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You Never Asked

Chapter One: Shift Change

Pairing: Jack Abbot x pregnant wife!Reader

Summary: Your shift starts with a six-year-old convinced stitches are a government conspiracy and ends with Jack walking into the ER carrying fancy decaf, plausible deniability, and absolutely zero ability to be normal about his pregnant wife. Santos clocks the coffee. Then the butter. Then the honey. Then the bag. And by the time everyone follows you into the parking garage, your very private marriage becomes everyone’s favorite new problem.

Warnings: Pregnant!Reader, pregnancy symptoms/nausea/food aversions, brief pediatric injury/stitches, medical setting, established marriage, workplace teasing, soft husband Jack, chaotic ensemble, no real angst, everyone being deeply nosy in a parking garage.

Author’s Note: Welcome to You Never Asked. This is an established-marriage Jack fic, so the whole premise is less “secret relationship” and more “private adults who never made a department-wide announcement.” Reader is a child life specialist, meaning she works with pediatric patients and families to help kids understand scary hospital experiences in age-appropriate ways. Present-day Reader is pregnant in this fic, so skip if pregnancy fic is not your thing. Otherwise, please enjoy Jack Abbot attempting subtlety and failing because he knows too much about his wife’s coffee, toast, butter, and farmers' market honey.

Xoxo, Del

Previous Part(s): | Prologue |

Chapter One: Shift Change

YOUR POV:

You were halfway through convincing a six-year-old that stitches were not a government conspiracy when your phone buzzed in the side pocket of your child life bag. You ignored it. Not because you lacked curiosity. Because Miles Warren had one hand clamped beneath his chin, one suspicious eye fixed on the suture tray, and the posture of a man preparing to report Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center to whoever regulated betrayal, he was six. Furious enough to be forty-five.

“No one is sewing my face,” Miles announced.

Dr. Mel King looked up from the rolling stool near the bedside, where she had been reviewing his chart with the focused gentleness that made kids trust her faster than they expected to.

“No one is sewing your face without explaining it first,” you said.

Miles narrowed his eyes. “That sounds like trick words.”

“Fair,” you said, because it absolutely did.

His mother sat beside the bed with one hand hovering near his sneaker, wearing the exhausted, hopeful expression of a parent who had already tried snacks, bargaining, and one deeply unsuccessful promise involving extra screen time. Perlah stood near the counter, quietly arranging supplies with the calm efficiency of someone who had already survived three versions of this exact argument before lunch.

You smiled at Miles and reached into your bag. “I’m going to tell you the truth in kid words,” you said.

Miles’s hand loosened slightly. “Kid words?”

“Yep.” You pulled out two options and held them up. “You can hold the squishy dinosaur or the blue stress ball while we talk.”

Miles studied both with the gravity of someone choosing legal representation. Mel leaned back slightly on the stool, giving him time.

The dinosaur was green, soft, and vaguely cross-eyed. The stress ball was shaped like a globe and had seen better days.

Miles pointed with his free hand. “Dinosaur.”

“Strong choice,” you said, placing it gently in his lap.

Miles picked it up and squeezed. “What’s his name?”

You looked at the dinosaur with grave consideration. “That depends. Is he a doctor dinosaur or a regular dinosaur?”

Miles blinked. “A doctor.”

“Then Dr. Pickles,” you answered.

Perlah’s mouth twitched. Mel’s eyes brightened in immediate approval.

Miles looked down at the dinosaur, deeply unimpressed. “That’s a bad doctor name.”

“You’re right,” you said. “He’s had some complaints.”

Miles’s mother let out a soft, relieved breath that almost became a laugh.

Mel nodded once, as if this was clinically relevant. “Dr. Pickles is currently under peer review.”

Miles looked at Mel. “What does that mean?”

“It means other doctors are checking his work,” Mel said.

You nodded toward the dinosaur. “And his attitude.”

Miles squeezed Dr. Pickles again. His shoulders lowered by half an inch.

You counted that as progress. Your phone buzzed again. You ignored that, too.

Probably Jack. Definitely Jack. Which meant the text was probably about ginger ale, crackers, decaf coffee, the mint candies he had started keeping in places you had not known mint candies could be kept, or the fact that you had slept for roughly four hours and then stared at the ceiling as if it had personally betrayed you.

Jack had not been overbearing about the pregnancy. Not exactly. He had been Jack about it. Which meant he noticed everything, filed it away, and quietly rearranged the world by six inches so it bothered you less. He knew you still adored coffee and had accepted decaf with all the grace of a woman being exiled from her homeland. He knew you got jealous every time someone walked past with a real latte. He knew you had wanted fries for three days last week and then gagged the second a takeout container opened near you.

He knew the specific face you made when you were trying to decide if a food sounded possible or if your stomach had already declared war. He knew you were tired. He knew you were trying.

That was the part that got you.

Jack never treated the pregnancy like you were fragile. He treated it like you were doing something hard, and he wanted to be useful. You loved him so much that it made you deeply irritated.

“You said truth,” Miles reminded you.

“I did.” You shifted closer, keeping your voice calm. “First, Perlah is going to clean your chin. That part might feel cold and wet. It might sting a little because cuts are rude.”

Miles’s eyes moved to Perlah. Perlah held up the gauze to show him.

“Then,” you continued, “Dr. King is going to use medicine to help the skin around the cut get sleepy.”

Miles’s face tightened. “How?”

You did not soften the answer into a lie. Kids usually knew when adults were sanding off the sharp edges of truth. They could feel the missing parts. “With a poke,” you said.

Miles stiffened. His mother’s hand twitched toward him, then stopped.

You kept your attention on Miles. “It is okay to not like that part.”

“I don’t like that part,” Miles said immediately.

You nodded. “Excellent honesty.”

“It sounds terrible,” Miles grumbled.

“It is not my favorite design choice either,” you said.

Mel hugged the chart lightly to her chest, like she was restraining herself from laughing. “Medicine has several design flaws.”

Miles’s mouth twitched before he remembered to be outraged. “Medicine is stupid.”

“Sometimes,” you agreed. “But the poke is fast, and then the sleepy medicine helps the stitches hurt less.”

Miles looked at Mel. “How many stitches?”

Mel shifted closer on the stool, her expression open and serious. “Probably three.”

Miles stared at her. Mel held up three fingers. “Maybe four if your chin decides to be dramatic.”

Miles looked personally offended by his own chin.

You held up your fingers. “Here are your choices. You can watch what’s happening, or you can look at your mom. You can count, or I can tell you each step before it happens. You can squeeze Dr. Pickles, or you can squeeze your mom’s hand.”

Miles considered this. His mother leaned closer. “You can squeeze my hand as hard as you need, bud.”

Miles looked suspicious. “What if I break it?”

His mother smiled in that brave way parents did when they were trying not to cry in front of their children. “Then I’ll get stitches too.”

“That’s not funny,” Miles said.

“No,” she agreed. “It was medium funny.”

Miles gave this serious thought.

Your phone buzzed a third time.

Mel’s gaze flicked briefly toward your bag. Mel saw things. Not loudly. Not with the hungry curiosity of someone looking for gossip. She noticed the way a room shifted, the way a voice changed, the way someone’s hand moved toward pain before they remembered other people could see.

Quietly. Accurately. A little dangerously.

You reached into the front pocket of your bag for your laminated prep cards, and your fingers brushed the edge of a saltine sleeve. You paused. Jack. Of course. He had tucked crackers into the pocket that morning while you were standing in the kitchen, wearing one of his old shirts, staring mournfully at his real coffee like it had betrayed you by existing. Not the main pocket. That would risk crumbs near your stickers and fidgets. The outside pocket. Because Jack Abbot was an emotionally devastating maniac about practical details.

You had started dressing differently two weeks ago. Not dramatically. Nothing that would look like a confession to anyone who wasn’t paying close attention. Looser sweaters. Longer cardigans. Scrub tops that skimmed instead of clung. At first, it had been practical. Your body had changed quietly, then all at once. One morning, you had stood in front of the bathroom mirror, shirt lifted just enough to see the new curve beneath your ribs, and Jack had gone still in the doorway behind you. You had seen his face in the mirror. Not surprise. Not fear. Just love. So much of it, so sudden and bare, that your eyes filled before you could tell yourself not to be ridiculous.

Jack had crossed the room without a word and wrapped both arms around you from behind, one hand settling carefully over the place where your son was beginning to make himself known.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you had said, already crying.

His chin had brushed your shoulder. “Like what?”

“Like you’re happy,” you replied through tears.

Jack had gone quiet for a second. Then his thumb moved once over your stomach, barely there. “I am.”

That had made you cry harder, obviously. Jack had held you through it with the grim patience of a man accepting consequences for being too sincere before coffee.

Now, in Miles’s exam room, you tugged the hem of your cardigan lower without thinking. Mel’s eyes dropped for half a second to the visible corner of the cracker packet, then briefly to your cardigan. Then she looked back at Miles. She did not say anything. That was somehow worse.

You pulled out the prep cards and turned back to the bed. “Okay. This card shows what stitches look like when they’re still in the package.”

Miles leaned forward despite himself.

You showed him the card, then the next one. “These are not like sewing clothes,” you said. “No giant needle. No sewing machine. No one is turning you into pants.”

Miles stared at you and almost smiled. “Who would turn me into pants?”

“No one in this room,” Perlah said.

Miles glanced at Mel. Mel shook her head. “I’m not qualified for pants.”

Miles looked marginally reassured.

Something shifted low in your abdomen. Small. Strange. Not painful. Not sharp. Just enough to make you pause with your thumb resting against the edge of the laminated card. It was still new enough that your body had not figured out how to make it casual. A flutter. A roll. A quiet internal reminder from someone who had recently developed the habit of making his presence known at inconvenient times. Yesterday morning, while Jack was making breakfast, it had startled you badly enough that you had stopped mid-sentence.

Jack had gone still across the kitchen, butter knife in hand, eyes already on you. You had told him it was nothing. He had not believed you for one second.

Now, in Miles’s exam room, you let one hand drift to the lower edge of your cardigan for half a breath. Then you moved it away.

Mel was looking at the chart. Mostly. “You okay?” she asked.

You lifted the next card. “Yep.”

Mel nodded. She did not challenge you. She did not stare. She only tucked one foot under the stool and watched Miles again, giving you the grace of not making your body the center of the room.

You appreciated that. You also did not trust it.

Miles squeezed Dr. Pickles. “What if I cry?”

You looked back at him, grateful for the question. “Then you cry.”

His brow furrowed. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” you said. “Crying is allowed.”

Perlah stepped closer with the cleaning supplies. “I cry when my coffee order is wrong.”

A sharp little pang of envy hit before you could stop it. Coffee. Real coffee. Full-caffeine, glorious, beautiful coffee. You missed it with the kind of intensity usually reserved for long-lost lovers and discontinued favorite lipsticks.

Miles looked at Perlah as if this were possibly the most adult thing anyone had ever admitted to him.

Mel nodded. “I cried once because a patient gave me a sticker and told me I was doing a good job.”

Miles looked at you.

“I cried last week because someone walked past me with an everything bagel,” you said.

Mel’s eyes slid briefly toward you. Damn it.

Miles frowned. “You don’t like bagels?”

“I love bagels,” you said. That was the problem.

Mel’s gaze lingered for half a second longer than necessary before she turned back to Miles.

Miles looked between all of you. “Adults cry a lot.”

“Constantly,” Perlah said.

“Secretly,” Mel added.

You nodded. “In supply closets.”

Miles considered this and seemed to find it medically acceptable.

Perlah moved beside the bed. “I’m going to clean your chin now. Cold and wet first.”

Miles clutched Dr. Pickles. “No tricks?”

“No tricks,” Perlah said.

You held up the card. “Truth in kid words, remember?”

Miles looked at you. “Tell me each step.”

“I can do that.”

Perlah cleaned the wound. Miles hissed through his teeth but did not pull away. You kept your voice low and steady, narrating before each step, leaving space for him to react, reminding him that holding still did not mean pretending he liked it. Your phone buzzed again.

This time, even Miles noticed. “Is someone calling you?” he asked.

“Texting,” you said.

His brow furrowed. “Is it important?”

You thought of Jack’s probable message. Ginger ale still helping? Crackers are in the outside pocket. There’s decaf in your travel mug if you want it. No pressure. Just options.

Your throat warmed. “Someone’s just checking on me,” you said.

Perlah smiled to herself.

Miles nodded like he understood this on a personal level. “My grandma texts like that.”

You smiled. “Then your grandma and my person would probably get along.”

Mel’s gaze lifted again. Your person. You had not said husband. You rarely did at work. Not because you were hiding. Not exactly.

It just never came up in a way that needed correction, and Jack was private enough that announcing your marriage at the nurses’ station sounded like something he would endure with the expression of a man being asked to donate a kidney recreationally. Also, there was a small, terrible part of you that found the whole thing funny. PTMC knew you by your first name because kids did better with first names. Families did too.

You were Child Life, soft sweaters, a calm voice, and stickers tucked into every available pocket.

Jack was Abbot. Night shift. Dry voice. Trauma rooms. Military posture. Coffee so black it seemed medicinal.

People saw you both in fragments. Shift change. Late consults. Hallway overlap. The occasional staff meeting where Jack sat in the back and looked like every agenda item had personally offended him. Almost no one put the pieces together.

Robby knew, obviously. Dana knew too, because Dana knew everything worth knowing and had the good sense not to announce other people’s lives at the nurses’ station. But Robby was the one who enjoyed it. Robby had stood beside Jack in a suit and called it deeply unsettling when Jack adjusted his tie for the fourth time before the ceremony. He had been Jack’s best man, a title he brought up only when it would annoy Jack most.

Perlah finished cleaning Miles’s chin. “First part done,” Perlah said.

Miles opened one eye. “That kinda sucked.”

“It does suck,” you agreed.

Miles looked surprised. “You can say that?”

“Yes,” you said.

Miles processed this with the intensity of a philosopher in dinosaur socks.

Mel rolled closer on the stool. “Sleepy medicine next.”

Miles’s face tightened. You leaned in just enough to keep his focus. “Do you want to count, or do you want me to tell you when it’s done?”

Miles swallowed. “Tell me when it’s done.”

“Okay.” You placed Dr. Pickles more firmly under his hand. “You squeeze him. I’ll watch the medicine.”

Miles nodded once. His mother offered her hand. Miles took it. The poke happened fast. Miles cried. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a tight little burst of tears that made his mother’s face crumple and Perlah’s gaze soften.

You stayed with him through it. “That was the worst part,” you said when the needle was gone.

Miles sniffed hard. “That was terrible.”

You nodded. “It was.”

“I hated it,” Miles added.

“That’s okay,” you said. “You’re allowed.”

Miles looked down at Dr. Pickles, betrayed by medicine and possibly dinosaurs.

Mel gave the anesthetic a minute to work. Your phone buzzed again. Perlah set the used supplies aside. Mel glanced at your bag, then back at Miles. Only once. A quick thing. Barely anything. Still enough.

“You can check that,” Mel said gently.

“I’m good,” you said.

Mel hugged the chart closer to her chest. “It’s persistent.”

You smiled. “That’s one word for him.”

The second the sentence left your mouth, you felt Mel’s attention sharpen by a fraction. Not enough to make a thing of it. Enough. Miles’s mother leaned over to kiss the top of his head, giving you a small window. You reached into your bag and checked your phone. There were, in fact, four texts.

Jack: Ginger ale still helping?

Jack: Crackers are in the outside pocket if not.

Jack: No pressure. Just options.

Jack: Love you both. You’re doing good.

You stared at the last message for half a second too long. Love you both. You’re doing good. It was such a Jack text. Practical care stacked under one plain, devastating sentence. No exclamation points. No hearts. No little cartoon baby emoji. Just ginger ale, decaf, and love, organized in order of immediate usefulness.

You typed back with one thumb.

You: We’re okay. With a patient. Dr. Pickles is under peer review.

The response came almost immediately.

Jack: Sounds fair. A second later: Jack: Tell him to improve.

You bit the inside of your cheek. You had texted him a picture of the dinosaur earlier, with no explanation except "new attending on peds."

Jack had replied: Looks underqualified.

You locked your phone. Mel’s eyes were on Miles, but you knew better than to think she had missed the way your face softened. You tucked the phone away and picked up the sticker sheet. The stitches went better than Miles expected and worse than he wanted. Both things could be true. He squeezed Dr. Pickles hard enough to flatten the dinosaur’s head. He cried once more when the first stitch tugged, then got distracted by the fact that Mel had once fainted during a blood draw when she was twelve.

“You’re a doctor,” Miles said, scandalized.

“I recovered,” Mel said.

Miles eyed her. “But you fainted?”

“Briefly.”

You leaned closer to Miles. “She’s very brave now.”

Mel pulled off her gloves. “Medium brave.”

Miles nodded solemnly. “Medium brave counts.”

By the time Mel finished the last stitch, Miles looked exhausted, offended, and deeply proud of himself. A good combination. “You did it,” his mother whispered.

Miles looked at you. “Was I brave?”

You peeled a dinosaur sticker from the sheet. “Very.”

Miles frowned. You waited.

“Medium brave,” he corrected. “Not all the way.”

You pressed the sticker gently to the back of his hand. “Medium brave counts.”

Mel smiled as she reached for the discharge instructions on the computer. “Usually more than all-the-way brave,” she said.

Miles looked at her. “Why?”

Mel glanced over from the screen. “Because medium brave means you were scared and did it anyway.”

Miles looked down at Dr. Pickles. His chin was swollen. His cheeks were blotchy. His fingers were still tight around the dinosaur. But he smiled. Just a little.

You felt that tiny, internal shift again. A small roll low under your ribs, subtle enough that no one else should have noticed. You breathed through it.

Mel did not look at your stomach. She did not ask. She only handed you the sanitizer when you reached for it and watched your hand settle for one brief second against the lower curve beneath your cardigan before you caught yourself and moved.

That was the thing about Mel. She didn’t need to say anything to make you feel seen.

Miles’s mother thanked everyone three times. Mel gave wound care instructions. Perlah handed over extra gauze and the kind of practical reassurance parents needed after watching their children bleed. You promised Miles that Dr. Pickles could stay with him until discharge as long as he did not file another complaint with the medical board.

Miles hugged the dinosaur to his chest. “He’s on probation.”

“Fair,” you said.

You stepped out of the room with Mel a few minutes later, letting the door click softly behind you. The noise of the ER met you all at once. Phones. Monitors. A transport tech laughed near the desk. Someone called for an EKG. The familiar, relentless rhythm of PTMC refused to pause just because one six-year-old had survived the betrayal of stitches.

Mel stopped beside the counter and reached for the sanitizer. You checked the time. The day shift ended in thirty minutes. Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You glanced down.

Jack: I’m early. Five minutes out.

You smiled despite yourself.

Jack had always liked nights. He liked the dark. The smaller crew. The way the hospital narrowed down to alarms, instincts, and people who knew how to move without talking too much. He liked the solitude of it, the strange mercy of working while the rest of the world slept.

Or he had.

Lately, nights had started to feel different. Lately, nights meant leaving you at home with ginger ale on the nightstand, decaf in the cabinet, pillows wedged around your hips, and a body that could not decide what it wanted without punishing you for guessing wrong.

Jack still loved the work. You knew he did. But you also knew the way his hand lingered at your back before he left now. The way his eyes moved over your face like he was trying to memorize how tired you looked before he had to spend twelve hours away from it. The way he kissed you once, then again, like the second one might keep something safe that the first one could not. He hated leaving. You knew that, too.

Mel dried her hands with a paper towel beside you. You slipped your phone back into your pocket before she could see the screen. Mel didn’t ask who it was. She didn’t need to. Instead, her gaze moved once to the ginger ale beside your water bottle. Then, to the sleeve of saltines in your bag. Then to your face.

“You feeling okay today?” Mel asked. The question was gentle enough to pass as nothing.

You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “Yeah.”

Mel nodded once, accepting the answer without quite believing it. “Good,” she said.

You looked at her for another beat. Mel only smiled mildly and tossed the paper towel into the trash. You turned toward the workstation to finish your notes, one hand resting briefly over the place where your son had rolled beneath your ribs. The day shift was almost over. Night shift was getting ready to begin. And no one in the ER knew that Jack Abbot was five minutes away from walking through those doors with decaf in one hand, plausible deniability in the other, and every intention of checking on his pregnant wife without anyone noticing.

The first thing you saw was the cup. Not Jack. Not technically. The cup came through the ambulance bay doors first, carried in one hand like a formal apology. It was not from the cafeteria. It was not from the lobby kiosk. It was definitely not hospital decaf, which tasted like someone had rinsed a coffee pot and asked you to be grateful. This cup had a sleeve. A stamped logo. A handwritten label. Fancy. Suspicious. Hopeful, which felt cruel.

Then Jack came through the doors behind it, already in dark scrubs, his badge clipped at his chest, his other hand wrapped around his own coffee. Real coffee. Actual coffee. Coffee with caffeine and dignity and a future. You stared at it with immediate, unreasonable resentment.

Then you looked at your husband. Jack’s eyes found yours from across the department the way they always did, quickly and without announcement. Face first. Then shoulders. Then the ginger ale beside your laptop. The sleeve of the crackers was half-tucked under your notebook. Your cardigan, loose and soft over the curve you had spent the last two weeks pretending was not becoming obvious.

His gaze dropped for less than a second. You felt it anyway. Then he crossed the ER like he was only coming in for the night shift. Like he had not texted you three separate options in the last hour and found a new brand of decaf because you had said, once, half-asleep and miserable against his pillow, that you missed coffee so much you could cry. He set the fancy cup beside your laptop. ‘Decaf. Don’t yell until after trying’ was written in black marker across the lid.

Your throat did something ridiculous. Jack’s face did not change. “New one,” he said.

You looked at the cup, then at him. “You bought me fancy decaf coffee?”

His mouth barely moved. “Try it.”

You picked up the cup with both hands because it was warm and because your body, traitorous and exhausted, had already decided that warmth was reason enough to hope. The first sip was cautious. Defensive. You expected disappointment. You expected hot brown sadness. You expected the thin, bitter lie every decaf had been telling you for the past month and a half.

Instead, the coffee was warm. Smooth. Rich. Good. Actually, unfairly, wonderfully good.

Your eyes closed before you could stop them. “Oh my God,” you said.

Jack went still. Not in a way anyone else would notice. Not unless they knew him. Not unless they knew the exact way his body held itself when he was waiting for the verdict on something that mattered more than he wanted it to.

“Yeah?” he asked.

You nodded, still holding the cup close. “Jack.” His eyes stayed on you. “It’s good.” The words came out smaller than you meant them to. Grateful in a way coffee probably did not deserve.

Except it was not just coffee. It was a normal thing. One thing your body had not rejected. One thing that tasted as if it belonged to the version of you who used to drink real coffee without negotiating with your stomach first. Jack understood that. Of course he did. That was the best part.

His shoulders settled by a fraction. “Good.”

You looked down at the lid again, and a laugh caught in your throat. “I wasn’t going to yell,” you said.

Jack gave you a look.

“I was going to emotionally object,” you corrected.

“Mm,” he hummed.

“With dignity,” you added.

Jack nodded once. “Sure.”

You took another sip, and this time you did not bother hiding how much you liked it. You were too tired to perform indifference, too relieved to make him work for it. “Thank you,” you said.

Jack’s expression went quieter. “Yeah,” he said. “Of course.”

Behind the counter, Santos lowered the chart in her hand. Slowly. “Oh, no,” she said.

You closed your eyes. Jack did not move.

Santos pointed at the cup. “That was a moment.”

Jack looked at her. “It was coffee.”

“It was not coffee.” Santos’s eyes narrowed. “It was emotionally loaded coffee.”

Robby made a pleased sound from the workstation behind her. “Excellent band name.”

Jack’s gaze cut toward him. “Don’t help.”

“I’m helping myself,” Robby said.

Dana did not look up from the discharge papers in front of her, but the corner of her mouth moved like she had decided not to be held responsible for anyone in the department. Mel, who had been reviewing something on her tablet near the counter, glanced between you and Jack with quiet interest. Not nosy. Not loud. Just watching.

Santos was loud enough for both of them. “Since when does Abbot bring Child Life specialty beverages?” she asked.

Jack picked up his own coffee. “Since Child Life suffered enough.”

You took another sip. “I support this policy.”

Santos pointed at you. “You’re too happy. That’s suspicious.”

“I’m drinking good decaf for the first time in weeks,” you said. “My joy is proportionate.”

Robby leaned one hip against the workstation. “Strong argument.”

Jack looked at him again. Robby lifted both hands. “I’m neutral.”

“You have never been neutral in your life,” Dana said.

Robby nodded once. “Also fair.”

Jack’s real coffee drifted near you when he shifted his weight, and your stomach made one small, sour complaint. You did not move. You did not even think you changed expression. Jack noticed anyway. He moved his cup to the far side of the counter without looking at it. Small. Quiet. Automatic. Your fingers tightened around your decaf. Mel noticed. You saw her notice. Her eyes flicked to Jack’s hand, then back to your face, and something thoughtful crossed her expression before she politely looked down at her tablet again.

Santos missed none of it. Her gaze sharpened.

Jack lowered his voice, but not enough to be secretive. Just enough to make the space between you feel smaller. “How bad?”

You knew what he meant. Not work. Not Miles. Not the coffee. The nausea. The hunger that kept arriving with disgust tucked beneath it. The way your body had started treating dinner like a negotiation no one had authorized. “Manageable,” you said.

Jack’s eyes narrowed by a fraction.

You sighed. “Annoying.”

He almost smiled, “Closer.”

“The bagel smell in the break room was a crime scene,” you grumbled.

His mouth twitched. “That bad?”

You nodded. “I considered filing charges.”

Jack nodded as if this were a reasonable escalation. “What sounds possible for dinner?”

You looked down at the coffee in your hands. Good coffee. Actual good coffee. Decaf, tragically, but not a punishment. Not a thin, bitter insult. Good enough that your whole body seemed confused by the relief of wanting something and being able to have it.

“Toast,” you admitted.

Jack nodded once. “Toast is good.”

“Toast is barely dinner,” you said with a frown.

Jack looked at you so sincerely that your chest squeezed tight. “Toast is dinner if it stays down.”

Your throat tightened. That was the thing about Jack. He did not make ‘possible’ sound like failure. He just lowered the bar until you could step over it without shame.

“Butter and honey,” you said.

His expression softened. “Irish butter’s in the fridge.”

You looked at him. “You got more?”

He nodded. “Aldi had it.”

“You went to Aldi?” you asked, eyes bright.

Jack shrugged. “I survived.”

“You hate Aldi.” Your eyebrows rose.

“I hate the parking lot,” Jack corrected you.

You couldn’t stop your smile, “And the cart quarter.”

Jack's eyes narrowed, “The cart quarter is an aggressive system.”

You laughed before you could help it, one hand settling briefly against your cardigan when your son shifted low and strange, as if he had opinions about grocery logistics. Jack saw. Of course, he saw. His eyes dropped for half a second, then came back to your face. “Still okay?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

His voice stayed low. “Good honey’s on the counter.”

You inhaled sharply, “The farmers market one?”

“The one you said tasted like flowers and sunshine,” Jack replied.

You stared at him for one second too long.

Santos put the chart down. “Hold on.”

Jack did not look away from you quickly enough.

Apparently, that was Santos’s final straw. “No,” she said. “Absolutely not.”

You took another sip of coffee.

Santos pointed at Jack. “You know what butter she has.”

Jack’s face stayed calm. “Most kitchens have butter.”

Santos glared, “Do not insult me.”

Robby made a quiet, delighted noise.

Santos’s finger stayed aimed at Jack. “You said Irish butter. From Aldi. Like a man who has personally fought the parking lot and lost.”

Jack’s brow furrowed, “I didn’t lose.”

“You know where her farmers' market honey is.” Santos continued.

“It’s on the counter,” Jack said with a nod.

Santos stared at him. “Again, not helping your case.”

Dana finally looked up. “It is good honey.”

Santos turned on her. “You stay out of this.” Dana’s eyebrows lifted. Santos exhaled sharply. “Actually, no. You’re involved now. Is this normal?”

Dana glanced once at you, then at Jack, then at the coffee in your hands. “For them?” she said. “Yes.” The department went quiet for half a beat. Robby’s smile became openly dangerous. Jack looked at Dana. Dana returned to her paperwork like she had not just thrown a match into gasoline.

Santos’s eyes widened. “For them?”

You looked down at your coffee. Jack took a drink from his. Neither of you answered. Mel hugged her tablet a little closer to her chest. “Oh,” she said softly.

Santos snapped her attention to Mel. “Oh, what?”

Mel’s cheeks colored. “Nothing.”

“No, that was an oh,” Santos replied, eyes narrowed.

Mel shrugged. “It was an observational oh.”

Robby nodded. “Clinically, much worse.”

Jack set his coffee down. “Robby.”

Robby folded his arms. “What? I’m supporting the diagnostic process.”

Santos pointed between you and Jack. “Oh, my God.”

You took another sip. Jack’s jaw shifted like he knew exactly where this was going and had decided to let it happen.

Santos’s eyes narrowed. “You’re dating.”

The words landed in the middle of the nurses’ station with the subtlety of a dropped tray. Perlah, passing behind Santos with a stack of supplies, slowed for exactly one step before deciding she valued her peace and kept walking. Mel’s eyes widened. Robby leaned back against the workstation, delighted in a way that did not bode well for anyone. “Interesting theory,” he said.

Santos pointed at him without looking. “You know something.”

“I know many things,” Robby said, nodding wisely.

Her eyes narrowed, “About this.”

“Especially about this,” Robby agreed.

Jack’s eyes cut toward him. Robby smiled. “Sorry. Department morale.”

Santos turned back to you. “Are you dating Abbot?”

You looked at Jack. Jack looked at you. There was a very long second where neither of you spoke, not because you were trying to hide anything, but because the actual answer was so much funnier than the question. “No,” you said.

Santos blinked. “No?”

“No,” Jack said.

Santos stared at both of you. “That was too synchronized.”

“Still true,” Jack said.

She threw up her hands, “Then why do you know her butter?”

You lifted the coffee. “It’s very memorable butter.”

Santos pointed at you. “I do not like you right now.”

You nodded solemnly. “That seems fair.”

Mel looked from you to Jack again, her expression caught somewhere between surprised and delighted. “So you’re not dating?”

Jack picked up his coffee. “No.”

Mel’s eyebrows drew together. “But the coffee?”

“It’s decaf,” Jack said.

Santos made a strangled sound. “That is not an answer.”

Dana turned a page. “It is one if you’ve met him.”

You smiled into your cup. Jack saw that too. The smile. The way you were trying to hide it. The way you were failing because the coffee was good, and he had gone to Aldi for butter, and your son was rolling around like he had decided to make himself known during the least convenient window of time. His face softened before he caught it.

Santos saw that too. She went very still. Then she pointed at him again. “You have a face.”

Jack stared at her. “Most people do.”

“No.” Santos stepped closer. “You have a specific face.”

Robby pressed his lips together. Jack looked unimpressed. “That cleared nothing up.”

“You looked soft.”

“Santos,” Mel said, but she sounded like she was trying not to laugh.

“He did,” Santos insisted. “He looked soft at Child Life.”

You glanced at Jack. “Congratulations.”

His mouth twitched. “Thank you.”

Santos threw a hand out. “See? Vibe.”

Dana sighed. “This is why I don’t work nights.”

“You work all the time,” Robby said.

Dana looked at him. “And yet I avoid this.” The overhead speakers crackled, and someone called for environmental services near trauma two. The ER resumed around you in pieces. Monitors beeped. A printer coughed out discharge paperwork. Someone laughed near the medication room. Jack glanced toward the board. Night shift was beginning to swallow him. You could feel it happening. The department reaching for him. The trauma rooms and consults and handoffs and all the things that would keep him here while you went home to the quiet house with the new loaf of bread on the counter and good honey waiting beside it.

His gaze came back to you. “I’ve got four minutes,” he said.

“Luxury,” you replied.

He almost smiled. “Can I walk you out?”

Your chest warmed before you could stop it. “You have handoff.”

Jack shrugged. “Robby’s still pretending to work.”

Robby lifted one hand without looking away from the show. “Rude. Accurate.”

Jack held your gaze. “Four minutes.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Okay.”

Santos made a sound. “No.”

Jack looked at her. “Problem?”

Her eyes narrowed, “Yes, problem. You cannot say you are not dating and then walk her out with your emotionally loaded coffee situation.”

“It’s her coffee,” Jack said.

“That does not make it less loaded,” Santos replied.

You started gathering your things before Santos could build a formal case. Your notebook went into your Child Life bag. The laminated prep cards slid into their folder. Dr. Pickles, temporarily retired from active duty after Miles’s successful stitches, stayed tucked in the side pocket.

Jack watched your hands. Not hovering. Not taking over. Just ready, the way he always was.

When you reached for the bag strap, his eyes dropped to it. “Can I?” he asked.

The question was quiet enough that it was mostly yours. You handed him the strap. Jack took the bag and settled it onto his shoulder like it belonged there. Santos stared. Mel’s mouth parted slightly. Robby looked delighted enough to require supervision.

Dana did not look up, but she said, “Careful, Abbot. That bag has stickers.”

Jack adjusted the strap. “I’m aware.”

Santos’s voice went flat. “You’re aware.”

You picked up your coffee. “There are a lot of stickers.”

Mel smiled. “That tracks.”

Santos pointed between you again. “You are all hearing this, right?”

Robby pushed away from the workstation. “I hear many things.”

“You knew he carried her bag?”

Robby’s grin widened. “I know many things.”

“Stop saying that,” she snapped.

Robby’s grin turned wicked. “No.”

Jack looked toward the elevator, then back at you. “Ready?” You nodded. The movement made your back complain in a low, annoying pulse. You must have shifted your weight more carefully than you meant to, because Jack’s hand lifted a fraction at his side. He did not touch you. Not here. Not in front of the whole department while Santos was watching like she had been personally assigned to solve the mystery of your entire life. But he wanted to.

You could feel that too. “I’m good,” you said softly.

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours for one second longer. Then he nodded. “Okay.”

Santos looked at Mel. “They are absolutely dating.”

“They said they’re not,” Mel said, though her voice had gone thoughtful.

Santos narrowed her eyes. “People lie.”

Dana picked up her bag from the counter. “Sometimes people answer the question asked.”

Santos turned slowly toward her. Dana’s expression stayed mild. Robby made a sound like he was enjoying the evening more than anyone had a right to. Jack started toward the elevators with your Child Life bag on his shoulder and your four-minute goodbye ticking down beside him. You fell into step at his side.

Behind you, Santos made a sound. “Nope,” she said.

You glanced back. She had grabbed her coat from the back of the chair and was already following.

Mel looked between Santos and the elevator. “Are we all going down?”

“I am,” Santos said. “For reasons.”

Robby pushed away from the workstation. “I’m done for the day.”

Dana picked up her bag. “I’m also leaving before this becomes my problem.”

“Too late,” Robby said. Dana ignored him.

Cassie appeared from the hallway with her keys in hand, Langdon beside her, still zipping his coat. “Are people leaving?” Cassie asked.

Santos pointed toward Jack. “Yes. Quietly. Together. Suspiciously.”

Jack did not stop walking. “Shift change,” he said.

Robby smiled. “Love this place.”

By the time the elevator doors opened, all of you had somehow become a group. You. Jack. Santos. Mel. Robby. Dana. Langdon. Cassie. It was too many people for one elevator, and exactly the wrong number of witnesses for a secret that had never really been a secret. Santos got in first, like proximity might help her solve whatever crime she had decided Jack was committing. Mel followed, glancing between you and Jack with careful, growing curiosity. Robby stepped in behind her, already wearing the expression of a man who knew exactly how this ended and had chosen not to save anyone. Dana entered last with the resigned calm of someone who had seen more than enough hospital nonsense to recognize when nonsense had become inevitable. Langdon and Cassie squeezed in at the last second, both still half in their coats, both clearly unsure why Santos looked like she was about to interrogate someone under oath. The elevator doors slid shut. Jack stood beside you with your Child Life bag on his shoulder. The bag had three cartoon stickers on the front pocket, two laminated keychains, one slightly crushed granola bar in the side pouch, and Dr. Pickles’s green squishy dinosaur head peeking out from the top. Jack Abbot, night-shift attending, former combat medic, allergic to unnecessary bonding, carried it as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Which it was to you.

Not, apparently, to everyone else. The elevator hummed down one level. Santos looked at Jack’s shoulder. Then at you. Then back at Jack’s shoulder. “I’m just saying,” she said, “this is weird.”

Jack did not look at her. “Most things are.”

“No.” Santos pointed at your bag. “This is specific weird.”

Robby made a pleased sound. “Specific weird is my favorite kind.”

Dana closed her eyes. Mel pressed her lips together. You took another sip of your decaf, which remained warm and good, and therefore, the only reason you had not started openly laughing. Jack’s gaze slid toward you. Just briefly. That was all. But you knew him well enough to read it. ‘Careful’, his eyes said. You lifted your brows. ‘I am behaving beautifully’, your face said back. His mouth moved at the corner. Santos saw it.

She stepped forward as the elevator doors opened into the parking level. “Oh, absolutely not,” she said. Jack walked out first because he was closest to the doors. You followed with your coffee in hand, the cool garage air brushing across your face. It smelled like concrete, rainwater, and old exhaust, sharp enough to wake you up a little. Somewhere farther down the row, a car chirped unlocked. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Your back ached in that deep, annoying way that felt less like pain and more like your body had reorganized itself without asking permission. You shifted your weight as you walked. Jack noticed. He slowed half a step.

You did not look at him when you said, “I’m good.”

Jack raised a brow. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought it loudly,” you replied.

Robby coughed behind you. Santos’s footsteps stuttered. Mel made a tiny sound that might have been a laugh.

Jack looked down at you. “I’ll work on that.”

You smiled softly. “No, you won’t.”

“No,” he said. “Probably not.”

Santos pointed at both of you as she walked. “See? Dating.”

“We’re still not dating,” Jack said.

Robby’s smile turned bright enough to become a workplace hazard. You started walking towards your car, which was only two rows away, and you were suddenly very aware of the butter in your refrigerator, the honey on your counter, the toast waiting at home, and the fact that your husband was on the edge of being swallowed by the night shift. The group followed. Of course, they followed. Santos had the look of a woman who had found blood in the water and also somehow filed an HR complaint about it in her head. At your car, Jack shifted your bag carefully off his shoulder and handed it to you.

“Can I have that?” he asked.

You smiled and traded him the coffee for the bag so you could dig out your keys. He held the cup without comment, thumb resting against the sleeve, watching you search the pocket where your keys were supposed to be and definitely were not. You frowned. Jack reached into the smaller front pocket without looking. He pulled out your keys. You looked at him.

He held them out. “Front pocket,” he said.

Your eyes narrowed. “I know where my keys are.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Eventually.”

Behind you, Santos made a sound of actual physical pain. Mel whispered, “Oh.”

Langdon looked at Cassie. “What did I miss?”

Cassie’s eyes were huge. “A lot, apparently.”

You unlocked the car. Jack handed your coffee back to you. “Text me when you’re home,” he said.

“You’ll probably be in trauma one, saving lives,” you replied.

Jack grinned. “Text me anyway.”

Your chest warmed. “Bossy,” you said.

Jack’s face softened, small and private. “Accurate.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but your son shifted low and strange again, a flutter turning into something just solid enough to make you pause. It was not painful. Just new. Still new enough that wonder arrived before you could protect yourself from it. Your hand hovered near your cardigan and stopped there. You did not press. You did not draw attention. You only breathed once, slowly. Jack’s eyes dropped. Half a second. No more. When they came back to your face, his expression had changed. Barely. Enough. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you said, softer. “Just ready to be home.”

He nodded. The department pulled at him from three floors above you. You could feel that too. The invisible hook of night shift. Handoff. Trauma bays. The board. The particular gravity of people needing him. But for this second, in the parking garage, he stayed.

His hand settled briefly at the small of your back. Familiar. Automatic. Yours.

You leaned up without thinking, and he bent down to meet you.

The kiss was quick. Not dramatic. Not performative.

Just the warm press of his mouth against yours before one of you went home and the other went back inside. A married goodbye. The kind that had happened in kitchens, doorways, airport drop-offs, grocery store parking lots, and once in the middle of a hotel hallway when Robby had yelled that he was happy for you but also deeply uncomfortable. Jack pulled back first, but not far. His thumb brushed once against your back before he let his hand fall.

Behind you, something clattered against concrete. Probably Santos’s keys. Possibly Santos’s entire understanding of the world.

“I’m sorry,” Santos said.

You turned. Santos stood ten feet away, mouth open, keys now on the ground near her shoe. Mel had gone perfectly still beside her. Langdon looked like someone had switched the language on a monitor and expected him to interpret the rhythm strip anyway. Cassie had both hands pressed over her mouth. Dana looked at the ceiling like she had requested one quiet shift change and been personally denied. Robby looked like Christmas had come early and brought catering with it.

Santos pointed at Jack. “You said you weren’t dating.”

Jack’s hand stayed near your back. “We’re not.”

“You kissed her,” she replied.

Jack nodded. “I did.”

“So you’re dating,” she replied, gesturing between the two of you.

“No,” Jack said. “We’re not dating anymore.”

Santos blinked. Mel blinked. Cassie dropped her hands. “Anymore?”

You looked up at Jack, then shrugged. “What’s it been, six years?”

“Seven in May,” Jack said.

“Seven in May,” Robby said at the same time.

The garage went silent. You turned slowly toward Robby. Robby lifted both hands. “What? I was there.”

Santos’s mouth opened. “You were where?”

Jack sighed. “Don’t.”

Robby’s smile became catastrophic. “Best man.”

Santos stared at him. “Best man?” she repeated.

Robby nodded. “Great suit. Very emotional day.”

Jack looked at him. “You cried.”

Robby pointed at Jack. “Allegedly.”

You lifted your coffee. “There are photos.”

“Hostile witness,” Robby said.

You looked at Jack. Jack looked back at you, his face soft in a way he probably would have hidden if he had remembered anyone else was there.

Santos made a sound. Not a word. A sound. Then she looked at Jack. Then at you. Then at Jack again. “You’re married?”

Jack nodded once. “Yep.”

You nodded too. “Yep.”

The garage erupted.

“YOU’RE MARRIED?” Santos’s voice bounced off three levels of concrete.

Jack winced. “Inside voice.”

“No.” Santos stabbed a finger toward him. “Absolutely not. You do not get an inside voice right now. You lost inside voice privileges when you kissed Child Life in a parking garage and revealed a seven-year marriage.”

Langdon stared at Jack. “You’re married married?”

Jack looked at him. “As opposed to?”

Robby leaned closer to Langdon. “Spiritually married. Recreationally married. Trial subscription married.”

Jack’s head turned slowly. “Stop.”

Robby smiled. “Never.”

Cassie looked between you and Jack, eyes bright with shock. “Wait, before PTMC?”

You nodded. “Before PTMC.”

Mel’s expression softened. “That’s why the coffee.”

Santos spun toward her. “Do not act like the coffee was enough information.”

“It was emotionally loaded coffee,” Cassie said.

Robby pointed at her. “She gets it.”

Jack’s eyes closed for half a second. Dana adjusted the bag on her shoulder. “This could have been an email.”

Santos turned on her. “You knew.”

Dana looked at her. “Yes.”

Santos threw both hands out. “Why does everyone know?”

“Everyone does not know,” Dana said.

“I didn’t know!” Santos exclaimed.

Dana’s expression stayed perfectly calm. “Then, everyone clearly does not know.”

Mel pressed her lips together. Cassie turned away, shoulders shaking.

Santos pointed at Dana. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Dana’s eyebrows lifted. “It was not my marriage to announce.” Santos stared at her. Dana added, “Also, you never asked.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. Santos looked personally betrayed by the entire universe. Then she turned on Robby. “You,” she said.

Robby put a hand to his chest. “Me?”

She glared at him. “You knew for seven years.”

“Technically longer. They dated before that,” Robby replied.

Jack stared at him. Robby shrugged. “Context matters.”

Santos took one step toward him. “You watched me investigate Aldi butter like an idiot.”

Robby grinned, “You were doing great.”

“I hate you.” Santos snapped.

Mel looked at you, still gentle despite the chaos. “How did you meet?”

That quieted the group by a fraction. Not completely. But enough. You felt Jack beside you, the small shift in his body. Not discomfort exactly. Something older. Something private. Your hand tightened around your coffee. “Military hospital,” you said.

Mel’s face softened. Cassie’s expression changed too, curiosity gentling into something more careful. Santos, to her credit, did not make a joke. Jack looked toward the far end of the garage, then back at you. You smiled a little. “He was lurking outside room 417.”

Jack’s eyebrows lifted. “Lurking.”

“You were standing in the hallway pretending not to hover,” you said to him.

Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I was waiting.”

“For what?” you asked. He paused.

Robby leaned in. “Careful. This is how history gets written.”

Jack gave him a look. You looked back at Mel. “I was helping a little girl get ready to see her dad after he’d been hurt. Jack saw us.”

Mel’s eyes warmed. Cassie pressed a hand to her chest. “That’s actually really sweet.”

“He asked someone who I was,” you added.

Robby nodded immediately. “Immediately.”

Jack looked at him. “You weren’t there.”

“I know Miller,” Robby said. “Miller told the story better.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. “Miller told the story worse.”

You smiled. “Then he asked me for coffee.”

Santos squinted at Jack. “You asked someone out?”

Jack stared at her. “Yes.”

“Out loud?” she continued.

Jack looked confused. “How else would I do it?”

Robby opened his mouth. Jack pointed at him without looking. “No.”

Robby closed his mouth with visible effort. Langdon looked at you. “And he proposed?”

“No,” Santos said, already turning back to Jack with renewed offense. “No, wait. I need this. How did Abbot propose? Did he do it with words? Did he make eye contact? Did he file paperwork?”

Jack looked toward the elevator. “I have to go back inside.”

“Absolutely not,” Santos said. “You owe us seven years of lore.”

Jack narrowed his eyes at her. “I owe you nothing.”

“You owe me emotional damages,” she snapped back.

Dana started toward her car. “You’ll survive.”

“I might not,” Santos called after her.

Dana did not turn around. “Then update your emergency contact.”

Robby laughed. Jack did not. Mel looked at you, smiling now. “How did he propose?”

You glanced at Jack. His face had gone quieter, the line of his mouth held flat like he knew what you were about to say and wanted very badly to stop you, but not enough to actually do it. You loved him so much that it made you a little stupid. “He put it on the grocery list,” you said.

Santos stopped moving. “I’m sorry?”

Robby’s face lit up. “Oh, this is good.”

Jack looked at him. “Do not.”

Robby ignored him completely. “Strong list.”

Cassie whispered, “The grocery list?”

You nodded. “At home. In the kitchen. He asked me to look it over and see if he missed anything.”

Mel’s smile grew. Langdon blinked. “And he wrote ‘proposal’ on it?”

“Not proposal,” you said.

Jack’s expression softened before he could stop it. You looked down at your coffee. “He wrote, ‘marry me?’” You said. “With a question mark.”

Cassie made a soft noise. Mel pressed the tablet to her chest. “That’s beautiful.”

Santos pointed at Jack. “You proposed with errands.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. “She said yes.”

Robby nodded gravely. “Again. Strong list.”

You smiled. “There was coffee on it, too.”

“Of course there was,” Dana called from near her car.

Santos dragged both hands down her face. “This entire department is a conspiracy.”

“It’s not a conspiracy,” Mel said, though she was still smiling.

Santos turned to her. “You are only saying that because you’re happy for them.”

“I am happy for them,” Mel replied.

Jack looked at you then, and the noise around you thinned for a second. His eyes moved over your face. Tired. Nauseous. Amused. Softened by good decaf and too much attention and the strange tenderness of watching your private life become public in one loud, ridiculous burst. He stepped closer. “Enough,” he said, not exactly to the group. To you, maybe. For you.

Santos opened her mouth. Jack looked at her. She shut it. Mostly.

He turned back to you. “Go home. Eat your toast.”

Santos pointed weakly. “See? Again with the toast.”

You opened your car door. “Goodnight, Santos.”

“The toast was married toast,” she glared at you.

“All toast is married if you use the good honey,” Robby said.

Dana opened her car door. “I’m leaving before this gets worse.”

“It can get worse?” Langdon asked.

Robby smiled. “Always.”

Jack handed you the coffee one last time, his fingers brushing yours around the cup.

“Text me when you’re home,” he said.

You nodded once. “I will.”

“And after toast,” he added.

You smiled. “Bossy.”

His gaze held yours. “Married,” he corrected quietly.

Your chest went warm. “Apparently,” you said.

His mouth softened. For a second, you wanted to stay there. To keep him in the parking garage under bad fluorescent lights with your bag in his hand and the whole department spinning around the two of you. To have one more minute before the ER took him back. But the night shift was already waiting. And you had toast to make. And a son the ER did not know about yet, shifting softly beneath your ribs like he had survived his first family scandal and found it unimpressive.

You slid into the driver’s seat. Jack shut the door carefully after you were settled. Through the open window, Santos was still staring at him like she had discovered a new organ. “I have follow-up questions,” she said.

Jack nodded once. “I’m sure.”

She pointed at him. “Tomorrow.”

“No,” Jack said immediately.

“Yes.” Santos snapped back.

Dana’s voice carried from across the row. “Tomorrow will be worse if you fight it.”

Robby lifted a hand. “I have photos.”

Jack’s head turned slowly. “Do not,” he said.

Robby smiled at you over Jack’s shoulder. “I have selected favorites.”

You laughed as you set your coffee in the cup holder. Jack looked pained. Santos looked reborn. Mel looked delighted. Cassie was already whispering something to Langdon, who still seemed stuck on the phrase grocery list. And you realized, with your good decaf beside you and your husband standing in the parking garage in his dark scrubs, that PTMC had finally caught up to a story that had been yours for years.

Santos pointed at Jack one last time. “Why didn’t anyone tell us?”

Jack glanced toward the elevators, already half-pulled back to work. Then he looked at you. His mouth moved, barely. “You never asked,” he said.

Santos stared at him. “That,” she said, “is the most annoying thing you have ever said.”

Robby leaned closer to your window. “Top five.”

Jack looked at him. “Go home.”

Robby pushed off your car with a grin. “Yes, sir.”

You started the engine. Jack stepped back, but his eyes stayed on yours until you pulled out of the space. In the rearview mirror, you saw him standing there for one more second, surrounded by people who suddenly knew one of the truest things about him. Then the elevator doors opened. Night shift called him back.

And Jack Abbot went.

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