Summary: From starting out in the pitt as a second year resident to reluctantly falling in love with your night shift attending Jack Abbot. Months of teasing, hidden bets, exchanged stitches and secretly shared beds all lead to this.
Ao3 (posting order) - Trailer - Playlist (soon)
Linear chapters
We Must Stop Meeting Like This
February Blues
Once In A Blood Moon
Misery Loves Company
Once Upon An On Call Room
Plausible Deniability
Post Sleep Clarity (soon)
TBD
An Acute Case Of You (Can also be read as an intro)
I'm starvin', darlin', let me put my lips to somethin'
Let me wrap my teeth around the world
Start carvin', darlin', I want to smell the dinner cookin'
You’re new to nights. Fresh-faced attending. A reputation that followed you from residency.
Brilliant. Sharp.
A little too fearless.
The kind of doctor who smiles while placing a central line
and doesn’t break eye contact.
Jack watches you. Leans against the counter while you stitch,
arms crossed, sleeves shoved up. Voice low when he says,
“Careful, sweetheart. You’re making the rest of us look bad.”
You don’t look up.
“Then keep up, hot shot.”
His mouth twitches. That’s how it starts. Weeks of orbiting each other.
You brush past him in narrow hallways like you’re testing electric fences. Your hip knocks into his. His hand find your lower back to steady you, lingering three seconds too long.
“Personal space,” you murmur.
“You started it,” he says, his eyes droping to your mouth before dragging back up.
Overnight shifts stretch long and hungry. You steal glances across the nurses’ station. He catches every single one. During a code, your gloves snap sharply as you step in. He moves with you like he already knows your rhythm.
“On three,” you say. He’s already counting.
After the code is wrapped up, still sweat-damp and buzzing with adrenaline, you both reach for the same chart.
Your fingers brush. You don’t pull away. His voice dips.
“You’re playing a dangerous game.”
You tilt your head.
“Are you scared?”
He leans in, just enough that his breath fans your cheek.
“No, sweetheart. I'm just not sure you would make it out in one piece.”
“I can handle you, Jack.” He doesn’t deny it.
You see him at the grocery store at 8 a.m. Post-shift, still in scrubs. Both of you staring at the same carton of eggs like it personally offended you.
“You stalking me now?” you ask.
He huffs a quiet laugh.
“Pittsburgh’s not that big.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“Oh, so you’ve been checking.”
He grabs the eggs first.
“You look like you haven’t slept in three days.”
“You look worse.”
He steps closer, voice low.
“If I asked you to get breakfast with me right now,
would you say yes?”
You take the carton from his hands. Fingers dragging slow across his knuckles.
“Depends. Is that a date?”
His jaw tightens. “Not yet.”
“Then no.”
You walk away first. You feel him watching.
A week later, you nearly collide at the gym. Of course it’s the same time. Of course it’s the same treadmill row. You’re stretching when his shadow falls over you.
“Sweetheart.”
“Dr. Abbot.”
He crouches to your level, forearms on his knees. Infuriatingly solid.
Controlled. Watching you like he’s deciding whether to step closer or finally back away.
“You going to keep pretending this isn’t happening?” he asks.
“What’s happening?”
“This.” He gestures vaguely between you.
“Whatever the hell this is.”
You smile slow.
“I thought you liked the chase.”
“I do.”
His gaze darkens. “But I’d like the catch more.”
Your pulse jumps.
“You seem very sure you could handle that.”
He stands, towering over you. Close enough that you feel heat through cotton.
“I’m not sure of anything when it comes to you.”
That’s the most honest thing he’s said yet.
Back in the ER, the tension becomes its own living organism. Nurses whisper. Residents place bets on the wall. You and Jack dominate incoming traumas like something sharpened on stone. He hands you instruments without looking. You anticipate his orders before he gives them.
At 4 a.m., the department goes quiet. Untouched coffee. Loaded silence.
“You’re going to combust,” he murmurs.
“You’re projecting, Abbot.”
“Am I?”
Your knee bumps his under the desk. You don’t move it. He exhales slowly.
“You’re trouble.”
“You like trouble.”
His gaze drags over you, almost indecent under the hospital lights.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”
It happens on a slow Thursday night. No traumas. No codes. Just humming machines and tired lights.
You’re alone in the supply room, reaching for the top shelf when a hand appears beside yours. Jack. Of course.
“You need a step stool, sweetheart?”
“I’m capable.”
You don’t step away. Neither does he. The space is small. Intimate.
Charged.
You turn. He’s right there. For once, no jokes.
“You keep circling me,” he says softly.
“You keep standing still.”
His hand settles at your waist. Not pulling, just there.
“Say the word,” he murmurs. “And I’ll stop.”
You swallow.
“Why would I do that?”
His thumb presses into your hip.
“That’s what I thought.”
Silence stretches. Heavy. Delicious.
Then he leans back just enough to prove he can.
“Saturday.”
“Saturday what?”
“I’m taking you out. Properly. Dinner. No scrubs. No trauma bays. No excuses.”
“And if I say no?”
His eyes flash. “You won’t.”
Confidence looks sinful on him. You consider his offer for a moment. Long. Loaded.
“Pick me up at seven,” you say finally. “And don’t call it not-a-date.”
He steps back, but the promise in his gaze doesn’t.
“Yes, ma’am.”
You grab the box and brush past him, letting your shoulder slide against his chest. Behind you, his voice drops. Satisfied.
“Careful, sweetheart.”
You glance back. “Or what?”
His smile is slow. Knowing.
“Or I might finally eat you alive.”
And for the first time in weeks, the chase has an end in sight.
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