once the quiet doesn’t feel like it’s trying to swallow him whole.
He can still see the woman’s face from earlier. The set of her jaw. The way she’d held her chin up like she was daring the world to call her fragile.
He’d seen that expression a thousand times.
He just hadn’t expected to see it again tonight, sitting across from him.
“She wasn’t a bad patient,” Jack says finally.
You glance at him, brow furrowing slightly. “No?”
Jack shakes his head. “No. She was scared.”
Your expression shifts, confusion flashing across your face like you hadn’t even considered that possibility.
Jack leans back in his chair, resting one arm along the backrest. His posture is loose, casual, but his mind is sharp in the way it always gets when he’s reading someone.
“She came in angry,” he continues. “But it wasn’t at us. And it wasn’t even really at her husband.” Jack pauses, letting the thought settle. “He was just… the easiest target.”
You nod slowly, quiet.
Jack watches you sip your wine. Watches how you hold the glass carefully, like you’re still trying not to take up too much space even here.
“She didn’t want to call him,” Jack says, voice lower now, “because if she did, it would mean she needed him. And if she needed him…” He exhales through his nose. “Then she’d have to admit she wasn’t in control.”
You don’t interrupt. You just listen, eyes fixed on him like you’re waiting for the rest.
Jack can tell you’re thinking about it. About her. About yourself.
“And for someone like her,” Jack adds, “that’s worse than the stitches.”
He watches your fingers tighten slightly around your glass. The small movement doesn’t mean much on its own, but he’s been doing this too long not to notice patterns.
You stare down into your wine and murmur, “I don’t know. Maybe she just didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.”
“That’s what she told herself,” he replies. “But that’s not what it was.”
Your head tilts up. “What was it, then?”
Jack meets your gaze, and something in his chest shifts. He can’t tell if it’s the wine or the hour or the fact that you’re here, sitting across from him like you belong in his life.
“Some people,” he continues, “would rather bleed all over their own kitchen floor than ask for help. Because asking means admitting they can’t do everything alone.”
He takes another sip of wine, more to give his hands something to do than because he wants it.
“And once you start admitting that,” Jack adds, quieter now, “you don’t know where it ends.”
He watches your throat bob as you swallow.
Jack’s voice drops, almost gentle. Knowing he needed to say this next thing in the most careful way possible.
“She reminded me of you.”
You look at him in a way that says you already knew where he was going with this, but it doesn’t make it any easier to hear.
“I’ve seen how you work,” he says simply. “You don’t ask for help. You don’t complain. You don’t let people do things for you unless you absolutely have to.”
He watches your face change—just slightly. Like you want to deny it, but you can’t.
Jack hates that he’s saying things you might not want to hear. He hates being anything other than the guy who pulls those striking smiles out of you with a stupid remark and a well-timed smirk.
But he needs this to land. Needs you to understand what he’s seeing—so maybe you’ll let him in a little more.
“You handled her really well,” he reassures you. “What you said to her left me thinking, though.”
“About what?” you reply, slightly confused.
He pauses, leaning forward just a fraction, elbows resting on his knees. His tone is calm, but his eyes don’t move away from you.
“Why do you believe everyone else deserves to be helped and taken care of… but not you?”
You look a little stunned by his question, like you weren’t expecting this kind of conversation tonight. You take your time answering—long enough for Jack to start wondering if he picked the wrong moment, if he pushed too far.
But then you finally speak.
“I guess I’ve always been scared of relying too much on people,” you admit quietly. “There’s this voice in the back of my head that keeps asking, what if you get too used to them being there for you, and one day they’re not there when you need them? What are you gonna do then?”
You pause, staring down at your glass.
“I guess at some point I just figured… the only person who’s never going to leave is me.”
Jack goes quiet.
Not because he doesn’t have something to say—because he has too much. Because every instinct in him wants to reach across the table and grab your face with both hands and tell you you’re wrong, that he’s right here, that he’s not going anywhere.
But he knows better than to try to bulldoze through something that clearly took you years to build.
So instead, he nods slowly, like he’s accepting the truth of it.
“That makes sense,” he says, voice low. “It’s… a hell of a way to survive.”
You let out a small breath, like you didn’t realize you’d been holding it.
Jack swirls the wine in his glass, eyes fixed on the dark liquid. Then he looks up again.
“But you know what the problem is?” he asks.
You raise your eyebrows. “What?”
Jack shrugs, casual, like he isn’t about to say something that might stick with you for a long time.
“You can’t build a life like it’s a disaster plan,” he says. “You can’t treat everyone like they’re temporary and then wonder why you feel so alone.”
Your mouth opens slightly, but no words come out.
“Talking from experience, kid.” He says this part a bit quieter, like it took a lot out of him to let it out.
Jack watches your face soften. Watches the way your shoulders drop just a little.
He exhales.
“And I’m not saying you should rely on people who haven’t earned it,” he adds, quieter. “I’m not saying you should trust everyone. Hell, you probably shouldn’t trust most people.”
A faint smile tugs at your lips.
Jack returns it, just barely.
“But you’re allowed to have people,” he says. “You’re allowed to let someone show up for you without treating it like a weakness or a threat.”
You look down at your glass again, swallowing.
Jack leans back in his chair, the city lights behind you casting soft shadows across your face. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t pry.
He just lets the quiet sit there with you.
After a moment, you whisper, “I’m not good at it.”
Jack nods once. “I know.”
And then, because he can’t leave it heavy for too long—because that’s not who he is—he lifts his glass slightly.
“But you’re living here now,” he says dryly. “So I guess you don’t have a choice but to let me become the most overbearing presence you’ve ever had in your life.”
That earns him a small laugh. Real this time.
Jack feels it in his chest like relief.
He stands, stretching his arms over his head. “Come on. I’m calling it. You’re going to bed before you start hallucinating.”
You blink. “I won't hallucinate.”
Jack gives you a look. “You cooked after moving all day. That’s mental illness.”
You roll your eyes, but you stand too.
As you walk back inside, Jack turns off the terrace light behind you, the door clicking shut with a quiet finality.
And for the first time in a long time, the silence in his apartment doesn’t feel empty.
It feels like something beginning.
Off the Record
Chapter 3
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader
୨୧ Previous chapter ୨୧ Next chapter ୨୧
Chapter Summary: A visit from one of Jack’s regulars makes you see him in a brand new light—exactly what you don’t need when you’re already failing disastrously at hiding your interest in the night shift attending.
Author’s note: Happy Pitt day!!! What am I gonna do with my thursdays when this season is over? I’ve been so excited for episode 14, the trailer and the stills literally have me hanging off the edge of my seat. Anyways, here is ch. 3, I’m having such a fun time writing this and I’m trying my hardest to ride this motivational wave to write as much as possible. I’ve had a tough start of the year and I’d almost forgotten how good it is for me to just get lost in stories like this so ty for joining me and I hope you enjoy, I always love hearing you in the comments!!
Word count: 3.6k
୨୧ Read on AO3 ୨୧ Masterlist ୨୧
“You’ve been looking at Abbott all shift.”
“Huh?” You’re pulled from your thoughts so fast you almost jump when you hear Mateo behind you.
A second ago, you’d been standing in front of the screens trying to pick a new case. At least, you thought it had been a second ago. Apparently it had been long enough for him to notice you zoning out like an idiot.
“I said,” he repeats, “you’ve been looking at Abbott all shift. What’s up with that?”
You look away from him and back to the screens. You just know if you make eye contact right now, he’ll be able to tell you’re lying.
“Nothing,” you say, forcing casual into your voice. “I heard he was feeling a bit dizzy earlier. I was just worried, that’s all.”
Mateo raises his eyebrows like it’s the first time he’s hearing about it.
Which it probably is, because you just pulled that out of your ass.
“Oh yeah?” he says slowly. “Well, I should go ask him if he needs some medicine. Maybe even a check-up.”
“No!” you blurt out, way too fast. Way too loud. “I mean— I don’t think that’s necessary. Look, he’s doing great.”
You both glance in Abbott’s direction. He’s talking to Lena, dark circles sitting under his eyes and a tired face to match them.
When you turn back, hoping Mateo has bought the lie you’re desperately trying to sell, he’s already staring at you, knowing smile on his lips.
You sigh, long and defeated, because there’s no point pretending. Not with Mateo. Not now that you’re stuck seeing him for twelve hours straight on a regular basis. He’s always been one of those people who can read you like an open chart, see right through every mask you try to put on.
“It’s really nothing, Teo,” you mutter. “It’s dumb.”
“Do you…” he lowers his voice, grin widening by the second, “…have a little crush on your attending?”
“Shut. up.” You hiss, mortified. “I do not. I’m not fifteen.”
You turn back to the screens, realizing you still haven’t even picked a case, and you can’t exactly deflect by running off to check on a patient if you don’t have one.
“C’mon,” Mateo says, bumping your shoulder with his in a friendly way. “I won’t judge you. Besides, I already had a feeling. But this week you’ve really struggled to hide it.”
You open your mouth to deny it again—
And then a voice cuts in from beside you.
“Hide what?”
You freeze.
Talk of the fucking devil—who apparently has teleportation abilities and the worst timing imaginable.
Abbott is standing next to you, staring at the screen like he’s trying to accomplish the same thing you’ve been failing at for the past five minutes.
“My, um…” you start, brain scrambling. “My dark circles. I’ve been sleeping terribly and I look dead.”
Honestly, you deserve some kind of award for how good you’re getting at improvising lies.
Abbott turns fully toward you. His eyes scan your face, slow and deliberate, and you catch the shadow of a smirk forming on his mouth before he says, “I think you look great.”
Heat floods your cheeks immediately. You hate how fast your body betrays you, how it reacts to everything this man says like you’re completely out of control.
“Are you busy with anyone?” Abbott asks, not even giving you time to respond.
Your brain takes a second to re-wire and snap back into professional mode. “No. I just finished with Mrs. Anders. Went home with a cast. What’s up?”
“You wanna be on street team with me?”
You blink, surprised. Abbott usually never asks anyone to go with him. The people he helped were familiar with him, and he’d mentioned more than once that they didn’t like strangers.
You’d been wanting to join the street team for a while now, but you never found the time. So without hesitation, you nod.
“Yeah. I’ll grab the bag.”
“I’ll wait for you up front.”
—
The two of you walk out of the main entrance of the hospital, the chilly wind making you clutch your jacket close.
“You got a move out date already?” he asks, cutting through the silence.
“Um, not really, no,” you admit. “I’ve been trying to pack up some stuff, but I have a lot more things than I thought I did and…” you let out a breath, almost laughing. “I don’t know how it happened. Like one day I owned a toothbrush and two pairs of scrubs, and now apparently I have an entire apartment’s worth of junk.”
Jack huffs a small laugh beside you.
“I ran out of boxes already which was the cherry on top. I’ll have to start pulling out the trash bags.”
“Hey, whatever works, no judgment over here.” He looks at you with a genuine smile
You walk a little farther, hands shoved deep into your pockets.
“Look,” you say, voice lowering slightly, suddenly more serious. “I just want you to know I’ll work around you. Like—your schedule, your rules, whatever. If you need me to move in right away, I can. If you need me to wait a little longer, I can do that too. If you need me out by a certain date, just tell me and I’ll make it work.”
You glance up at him, expression earnest. “It’s your house. You’re doing me a huge favor. I don’t want to… inconvenience you any more than I have to.”
Jack’s eyes flick to you, brows furrowing like you’ve just said something ridiculous.
“You’re not inconveniencing me,” he says, firm. “Move in whenever you’re ready.”
You blink. “Jack—”
“Whenever,” he repeats, like he’s not interested in hearing an argument. “If you need a week, take a week. If you need to show up tomorrow with your stuff in trash bags, that’s fine too.”
Your throat tightens a little. It’s stupid, but it’s hard not to feel overwhelmed by how easy he’s making this sound. How uncomplicated he’s trying to make something that’s been eating you alive since you got that email.
“And,” he adds, like he’s not done, “if you need help packing, I’m your guy.”
You stop walking for half a second. “No.”
Jack keeps walking, forcing you to catch up.
“I’m serious,” he continues. “I can get you boxes. The hospital has a million. Supply deliveries, old storage boxes, things that were gonna get recycled anyway. I’ll grab you a stack.”
“That’s kind of you, but I’m sure I’ll manage,” you counter. “Jack, you’re already lending me your spare bedroom. You don’t need to—”
“I’m not doing anything extraordinary here,” he cuts in, like he wants to make his point clear. “I’m just offering help with something that’s very easy for me to do. You’re not sending me to war.”
You shake your head, still walking beside him. “Alright, I’ll take the boxes. But I can pack, I’m almost done anyways.”
Jack glances at you like he’s assessing a patient refusing pain meds.
Finally, he seems to realize that’s all he’s gonna get from you. Tonight, at least. “Deal.”
You keep walking, the cold air biting at your cheeks, and for a second the silence settles again.
Then you glance at him.
“What about you?” you ask. “You look tired.”
Jack’s expression doesn’t change, but you catch the slight tightening of his jaw.
“Rough shift?” you press.
He shrugs, too casual. “Just haven’t been sleeping the best.”
You squint at him. “Is something going on?”
He shakes his head. “No. I’m fine.”
You open your mouth, not buying it for a second.
But before you can push further, Jack’s attention shifts ahead of you, his entire posture changing.
You follow his gaze and see it—someone sitting hunched near the edge of the sidewalk, tucked between a closed coffee shop and the brick wall of an older building . A man, older, bundled in layers that don’t match, his hands bare despite the cold. There’s a shopping cart nearby, half-covered with a tarp.
Jack is already walking toward him.
“Hey, Ricky” he calls out, voice completely different now, like he’s meeting up with an old friend. “Hey, man. You okay?”
The man looks up slowly, blinking like the light hurts his eyes.
“Doc,” he rasps, voice thick. “Yeah. I’m good.”
Jack crouches in front of him without hesitation, like he’s done it a thousand times. You crouch next to him, opening up the go-bag for when Jack starts requesting things.
“Hey, Sir,” you introduce yourself. “I’m one of Dr. Abbots residents.”
“Oh, I’m no sir. Call me Ricky,” the man shifts, and you notice the limp immediately. “Nice to meet you, he never brings friends out.”
“Things were a little quiet tonight, so I wanted to come help,” you explain.
“She’s nice, I like her,” Ricky says in a lower tone, like it’s just meant for Jack to hear
Jack lets out a little huff, like he’s amused by Ricky’s reaction.
“What happened?” he asks, already reaching gently for the man’s ankle.
Ricky pulls back a little. “Nothing too bad. Just… twisted it.”
Jack’s gaze sharpens. “Let me see.”
The man sighs, resigned, and lifts his pant leg.
And you immediately have to fight not to wince.
His ankle is swollen, angry red, the skin stretched tight and shiny. There’s a cut along the side—small, but dirty. The kind of wound that looks harmless until it isn’t.
Jack exhales through his nose, controlled, like he’s holding back a whole lot of worry.
“How long has it looked like this?” he asks.
The man shrugs. “Couple days.”
Jack’s head tilts slightly. “A couple days?”
“Yeah.”
Jack looks up at him, his expression turning g a bit more serious. “You know what happens if that gets infected, right?”
The man avoids his gaze, staring at the pavement instead.
Jack’s voice softens, but only slightly. “Ricky, we talked about this. You gotta be very careful with open wounds. With your condition, your body won’t heal in the same way everyone else's does. If you keep walking around on this, if you don’t clean it, you could lose the foot.”
The man lets out a tired laugh, like the idea of losing a foot is just another item on a long list of bad possibilities.
Jack doesn’t laugh.
“If something like this happens again,” Jack says, carefully, “please come in, brother. Alright? I’ll make sure you’re well taken care of and we’ll handle things discreetly. I don’t wanna come to work one night and hear about how your entire leg is necrotic.”
The man finally looks at him. There’s something raw in his eyes, something exhausted. He stares at him for a second,m and he nods, slow.
“Aight,” he says. “Aight, Doc.”
Jack starts asking you for supplies—saline, gauze, antiseptic wipes. He works with practiced efficiency, cleaning the cut like he’s done this a hundred times. His hands are steady, careful. Gentle in a way you wouldn’t expect from someone who loves pissing off OR attending on a regular basis.
You watch him wrap the ankle, secure the bandage, and then press two fingers to the man’s pulse point like he’s sneaking in a wellness check.
When he’s done, Jack looks up at him again.
“You start taking care of yourself,” he says, voice low. “You gotta help me out here.”
The man gives a tired smile. “You always say that.”
“Because you never listen,” Jack replies, but there’s no bite in it. It’s pure concern.
Jack reaches into his pocket, pulls out a wrapped up sandwich, and hands it to him without thinking. Like it’s automatic. Like it’s muscle memory.
The man takes it like it’s gold.
“Thanks, Doc,” he murmurs.
Jack stands, dusting his hands off on his jacket. “Come back tomorrow. And if it looks worse, you come inside. No arguments.”
The man nods again. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”
Jack turns back toward you, and for a second you just stare at him.
Because this is different.
This isn’t Dr. Abbott, the untouchable attending with the sharp mouth and the impossible standards.
This is Jack.
A man who remembers faces. Who knows names. Who crouches on cold concrete in the middle of the night to wrap a stranger’s ankle like it matters more than whatever charting and paperwork is waiting inside.
A man who cares so much it looks like it hurts.
Something in your chest twists painfully, because if you were in trouble before, you’re so much worse now.
You swallow, adjusting your grip on the bag.
Jack’s eyes meet yours, questioning, like he’s trying to read what’s going on behind your face.
“That was…” you start, but you don’t even know how to finish the sentence. “You were really good with him.”
Jack shrugs like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just do something that made your entire view of him shift sideways. “It’s a whole different world to work with people in vulnerable situations. Homeless people, addicts, mentally ill folks who can’t get the treatment they need—They all feel like the world has turned its back on them. They feel shunned and left to fend for themselves.”
The two of you start walking back, he hangs his head low and looks at the floor. “It took a while to get people like Ricky to trust me. Some of them are vets, like me. That makes it easier.”
You’d almost forgotten that, before PTMC, Jack had a whole other life. So different from what he does now. You wonder how he carries the weight of it without letting any of it show.
“I’d like for you to join me more often. You’re really good with patients and you’re always kind. Empathy will take you a long way in this line of work.” He offers, different from all the other compliments he’s given you. A little more raw.
“I’d really like that.” You say honestly.
He takes a bit to look at you before you walk through the hospital doors again. Like he’s committing this moment to memory.
“C’mon,” he says, voice returning to its usual tone, a little rough around the edges. “We’ve got work to do.”
—
Abbott did not, in fact, help you pack.
That would’ve meant inviting him into your apartment, having him touch your things, handle your clothes, open your drawers—basically stepping into your personal life in a way you were absolutely not prepared for.
Ironically enough.
But he did help you get boxes. A ridiculous amount of boxes, honestly. More than you could possibly justify unless you were secretly moving out an entire family of four.
He’d also given you his number “in case you change your mind and need help with anything,” which sounded casual coming out of his mouth, but still felt like a loaded weapon in your pocket.
Luckily, you caught Victoria on one of her rare nights off and practically begged her to come help you finish packing. The plan was to move out in two days, and somehow the task felt never-ending—like every time you packed one box, two more appeared out of thin air.
“You have an awful lot of mugs, you know that?” Victoria says as she walks into your room from the kitchen, arms full of newspaper. “I think my fingers are gonna be permanently stained with ink from how many I just wrapped.”
You glance up from the pile of clothes you’ve been folding for the past hour. “You know I love you with the passion of a hundred suns, right?”
“Yeah, yeah,” she waves you off, dropping onto your bed like she owns it. Her eyes flick to the chaotic mess on the floor. “I only came here because you promised to cook dinner. That’s an offer I could not miss out on.”
You huff out a laugh. She’s joking, but you know it’s not that far from the truth.
Victoria leans back on her elbows, watching you struggle to shove an unreasonable amount of fabric into a box labeled CLOTHES.
“So,” she starts, voice suddenly too casual, which is never a good sign. “The friend you’re moving in with is the same one I met on your birthday?”
Your hands freeze mid-fold.
“No, no—um…” You scramble, brain going blank in the most humiliating way possible. “It’s another friend. From, uh… high school. You don’t know her.”
“Right,” Victoria says slowly, staring at you like you just told her the sky is green. “And does she… live far from here?”
“Not too far,” you reply, forcing your voice into something steady.
“Hm,” she hums, like she’s filing that away under bullshit.
Maybe it’s because you’re usually way more detailed when you talk to her. You’re the kind of person who pulls up Instagram profiles, tells backstories, explains how you met, gives unnecessary context.
Whatever it is that clued her in, she’s not buying a single word.
“Okay,” she says finally, sitting up straighter. “You’re being weird.”
Your stomach drops.
“Please tell me you’re not lying to me and are going to be pulling a Whitaker. Sleeping in an empty hospital room.”
“No, of course not,” you rush out. “I—”
You don’t want to tell her. You really don’t. You want to keep this discreet, mostly because you don’t want to cause Jack any more trouble. And because saying it out loud makes it real in a way you’re not sure you’re ready for.
But you know Victoria. She will not let this go. Not until you give her an explanation she can actually believe.
You exhale, defeated.
“I’m moving in with Abbott.”
Victoria blinks. “Come again?”
You sigh, long and painful, like you can’t believe you’re saying it either. “I’m moving in with Abbott.”
“Abbott,” she repeats slowly, as if testing the word for poison. “As in Dr. Jack Abbott, senior night shift attending?”
You glare at her. “Do we know any other Abbott, Vi?”
She stares at you for a beat, then lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “Sorry, I’m just… a little dumbfounded that you’re casually dropping the fact that you’re moving in with your boss.”
Fair.
A few seconds of silence pass, thick and awkward, as both of you stare at each other like you’re in the middle of a hostage negotiation.
Then Victoria suddenly yelps, throwing her hands up dramatically.
“Well, don’t leave me hanging!” she demands. “How the hell did this happen?”
“It’s not—” you start, then immediately stop, because there is no version of this story that doesn’t sound insane out loud. “Okay. So. My landlord is kicking me out. You know that part.”
Victoria nods slowly, eyes narrowed. “Yes.”
“Well, so does Abbot, cause he was right there when I got the email.” You explain. “And I guess I looked pretty distraught, because he took pity on me and… offered me his spare bedroom.”
“Oh,” Victoria says almost too calmly “Yeah, right. He offered you his spare bedroom as if it was a pen he was lending you. That’s super normal.”
You groan, dropping your head into your hands. “He didn’t offer it like that. It just… happened.”
“It just happened,” she repeats, deadpan.
You glare at her through your fingers. “I didn’t ask. I swear to God I didn’t ask.”
Victoria leans forward, elbows on her knees. “But you said yes.”
You hesitate, and she gasps dramatically.
“Oh my God,” she says, pointing at you like she’s just solved a murder case. “You like him.”
“I don’t—” you start, but it comes out too fast, too defensive, and you already know you’ve lost.
Victoria’s smile grows, slow and evil. “You do.”
You let out a long, exhausted sigh. “This is not funny.”
“It’s hilarious,” she corrects.
You throw a sock at her. She catches it mid-air without even trying.
Victoria’s face softens just a little. “Okay, but seriously. Are you okay with it? Like… boundaries-wise. Are you comfortable?”
The question sobers you immediately.
You nod. “Yeah. He’s been… normal about it. Weirdly normal. He’s not making it a thing.”
Victoria squints. “Which makes it more of a thing.”
You groan again. “Please don’t do that. I’m already spiraling.”
She smiles, but it’s gentler now. “No, I don’t mean it in a bad way. I mean if you’re gonna move in with an attending, I’m glad it’s Abbot. He’s always very nice and respectful.”
“Yeah, he’s been nothing but helpful.” You explain to her. “Told me to take my time and to let him know when I’m ready so he could come help me load all this into his car.”
“See?” Victoria exclaims like you’re proving her point. “That’s what I mean when say it’s a thing, people don’t do that for just anyone. Specially not someone like Abbot.”
“I was a little confused about it too.”
“I’m not confused,” she says. “He clearly likes you too.”
“Vi—“
“Well, at the very least he considers you a friend. A very close one.”
“It doesn’t matter,” you finish putting the last item on the clothes box. “I’m just grateful I won’t be homeless next week, and if I have to torture myself by trying to act normal around him then that’s what I gotta do.”
Then she stands, claps her hands once, and points toward the mountain of medical books still sitting on your desk.
“Alright then,” she says, “we pack faster. Because if I’m going to spend the next week picturing you brushing your teeth next to Dr. Abbott, I at least want to know you earned it.”
“Victoria!”
She laughs, walking back toward the kitchen. “I’m just saying! If he has a good showerhead, you better appreciate it!”
You bury your face in the nearest hoodie, cheeks burning, heart pounding, and muffled through the fabric you mutter, “I hate you.”
Her voice floats back from the other room, smug and sing-songy.
“No, you don’t.”
Chapter 8 is up on AO3!!!!
I’m about to post chapter 8 on AO3 and i’m literally GIDDY at the closing scene for this chapter, like I’m making myself blush i LOVE THIS SCENE GOD ITS SO GOOD.