summary: the ER knows you're married, pregnant, and hopelessly in love with your husband. so when brendon keeps hovering around you, everyone's convinced you're having an affair.
pairing: brendon park + attending!pregnant!reader
word count: 2.4k
warnings/tags: mentions of pregnancy, workplace misunderstanding
notes: based on this ask from anon, tysm for requesting!
reblogs, likes, and comments are so so appreciated! if you want to read more from me, kindly submit in my inbox !!! xoxo
The first rumor started because of a protein bar.
Not because of anything dramatic. Not because someone saw you sneaking around hospital corridors or caught you pressed against a wall with Brendon Park's hand around your waist.
No.
It started because at two in the afternoon, during a brutally understaffed Friday day shift in the ER, you looked up from charting and said with exhausted fondness:
"My husband is going to kill me if he finds out I skipped lunch again."
And Dana, who had worked enough years in emergency medicine to survive on caffeine and spite alone, snorted.
"Husbands," she said. "They worry too much."
You smiled to yourself while typing. "Mine's worse now that I'm pregnant. Yesterday he tried to meal prep for me."
"Oh?" Santos asked from the next computer. "How'd that go?"
"He labeled every container by protein count."
"Sounds intense," Santos muttered.
"He is intense," you agreed easily. "But he means well."
Nobody thought much about it then. Because everybody in the ER about your husband.
Well, sort of. They knew he existed. They knew he packed your lunches sometimes. That he texted reminders for vitamins. That he apparently folded laundry with terrifying precision. That he hated when you worked overtime but still stayed awake until you got home anyway.
They knew he rubbed your swollen feet after shifts. They knew he was "ridiculously overprotective." They knew he called you "doctor" sarcastically whenever you forgot to take care of yourself.
They knew you adored him, but they didn't know his name.
And somehow, over months of working together, nobody ever asked. Or maybe they had once and gotten distracted by a trauma alert halfway through.
That was the thing about the ER. Conversations happened infragments.
So your husbands became this faceless mythical man everyone pieced together from tiny details.
And because you were basically sunshine in human form (You were the warmest, most patient, endlessly kind person), everyone imagined your husband accordingly.
Probably some sweet elementary school teacher. Or a soft-spoken accountant. Or maybe a stay-at-home husband who baked sourdough and wore cardigans.
Definitely not Brendon Park. Absolutely not him.
The first time most of the ER really met Brendon was during a motorcycle trauma.
The ortho pager had gone off twenty minutes earlier and everyone was already stressed. The patient had multiple fractures, a discolated shoulder, and enough road rash to make the interns pale.
Then he walked in. Tall, broad-shouldered. No greeting, no wasted movement, just immediate assessment,
"X-rays," his voice cut through the chaos.
Someone handed them over. Brendon studied them for maybe three seconds.
"We'll prep OR two. I want vascular on standby."
Ogilvie beside him started talking. "So we were thinking—"
"No," Brendon interrupted without even looking at him. "You were guessing."
Silence. Ogilvie visibly shrank.
"Comminuted tib-fib fracture with displacement. If you'd waited another hour, he'd lose perfusion."
The room went still. Not because he was wrong, but because he was terrifying.
Then his eyes shifted toward you. And the entire atmosphere changed so subtly that nobody noticed it except maybe Santos.
Your shoulders relaxed just slightly. Brendon's expression remained unreadable, but his gaze lingered on you for half a second too long.
"You've been here since morning," he said flatly.
"Hello to you too."
"Did you eat?"
The room paused.
You looked midly defensive. "Yes."
"You're lying."
"I had crackers."
"That's not food."
Ogilvie who'd just been verbally executed stared between you both in confusion. The Shark did not do conversation, yet here he was arguing with you about crackers.
You rolled your eyes. "I'm busy."
"You're pregnant."
"And?"
"And you require actual nutrition."
Santos coughed to hide a laugh. Brendon ignored everybody. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and placed a protein bar beside your keyboard without saying anything else.
Then he turned and walked away. No goodbye or no explaination. He just left.
The ER collectively stared at the protein bar. Then at you. Then back at the protein bar.
Santos finally broke the silence. "...What the hell was that?"
You unwrapped the bar casually. "He gets grumpy when I forget to eat."
"You know Park the Shark?" Santos asked slowly.
You looked confused. "Brendon?"
The entire station froze at the first-name basis.
"What do you mean, Brendon?" Santos asked.
"That's his name."
"No one calls him Brendon."
"Oh," you took a bite of the protein bar. "I do."
After that, people started noticing things. Little things.
Like how Brendon only ever lingered in the ER when you were there. How he answered everyone else with clipped professionalism but always gave you full sentences.
How you somehow never seemed intimidated by him. Everyone else treated Brendon like a shark circling bloody water, you treated him like an annoyed housecat.
One afternoon, during a particularly miserable shift, you were sitting at the station rubbing your lower back.
"God," you muttered. "My husband bought six different pregnancy pillows."
Dana laughed. "Six?"
"He said the first five didn't have the right feeling."
"What does that even mean?"
"I don't even want to know."
Then Santos frowned. "Wait. Wasn't Park carrying a giant package into the parking lot yesterday?"
You didn't look up from your charting. "Probably."
"And didn't he get irritated at at someone who bumped into him because it caused him to drop it all?"
"Oh, that was ours."
Silence.
You blinked up. "What?"
Santos stared at you carefully. "You and Park live in the same building?"
"Oh." You smiled absentmindedly. "Yeah."
Another silence. Santos looked deeply concerned now.
"You're... close with him?"
You laughed. "I mean, I would hope so."
Nobody knew what to say to that. Because there was no way. No way.
You were married, pregnant even. Completely in love with your husband, whoever he was.
And Brendon Park looked at most human interaction like it personally offended him.
Yet somehow he kept appearing around you like a shadow, like it was gravity.
The rumors exploded after an incident at the cafeteria. You had been off your shift for exactly eleven minutes when Brendon walked into the cafeteria still in his scrubs.
And everyone noticed that. Because Brendon never went to the cafeteria (He barely seemed to consume food). He scanned the room once and found you immediately. THen walked over carrying a tray.
Without asking, he switched your coffee with a different one.
"You can't have that much caffeine."
You looked offended. "It was half-caf."
"It was basically battery acid."
"You tasted it?"
"You left it on the counter this morning."
Brendon sat across from you naturally, like this happened every day.
You pointed at his tray. "You got fries?"
"You wanted fries."
"I mentioned fries once."
"You cried about it."
"I was emotional that time."
"You threatened divorce."
The tables surrounding you stared. The conversation sounded disgustingly domestic.
Brendon pushed the fries toward you first before touching his own food. You stole half of them and he didn't complain.
Actually, he watched you eat with this faintly distracted expression that nobody had ever seen on his face before. Like he was making sure you were really eating.
Then your phone buzzed. You checked it and groaned.
"The husband says I forgot my appointment tomorrow."
Brendon immediately said, "Ten-thirty."
You looked at him. "I know."
"You forgot."
"I remembered eventually."
"You remembered because I reminded you."
The silence at the table became defeaning, like somehow everyone was staring at you. Brendon glanced around once, clearly unimpressed by the collective lack of intelligence.
Then his pager went off. And before leaving, he reached down and adjusted you chair closer to the table because you'd been sitting awkwardly with your belly.
The movement was instinctive, like he'd done this a million times. And it was weirdly intimate.
The second he disappeared, Langdon sat on the seat that Brendon just occupied.
"Oh my God."
You frowned. "What?"
He leaned forward carefully. "Are you having an affair with Brendon Park?"
You nearly choked on a fry. "What?"
"That man practically tucked you in!"
"He's just—"
"You literally just talked about threatening him with divorce!"
"My husband!"
"Exactly!"
You stared at him in disbelief before realization dawned.
"Oh my god."
"So, you are!"
"No I'm not, Frank."
"Then why does The Shark know your OB schedule?"
"Because he made it."
Silence. "...Made it?" Langdon repeated weakly."
"He color-coded the whole calendar."
He didn't speak. Then you laughed, actually laughed. Because suddenly the misunderstanding was hysterical. But before you could explain, a trauma alert blared overhead and the conversation died instantly.
Unfortunately for you, the rumor did not.
Within a week, the entire ER thought you were secretly involved with Brendon.
Not openly. Nobody confronted you directly again because you seemed so genuinely confused by the accusation.
But people whispered. The evidence kept piling up. Brendon carrying your bag without asking, appearing whenever you mentioned cravings, glaring at anyone who stressed you out, standing suspiciously close during procedures if you looked tired.
And worst of all? The way he looked at you when you weren't paying attention.
That's what really convinced people. Because Brendon looked at everyone else like they personally wronged him. He looekd at you like you were something precious.
Then one night, the ER was hell. Every bed was full, three ambulanced inbound, a drunk patient screaming in triage.
You were exhausted, hormonal, and dangerously close to crying. Then one of the newer interns snapped at you.
"Can we get another attending to handle this? Dr. L/N clearly isn't keeping up."
The station went silent. Your exhaustion sharpened into humiliation. And before you could answer, a voice cut through the room.
"No."
Everyone turned. Brendon stood near the doors, having apparently arrived seconds earlier. The intern straighted nervously.
"Repeat what you said."
The poor intern paled. "I didn't mean—"
"You questioned an attending physician with ten years of emergency medicine experience while you can barely place an IV."
The room became deathly still. Brendon's voice never rose which somehow made it scarier.
"You will either assist competently or get out of her department."
Her department. The possessiveness in those words hit everybody like a truck.
The intern muttered an apology. Brendon didn't even look at him again. Instead, he turned to you.
"You're shaking."
"I'm fine."
Brendon's hand briefly touched the underside of your belly as he adjusted your position from the station edge.
It was gentle. So different from the cold surgeon everyone knew.
And suddenly Santos understood. Not the affair, but something else. Something much bigger.
"Oh my god," she whispered.
Dennis looked at her. "What?"
But she was staring at Brendon. At the wedding band hidden beneath his gloves as he reached for the chart. At the identical band you wore on a chain around your neck because pregnancy swelling made your fingers ache.
At the way you entire body relaxed when he was near. At the way he knew every tiny thing about you.
Not like a lover, like a husband.
"Oh my god," Santos repeated louder.
You looked up. Brendon looked annoyed already, like he sensed where this was going.
Santos pointed between the two of you. "You're married."
You blinked. "Yeah?"
Brendon closed his eyes briefly like this was exhausting.
You looked genuinely baffled. "Who else would we be married to?"
Chaos. Absolute chaos.
"You let us think she was cheating on her husband?!" Santos yelled at Brendon.
Brendon looked unimpressed. "That sounds like a you problem."
"You never said—"
"Well, nobody asked."
"You literally acted like you hated each other!"
You burst out laughing. "What? No we don't."
Brendon looked down at you. And for the first time ever, in front of the entire ER, his expression softened completely.
Not subtly or barely there, but fully. Warm eyes. Affection. Something that was gentle.
Park the Shark was apparently somebody's husband. Somebody's incredibly devoted husband. And somehow that was more shocking than if he'd announced he killed people.
And somehow, from that day on, things became infinitely worse. Because now everyone noticed everything.
The quiet touches. The instinctive teamwork. The fact that Brendon always knew where you were in the hospital. The way he softened only for you.
The way you could make the scariest surgeon in the building carry your snacks and hold your coffee and rub circles into your back between traumas.
And worst of all?
Now the ER knew that every horrifyingly domestic story you told about your husband had been all about Brendon Park all along.
Which completely destroyed their ability to fear him properly anymore. Especially after they heard him answer your phone one day with:
"Baby, why are you calling me from upstairs?"
thank you for reaching until the end! i'd love to know what you thought about this story anddddd if you'd like to see more ;)
Warning: This fic contains one silver-haired ER doctor having a full-blown existential crisis in a mall after being called “oldie,” one wife ready to throw hands over anyone making her husband feel less lovable, and one tiny daughter who sees absolutely nothing except “my papa.” Expect emotional insecurity hidden behind tired smiles, soft domestic comfort, grocery shopping with zero budget limits, mirror scene vulnerability, forehead touches, sleepy midnight cuddles, and a five-year-old accidentally healing generational male insecurity with one sentence.
Michael’s off days always carried a different kind of atmosphere inside the house.
Softer. Slower.
Not because he suddenly stopped being a doctor the second he clocked out of the hospital because honestly, you didn’t think that part of him would ever fully turn off but because on days like this, he tried so hard to belong entirely to you and Aria.
And you noticed it in the little things first.
Like how he stayed in bed longer that morning instead of immediately reaching for his phone. How he lazily pulled you closer against his chest when you tried getting up too early. How he buried his face into your shoulder and muttered a sleepy, “Five more minutes,” in that rough morning voice that always weakened your knees a little.
Then there was Aria.
The second she climbed into bed between both of you, Michael’s entire attention shifted immediately.
“Papa,” she announced very seriously while sitting on his stomach. “Mama says your ponytail skill is ugly.”
You burst out laughing instantly from beside them.
Michael looked deeply offended.
“Excuse me?”
“You make me look like broccoli yesterday.”
“You did look like broccoli,” you added helpfully.
Michael narrowed his eyes at both of you.
“I’m being bullied in my own home.”
Aria giggled loudly when Michael grabbed her dramatically and buried his face into her tummy until her squeals echoed across the bedroom.
The morning continued like that afterward; warm, messy, domestic.
Michael making breakfast while wearing sweatpants low on his hips and glasses sliding slightly down his nose because he refused to put contacts in on his days off. Aria sitting on the kitchen counter kicking her legs while demanding pancake shapes that made absolutely no sense.
“I want bunny pancake!”
“You had bunny yesterday,” Michael pointed out while flipping another pancake.
“Okay… dinosaur bunny pancake.”
You snorted into your coffee.
Michael looked at her silently for a moment before sighing like the burden of fatherhood was simply too heavy.
“…I’ll see what I can do.”
And somehow, ridiculously, he actually tried.
The pancake looked horrifying.
Aria thought it was beautiful.
After breakfast, the three of you got ready to head out to the mall. Nothing extravagant. Just errands. Groceries. Things for the house. A few things Aria needed for preschool. Some skincare you’d casually mentioned running out of three weeks ago that Michael somehow remembered better than you did.
Unfortunately for you, Michael’s off days also triggered another problem.
His spending habits.
More specifically
His inability to say no to you and Aria.
“Michael,” you sighed while watching him casually toss another dress into the cart for Aria. “She does not need this.”
“She likes strawberries,” he replied simply, like that explained everything.
“It has strawberries on it,” Aria defended immediately from inside the cart.
“She already has clothes with strawberries.”
“But not this strawberry.”
Michael nodded once. “Exactly.”
You stared at both of them with betrayal.
“This family enables each other.”
Neither of them even looked guilty.
If anything, Michael looked amused.
And honestly? Watching him like this always did something dangerous to your heart.
The way he walked beside the cart while absentmindedly rubbing Aria’s hair every time he passed her. The way his large hand settled automatically on your lower back whenever crowds got thicker. The way he kept reaching for your hand for absolutely no reason other than he liked touching you.
Even while grocery shopping.
At one point, you stopped to compare prices between two products.
Michael glanced once.
Then immediately grabbed the more expensive one.
You frowned. “Michael.”
“What?”
“This one is cheaper.”
“You like the other one more.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It is to me.”
Then he leaned closer slightly, voice lower near your ear.
“I work hard so my girls don’t have to stare at price tags.”
Your face warmed instantly.
“Stop saying things like that.”
“Why?” he smirked faintly. “It works every time.”
Unfortunately, the mood shifted later.
Subtle enough that Aria didn’t notice.
But you did.
The three of you had just walked out of another store when someone suddenly called his name.
“Michael?”
Michael turned first, confusion briefly crossing his face before recognition replaced it.
“…Daniel?”
The man laughed immediately and walked forward, pulling Michael into a quick one-armed hug.
“Holy shit, man. Look at you.”
You stood quietly beside Michael while they caught up, and it was strangely nice watching this older version of him interact with someone from a completely different chapter of his life.
College stories.
Old professors.
Complaints about work schedules.
The exhaustion of getting older.
At one point Daniel looked toward you and Aria.
“And this is your family?”
Michael’s expression changed immediately.
Softened.
His hand rested instinctively on Aria’s head, fingers sliding through her hair carefully.
“My daughter,” he said first, his voice gentler without realizing it. “Aria.”
Daniel blinked. “You have a whole kid now?”
“A very spoiled one,” Michael corrected.
“I heard that!” Aria protested immediately.
Daniel laughed loudly at that.
Then his attention shifted to you.
“And your wife?”
For a second, Michael looked at you.
And there it was again.
That look.
That impossibly soft look that still made your stomach flip even after all this time.
“My wife,” he repeated simply.
Not your name.
Not an introduction.
Just my wife.
Like that title alone already carried too much pride.
Everything stayed warm after that.
Easy.
Until Daniel checked the time and sighed.
“Damn, I gotta go.”
“Yeah, us too.”
They exchanged another quick hug before pulling apart.
Then Daniel grinned teasingly.
“Bye, oldie.”
Michael rolled his eyes instantly. “Fuck off.”
“I’m kidding!” Daniel laughed loudly, already walking backward away from your family. “Take care, old man!”
Michael shook his head with a quiet snort.
But afterward…
Something changed.
Not obviously.
Not enough for anyone else to catch immediately.
But you knew him too well.
At first it was just the silence.
Michael became quieter while walking beside you.
Still present physically but mentally somewhere else.
Aria would show him things excitedly, and he’d react a second too late.
“…Papa, look! Bluey bag!”
Michael blinked like he’d been pulled back into the moment.
“Hm? Oh. Yeah, baby. Cute.”
But his smile didn’t fully reach his eyes.
Later, while you were waiting for coffee, you caught him staring at his reflection in the dark window of the café.
Not casually.
Not absentmindedly.
Really looking.
At his face.
At the gray in his beard.
At the lines around his eyes.
At the tiredness sitting heavier on him lately.
And suddenly Daniel’s joking “oldie” comment replayed itself loudly in your own head too.
Oh.
The realization settled heavily in your chest after that.
Throughout dinner, Michael stayed attentive enough not to worry Aria, but you noticed every little thing now.
The way he touched his beard more often.
The way his eyes lingered on younger couples walking by.
The way he smiled automatically at your jokes but seemed distracted immediately afterward.
And Michael had always been like this sometimes.
Quietly insecure.
Especially about his age.
Especially with you.
By the time you got home and finished putting Aria to bed, the feeling in your chest had turned into full worry.
You changed into your pajamas quietly afterward before heading into the bathroom to brush your teeth.
That’s when you saw him.
Michael stood shirtless in front of the sink wearing only his briefs, one hand gripping the edge of the counter while the other slowly moved over his beard.
The bathroom light was unforgivingly bright.
It highlighted every silver strand threaded through the darker beard he used to complain about trimming. The faint wrinkles near his eyes. The exhaustion etched into his features after years of stress, sleepless nights, responsibility.
His stomach wasn’t as firm as it used to be years ago either.
And the saddest part?
The way he looked at himself.
Not with vanity.
Not even frustration.
Just… quiet disappointment.
Like he was mourning a version of himself he thought he was supposed to stay.
You didn’t speak immediately.
Instead, you walked slowly toward him until you stood right behind him.
Then gently, carefully, you wrapped both arms around his waist and rested your cheek against the warmth of his back.
Michael startled slightly before relaxing once he realized it was you.
For several long seconds, neither of you spoke.
You simply stood there together in front of the mirror.
Looking at him.
Looking at the man you loved.
The man who still made Aria laugh until she snorted milk through her nose.
The man who still reached for your hand in his sleep.
The man who stayed awake through fevers, nightmares, sickness, breakdowns, exhaustion without ever making you feel alone.
“You’re thinking too much again,” you murmured softly.
Michael let out a quiet breath through his nose.
“…Am I wrong?”
Your brows furrowed immediately.
“About what?”
He looked at himself again.
“I’m getting older.”
The way he said it hurt your heart.
Not because it was true.
But because he sounded afraid of it.
You tightened your arms around him slightly.
“So am I.”
“It’s different.”
“No,” you whispered gently. “It isn’t.”
Michael laughed softly then, but there was no humor in it.
“You don’t see what I see.”
“Then tell me.”
His jaw shifted slightly.
“The gray hair. The wrinkles. The stomach.” His voice lowered more. “I don’t look like I used to.”
You stayed quiet for a moment before speaking carefully.
“Michael… do you know what I see when I look at you?”
His eyes flickered toward yours in the mirror but he didn’t answer.
“I see the man who held me after labor when I cried because I thought I wasn’t doing enough for Aria.” Your voice stayed soft and steady. “I see the father who slept sitting upright in a hospital chair because our daughter wouldn’t stop crying unless she was on his chest.”
His throat moved slightly.
“I see the husband who still buys my favorite snacks even when I forget mentioning them.” You pressed another kiss lightly against his shoulder blade. “The man who works himself to exhaustion just to make sure the people he loves are safe.”
Michael lowered his eyes quietly.
“And every gray hair?” you whispered. “Every wrinkle? It just means you stayed. It means you lived. It means Aria got more years with her papa.”
Silence filled the bathroom afterward.
Heavy.
Emotional.
Michael’s breathing slowed slightly beneath your arms.
Then finally, quietly
“You really still look at me the same?”
Your chest ached instantly.
You moved around him then, standing directly in front of him before reaching up and holding his face gently between your hands.
“Michael,” you said softly, firmly. “I have never once looked at you and wished you were younger.”
His eyes closed briefly.
“I look at you and thank God you exist.”
Something fragile flickered across his face then.
Vulnerability.
Relief.
Love.
He leaned forward slowly until his forehead rested against yours, his hands finally settling around your waist tightly.
And when he hugged you afterward, it felt desperate in the smallest quiet way.
Like he needed to be reminded he was still loved exactly as he was.
Later that night, the bedroom stayed dark and peaceful.
You slept curled against Michael’s chest, one leg tangled with his while his arm stayed wrapped securely around your waist beneath the blanket.
Even half asleep, he still held you close instinctively.
Then sometime in the middle of the night
The bedroom door creaked open softly.
Tiny footsteps shuffled across the floor.
Michael stirred first, eyes barely opening before immediately softening.
Aria.
Still sleepy.
Still holding her bunny plushie by one ear.
Her hair was a complete mess, cheeks warm from sleep, eyes barely even open properly as she climbed onto the bed clumsily.
Without a word, she crawled directly toward Michael.
Half onto him, honestly.
One tiny leg over his stomach while she snuggled against his side like she belonged nowhere else.
Which she didn’t.
Michael let out the quietest sleepy laugh.
“Hey, baby…”
Aria rubbed her face against his chest tiredly before whispering in the softest little voice imaginable,
“I love you, Papa.”
Michael’s entire expression softened instantly.
Then Aria added sleepily,
“You’re my papa.”
Not complicated.
Not poetic.
Just certain.
Absolute.
Like in her little world, there was nobody better to belong to.
Michael swallowed hard before wrapping his arm tighter around her automatically, pulling her close while keeping you tucked safely against his other side too.
Three people tangled together under warm blankets.
And in the darkness, with his daughter asleep against him and you breathing softly on his chest
Michael stopped seeing gray hair.
Stopped seeing wrinkles.
Stopped seeing age.
Because all he could feel was love.
Please do not copy my work. If you enjoy it, I’d really appreciate your support by liking and reblogging instead of reposting or copying. Thank you for respecting my writing and giving proper credit. 🤍 xoxo, offthepitt.
Warning: This fic contains one exhausted ER doctor aggressively trying to protect his peace, one mama losing control of her kitchen to two oversized toddlers, and one five-year-old casually announcing she has a boyfriend during dinner like it’s breaking news. Expect domestic chaos, flour-covered beards, emotional support cheese cubes, shameless family flirting, “NO YOU DON'T” severe dad jealousy over a preschool boy named Lucas, and a tiny girl fully aware she can manipulate her father with one “you’re my favorite boy.”
Michael learned a long time ago that if he wasn’t careful, the hospital would follow him home.
Not physically.
But emotionally.
It happened to a lot of people in his field. The exhaustion, the pressure, the constant exposure to grief and panic and trauma and it clung to the skin if you let it. It made voices sharper. Patience thinner. It made people carry their worst days into places that were supposed to feel safe.
Michael refused to let that happen.
Especially after Aria was born.
Because she was still little. Still soft-hearted and observant in ways adults underestimated. And Michael knew children noticed everything; the tension in voices, the heaviness in sighs, the way someone’s eyes looked tired even while smiling.
He also knew what it felt like growing up around emotions adults didn’t know how to manage properly.
So over time, he created rituals for himself.
Small things.
He sat in the car for a minute before coming inside.
Took a breath.
Removed the invisible weight of the hospital piece by piece before reaching for the front door.
Doctor stayed outside.
Papa came home.
And that evening, when the front door finally opened just before dinner, the first thing Michael heard was tiny running footsteps slamming across the floor.
“PAPAAAAAA!”
He barely had time to close the door before Aria crashed into him at full speed.
“Oof—Jesus Christ,” he laughed warmly, catching her automatically before she knocked herself backward.
Aria wrapped around him instantly, arms tight around his neck while her legs locked around his waist dramatically.
“You home!”
“I am home,” Michael smiled, pressing a loud kiss against her cheek.
“You late.”
“I know.”
“You smell like hospital.”
“That’s offensive.”
Aria giggled loudly while Michael carried her further inside like she weighed absolutely nothing.
From the kitchen, you looked over your shoulder just in time to see your daughter aggressively kissing Michael’s face while he pretended to suffer through it dramatically.
“Oh no,” he sighed heavily. “I’m under attack.”
“By LOVE!” Aria shouted proudly.
“That’s the deadliest kind.”
You snorted softly, trying to hide your smile as you stirred the pot on the stove.
And then Michael looked at you.
Really looked at you.
It happened every single day without fail.
The moment his eyes landed on you, something in his entire expression softened instantly.
The tension around his shoulders eased. His eyes warmed. His mouth curved into that quieter smile he only really used at home.
“There’s my wife,” he murmured.
You rolled your eyes lightly.
“You says that every day.”
“Because every day I’m surprised you still like me.”
“I love you.”
“Exactly,” he said seriously. “Even crazier. I love you too, My wife”
Aria made the loudest fake gagging noise imaginable between you both. And Michael leaned closer to give you a sweet and gentle kiss on your lips.
“EW.”
Michael immediately gasped.
“Excuse you? That’s my wife.”
Aria hugged him tighter possessively.
“That’s MY mama.”
Michael narrowed his eyes at her.
“Our mama.”
You laughed softly while turning off the stove.
The warmth of moments like this never got old.
Never.
Even after years together.
Especially not after long hospital shifts.
Because no matter how difficult his day had been, Michael always came home like this as if the two of you were still the best thing he’d ever found.
“Go wash your hands,” you told him.
Michael nodded obediently before looking at Aria.
“You heard your mother.”
“You heard your wife,” Aria corrected immediately.
Michael looked deeply offended.
“Wow. Betrayal.”
A few minutes later, your kitchen became a complete disaster.
Not because dinner was complicated.
But because Michael and Aria together in one space somehow always created chaos naturally.
At first, it started innocently enough.
Michael stood beside you helping chop vegetables while Aria sat on the counter swinging her legs and “supervising.”
Which really just meant stealing ingredients every thirty seconds.
“Aria,” you sighed without turning around. “Stop eating the cheese.”
“I testing.”
“You tested six times already.”
She gasped dramatically.
“Need more testing.”
Michael, still cutting vegetables, nodded thoughtfully.
“She’s committed to quality control.”
You slowly turned toward him.
“Michael.”
“What?”
“You are encouraging her.”
“I’m encouraging scientific curiosity.”
You narrowed your eyes suspiciously.
That man had the audacity to look innocent while secretly sliding another cheese cube toward Aria when he thought you weren’t looking.
Unfortunately for him—
You saw everything.
“OH MY GOD.”
Both of them burst into laughter immediately.
“Papa gave me!” Aria squealed happily.
Michael pointed at her instantly.
“She’s a liar.”
“You literally just did!”
“No proof.”
You stared at the two of them in disbelief.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m raising two children.”
Michael grinned shamelessly.
“Yet you love us both.”
That unfortunately was true.
The situation somehow escalated from there.
Michael accidentally spilled flour across the counter while trying to help knead dough.
Aria laughed so hard she nearly slipped off the stool.
Then she tried stirring sauce herself.
Too aggressively.
A splash landed directly across Michael’s black shirt.
Silence.
Aria froze.
Michael slowly looked down at the stain.
Then back at her.
Aria’s eyes widened.
And before you could warn either of them,
Michael flicked flour directly onto her nose.
Aria SCREAMED with laughter.
“PAPAAAA!”
“You started this war.”
“I’m baby!”
“You’re dangerous.”
The next five minutes became complete nonsense.
Flour everywhere.
Aria hiding behind Michael while throwing tiny pinches of cheese at you.
Michael pretending he was “neutral” while actively making things worse.
At one point, you turned around and saw flour somehow stuck in Michael’s beard.
“How did you even get it THERE?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
Aria laughed so hard she wheezed.
Then Michael reached down and wiped flour lightly onto her cheek too.
“Oh my GOD,” you groaned, finally laughing despite yourself. “Can Mama cook in peace for ONE night?”
Both of them froze immediately.
Then slowly looked at you with matching guilty expressions.
And it was terrifying.
Same eyes.
Same tiny pout.
Same “maybe she won’t stay mad if we act cute” face.
Michael even had flour in his eyebrows now.
“You’re beautiful when you’re angry,” he offered carefully.
You pointed toward the dining table immediately.
“Out.”
Aria copied your tone perfectly.
“Yeah Papa. Out.”
Michael looked genuinely betrayed.
“This family turns against me too fast.”
Still...
Your chest felt warm watching them.
Because this was exactly what Michael protected so carefully.
This softness.
This normalcy.
This safe little life.
Dinner eventually made it to the table despite the kitchen looking like a crime scene afterward.
The three of you sat together while warm food filled the room with comfort and the soft hum of music played quietly in the background.
Michael changed into a clean shirt while Aria proudly announced she “survived the cooking battle.”
Now she sat between both of you happily kicking her legs beneath the chair while talking nonstop about preschool.
“And then Noah cry because Mila say his dinosaur ugly.”
Michael nodded seriously while eating.
“Understandable.”
“No it’s not,” you laughed.
“It might’ve been an ugly dinosaur.”
“PAPA,” Aria gasped dramatically.
“What? Dinosaurs deserve respect too.”
Aria dissolved into giggles immediately.
This was Michael at home.
Playful.
Patient.
Warm.
So different from the version of him people saw at work sometimes.
At home, he listened carefully when Aria spoke even when her stories made absolutely no sense. He asked questions. Remembered details. Acted shocked at preschool gossip like it was breaking world news.
“And Oliver scream because he saw bug.”
Michael nodded again.
“Reasonable reaction.”
“Papa scared bugs too?”
“Yes.”
“He scream too?”
Michael glanced at you calmly.
“Your mother protects me.”
You nearly choked laughing.
Dinner stayed easy after that.
Comfortable.
Until you noticed the shift in Aria.
It was small.
She suddenly got quieter.
Not sad quiet.
More like…
Nervous.
She poked at her rice for a moment, glancing at you briefly before looking away quickly.
And immediately. You knew.
Oh no.
That look meant danger.
You hid your smile instantly behind your glass because you already knew she was about to say something insane.
Meanwhile Michael sat peacefully unaware, eating like a man moments away from destruction.
Aria cleared her throat softly.
“Papa.”
Michael looked up immediately, gentle as always with her.
“Yeah, baby?”
Aria blinked once.
Then calmly, like she was announcing the weather “I have boyfriend.”
Everything stopped.
Michael froze mid-motion.
His fork literally stayed suspended halfway to his mouth.
“…You what?”
You bit your lip so hard it hurt.
Aria blinked innocently.
“I have boyfriend.”
Michael’s eyes widened in absolute horror.
“NO YOU DON’T.”
You immediately looked down because the laugh threatening to escape would absolutely make things worse.
Aria frowned in confusion.
“I do.”
“No,” Michael repeated firmly, already panicking. “Absolutely not.”
“He likes me.”
“He can stop.”
That was it.
You lost control immediately, laughter bursting out while Michael looked personally betrayed by the situation.
“This isn’t funny!” he said, staring at you.
“It’s a preschool boyfriend!”
“That’s how it starts!”
Aria looked offended now.
“Papaaaa.”
Michael leaned forward seriously.
“How old is he?”
“He's FIVE,” you cried through laughter.
“I need information.”
Aria answered proudly anyway.
“His name Lucas.”
Michael looked physically wounded.
“Oh my God. He has a NAME?”
“Yes?”
“What does he want from you?”
“To color.”
Michael narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
“That’s exactly how men operate.”
You genuinely almost fell out of your chair laughing and Aria crossed her tiny arms dramatically. “You jealous.”
Michael pointed at himself immediately.
“Yes.”
“You old.”
Michael gasped loudly like she shot him.
“WOW. Okay.”
“You old and jealous.”
“And you’re grounded until you’re thirty.”
“She’s FIVE.”
Michael ignored you completely.
“No dating.”
“It not dating.”
“Good. Keep it that way.”
Aria stared at him for a second before suddenly climbing down from her chair. She walked around the table quietly before climbing directly onto Michael’s lap.
Michael immediately steadied her automatically, still grumbling under his breath about “boyfriends.”
Then Aria grabbed his face with both tiny hands.
Completely serious.
“You my favorite boy.”
And just like that... Michael melted. Entirely.
All the dramatics disappeared from his face instantly.
“…Yeah?” he asked softer now.
Aria nodded confidently. “Always.”
Michael’s arms wrapped around her tightly as he kissed her temple.
“Okay,” he sighed dramatically. “Lucas can live. For now.”
Aria cheered loudly like she’d won a legal battle while you laughed so hard tears formed in your eyes.
And sitting there at the dinner table with flour still somehow stuck near Michael’s wrist, your daughter safe in his lap, and warmth filling every corner of the room.
Michael silently reminded himself again why he worked so hard to leave the hospital outside the door.
Because this was the part of his life he never wanted darkness touching.
Please do not copy my work. If you enjoy it, I’d really appreciate your support by liking and reblogging instead of reposting or copying. Thank you for respecting my writing and giving proper credit. 🤍 xoxo, offthepitt.
Warning: Pure fluff. Dad!Michael being soft. Kid behavior, family moments, and domestic!
You should have realized it the moment she turned three, but it wasn’t until she reached five years old that it became undeniable: Aria Robinavitch was her father’s exact copy.
Sure, she had your smile sometimes, your laugh on good days, your stubbornness in small bursts. But everything else; every habit, every expression, every tiny dramatic flourish, was unmistakably Michael. The resemblance wasn’t just physical anymore. It was behavioral. Almost eerie. Almost funny. Mostly adorable.
And very, very chaotic for you.
One quiet morning, you were folding laundry in the living room when you heard her voice float down the hallway.
“Mama~”
Long. Sweet. With that tiny upward lilt at the end.
You froze because you heard that tone every day, and it never came from a child. It came from one specific man who used it whenever he wanted you to come closer without saying so directly.
You didn’t even look up from the shirts. “What do you two want?”
Aria peeked her head around the corner, big brown eyes blinking innocently. “Daddy said to ask you… if we can have pancakes.”
Behind her, crouched like a very large, very poorly hidden mountain, was Michael himself. He pressed a finger to his lips as if that would make him invisible.
You stared at him.
He stared back.
Aria tilted her little body and stretched the word again, “Please, Mama~?”
You pointed a sock at Michael. “I only allow one person in this house to manipulate me like that.”
“She copied me,” Michael said, instantly defensive.
“You taught her!”
“I didn’t teach her! She just… observes.”
Aria folded her arms across her chest and raised an eyebrow, his eyebrow. The “I see your nonsense and raise you one Robinavitch glare” eyebrow.
You sighed loudly. “Fine. Pancakes.”
Both of them cheered in perfect sync.
You groaned. “God, there are two of you.”
Later that afternoon, you brought them snacks. Apple slices with peanut butter, simple. Yummy. You thought.
Aria dipped her apple, got a streak of peanut butter on her finger, and without even thinking, she brought her hand to her mouth and licked it.
Slow, casual, exactly like the way Michael licked jam off his thumb whenever he made toast.
Your head whipped toward him.
Michael froze mid-chew.
“I don’t do that,” he said instantly.
“You absolutely do.”
“No, I-”
“Daddy does,” Aria said matter-of-factly.
You cackled. Michael scowled. Aria licked her finger again just to prove her point.
But the signature Michael trait the one he passed down with perfect accuracy was the stare.
Aria had mastered the Robinavitch Stare by the time she was four. By five, it was unstoppable. Pure, silent judgment in a tiny body. She used it on you when you told her it was bedtime. She used it on toys that wouldn’t work. She used it on strangers who dared talk to her. She even used it on Michael when he said he didn’t have any candy left.
One evening you told her she could not watch another episode.
Aria sat up straight, tucked her chin down slightly, narrowed her eyes, and gave you the coldest, most unimpressed Robinavitch death glare known to mankind.
You pointed at her instantly. “Absolutely not. Only your father is allowed to look at me like that.”
From the kitchen, Michael called, “I don’t look at you like that!”
“Yes, you DO!” you and Aria yelled back at the same time.
Then father and daughter met eyes and shared the same crooked, mischievous little smirk.
You were doomed. Completely doomed.
One evening, you found them outside on the porch. Michael was kneeling beside his motorcycle, tightening something. Aria sat next to him with her little plastic tool set, watching his every move like it was a religious ritual.
When he wiped sweat off his forehead, she wiped hers too.
When he hummed under his breath, she hummed.
When he leaned in to focus, she leaned even closer.
You leaned against the doorframe and watched the two of them; same posture, same expression, same quiet concentration.
“You’re doing good,” Michael murmured to her.
Aria lit up. “I’m just like you, Daddy.”
Michael froze for a moment. The kind of freeze where emotions hit him harder than he expects. He looked at her with that soft, warm affection he rarely let anyone see.
“You really are,” he said quietly. “You’re exactly like me.”
You walked over, brushing a kiss against his cheek. Aria scooted closer and puckered her lips dramatically.
“Me too!” she announced.
Michael laughed, actually laughed, and kissed her forehead.
She grinned. “See, Mama? We match.”
You looked between them; same smirk, same eyes, same heartbeat in two different sizes.
“You always have,” you whispered.
And honestly? You wouldn’t trade your little copy-paste duo for anything in the world.
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.
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.”
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.
Quick note before we start: Reader is a child life specialist, so she works with kids and families in the hospital to make scary medical things feel a little less scary. Also, present-day Reader will be pregnant in this fic. It’s very much soft/established-marriage pregnancy content, but if pregnancy fics aren’t your thing, totally okay to skip this one. Protect your peace, besties.
Summary: Years before PTMC, before night shift, before anyone would mistake your marriage for a new crush, Jack Abbot met you in a military hospital hallway outside room 417. He was tired of being treated like something breakable. You were the first person all day who didn’t.
Warnings: references to limb loss/prosthetics appointment, military hospital setting, injury recovery, emotional vulnerability, Jack being deeply allergic to pity, child scared to see an injured parent, soft meet-cute energy
Author’s Note: Welcome to You Never Asked, aka the secretly-married Jack Abbot fic my brain latched onto and refused to let go of. This prologue starts before PTMC, before the workplace chaos, before everyone else is hilariously late to the truth. It’s the beginning of Jack and Reader: a military hospital hallway, a stuffed rabbit, a child life specialist who sees too much, and Jack trying very hard to pretend he is not immediately interested. This one is softer and quieter, but the present-day chapters will bring the secret marriage, shift-change overlap, Robby knowing everything because of course he does, and Jack being absolutely normal about his pregnant wife. Which is to say: not normal at all.
Xoxo, Del
Prologue: Before The Pitt
Jack Abbot hated these appointments.
He hated the waiting room. He hated the clipboard. He hated the fluorescent lights and the cheerful laminated signs reminding him to ask questions, as if he had ever needed encouragement to interrogate a medical professional doing something inefficient near his body.
Mostly, he hated the way appointments made him feel like a thing being adjusted.
A socket.
A gait.
A residual limb.
A pain scale.
Useful words. Clinical words. Words he understood perfectly and still resented.
By the time he left prosthetics, his jaw ached from clenching it.
The new fit was better. That was the irritating part. The adjustment had helped. His stride felt cleaner, less pull through his hip, less pressure where the skin had been threatening to break down.
He should have been pleased.
Instead, he stood in the hallway of the military hospital with his discharge papers folded in one hand and the particular fury of a man who had gotten what he needed and still hated needing it.
He was supposed to go home.
Instead, he went up two floors to visit Miller.
Then Torres.
Then maybe Kline, if Kline wasn’t asleep or pretending to be asleep to avoid talking to people.
Jack told himself it was because they were his people. Because visiting was practical. Because nobody in recovery needed another civilian standing at their bedside making sad eyes and saying thank you for your service, like grief was customer service.
It was not because the hospital was easier when he had a reason to stay inside it.
It was not because outside the building, everyone looked too long or too quickly away.
Inside, at least, people had the decency to be clinical about it.
Usually.
Outside, there were softer voices. Averted eyes. Too much gratitude. Too much careful space. Men who had once shoulder-checked him in doorways now moved around him like he was made of something breakable. Women at grocery stores looked at him like he had carried tragedy home in his hands and might drop it if startled.
Jack did not want to be pitied.
He did not want to be inspirational.
He did not want someone else’s discomfort dressed up as kindness and handed to him like a casserole.
He wanted his body to be his body without the whole world acting like it had become a public service announcement.
He turned the corner toward the rehab wing and stopped.
A little girl was sitting on the floor outside room 417.
She couldn’t have been older than seven. Maybe eight. Her hair was in two uneven braids, one already half coming loose, and she had a stuffed rabbit clutched so tightly against her chest that one of its ears had folded over its face.
You sat cross-legged beside her.
That was the first thing Jack noticed.
Not the badge. Not the child life kit open on the floor near your knee. Not the laminated cards spread between you with pictures of IV poles, monitors, oxygen tubing, and bandages.
You.
Soft scrubs. Cardigan sleeves pushed to your elbows. Hair slipping loose near your cheek. Warm eyes focused completely on the little girl beside you, like the hallway could fill with officers, alarms, doctors, ghosts, and you would still make sure that child had somewhere safe to look.
Jack noticed that you were beautiful.
It hit him plainly, almost inconveniently.
Then you started talking, and the beauty became the least interesting thing about you.
“Your dad might look a little different than he did the last time you saw him,” you said gently.
The little girl’s fingers tightened around the rabbit.
You noticed, but you didn’t rush to fix it.
“He has some bandages,” you continued. “And some machines near his bed. The machines are there to help the nurses and doctors take care of him. They can look scary if you don’t know what they’re for.”
The little girl looked down at one of the laminated cards. “Will he be asleep?”
“He might be,” you said.
You touched the edge of the card with one finger and turned it slightly so the little girl could see it better.
“Or he might be awake and tired,” you added. “Sometimes bodies need a lot of rest after they get hurt.”
The girl’s mouth trembled. “What if he doesn’t look like my dad?”
Something moved behind Jack’s ribs.
He should have kept walking.
He didn’t.
You leaned a little closer, your voice low enough that the whole hallway seemed to quiet around it.
“Then you can take your time,” you told her. “You don’t have to decide how you feel right away. You can look. You can ask questions. You can step back out with me if you need to.”
The little girl sniffed.
You touched the rabbit’s folded ear and smoothed it down.
“He’s still your dad,” you said. “Even if some things look different today.”
Jack looked away.
Too late.
You had already seen him.
Your eyes lifted to his, and for one strange second, Jack had the unnerving sense that you had caught more than a man standing in a hallway.
You had caught the flinch.
You did not soften your face with pity.
You did not glance down at his leg.
You did not give him the careful, wounded-veteran smile people used when they wanted him to know his existence moved them.
You just looked at him.
Then your mouth curved slightly.
“You need something?” you asked.
Jack blinked once. “No.”
You stayed seated on the floor beside the little girl. “Okay.”
Jack waited.
You tilted your head. “Then you’re hovering.”
His eyebrows lifted.
The little girl looked at him, then back at you.
“I don’t hover,” Jack said.
You nodded toward him, solemn as a judge. “What do you think?”
The little girl studied him with the ruthless honesty of children and commanding officers.
“He’s hovering,” she decided.
Your smile widened.
Jack should have hated that.
He didn’t.
“I was walking by,” he said.
You raised your brows. “You stopped.”
“People stop,” Jack said, mirroring your expression.
“Near doorways,” you replied. “Usually for a reason.”
The little girl’s rabbit drooped in her lap as she watched the exchange, her fear interrupted by curiosity.
Jack looked at you for another beat.
Most people in the hospital now handled him carefully. Not obviously. That would have been easier to despise. They did it in little ways. Softer voices. Averted eyes. Too much gratitude. Too much space.
You did none of that.
You looked at him like he was just a man who had been caught doing something mildly annoying in a hallway.
It was the first normal thing that had happened to him all day.
Maybe all month.
“I’m visiting someone,” he said.
“Ah.” You nodded. “Then you’re hovering with purpose.”
The little girl giggled.
Jack’s gaze flicked to her.
You noticed that too.
“See?” you said softly to the girl. “People can be nervous and still go into rooms.”
The child looked toward the closed door.
Jack understood then that you had not been teasing him only for sport.
You had used him.
Efficiently.
He should have minded that too.
He didn’t.
The door opened a few inches, and a nurse stepped out. Her eyes went to you first.
“He’s ready when you are,” the nurse said.
You nodded, then turned back to the little girl.
“Do you want to bring Rabbit in first,” you asked, “or should I carry him?”
The girl hesitated.
Jack stood very still.
Then she held the rabbit out to you. “You.”
“I can do that,” you said.
You took the rabbit carefully, as if it were a sacred thing and not a toy with one plastic eye scratched nearly white. Then you gathered your cards with one hand and stood.
Jack was tall enough, broad enough, and used to people adjusting around him.
You didn’t.
You rose into the space like you belonged in it, child life badge swinging from your lanyard, one hand full of laminated hospital equipment pictures, the other holding Rabbit by his soft, battered middle.
As you passed Jack, you paused.
“Try not to scare anyone else while you’re hovering with purpose,” you said.
His mouth twitched before he could stop it. “I’ll do my best.”
You gave him one last look, quick and assessing and entirely unintimidated.
“Do better than that,” you said.
Then you turned back to the little girl.
Your voice changed immediately. Not fake. Not sugary. Just warmer.
“Ready?” you asked.
The girl reached for your hand.
Jack watched her take it. He watched the way your fingers closed around hers. Not tight. Not leading. Just there.
An offered thing.
Steady enough to trust. Gentle enough not to trap.
Jack had seen plenty of people mistake softness for weakness.
This was not weak.
He could see it in the pause before you answered hard questions. In the careful breath you took before choosing the next right words. In the way you let the little girl be afraid without trying to rush her out of it.
You were not calm because none of it touched you.
You were calm because it did.
You walked the little girl into room 417.
Jack watched the door close behind you.
For a moment, the hallway seemed louder than it had before.
Monitors. Footsteps. A cart rattling somewhere near the elevators. Someone laughing too hard at the nurses’ station because hospitals made people laugh strangely when the alternative was worse.
Jack looked down at the papers in his hand.
Then he kept walking.
Miller was awake when Jack got there, which was unfortunate for both of them.
He was sitting propped against three pillows, one arm braced in a sling, bruising yellowed along the side of his face. His grin appeared the second Jack stepped through the door.
“You’re late,” Miller said.
Jack pulled the visitor chair closer with his foot. “You’re ugly.”
Miller smiled. “Doctors say it’s temporary.”
“They’re lying,” Jack replied.
Miller laughed, then winced. “Still charming. Good to know the leg didn’t take that from you.”
Jack sat.
Miller watched him for half a second too long.
Jack hated that too.
“How’d the appointment go?” Miller asked.
“Fine,” Jack said.
Miller squinted at him. “Fine as in fine, or fine as in you’re being an asshole about it?”
Jack looked at him.
Miller grinned. “Second one.”
Jack leaned back in the chair and stretched his bad leg out carefully enough that Miller’s eyes tracked the movement despite his best effort not to.
“Fit’s better,” Jack said.
Miller nodded once. “Good.”
That was why Jack liked him.
No speech. No pity. No swelling orchestral score.
Just good.
A comfortable silence settled for almost thirty seconds.
Then Jack ruined it.
“Who was the woman in the scrubs and cardigan?” Jack asked.
Miller’s grin returned slowly.
Jack immediately regretted every decision that had led him into this room.
“You’re going to have to narrow that down,” Miller said.
Jack gave him a flat look. “Outside 417. With the kid.”
“Oh,” Miller said, brightening. “The pretty one who can smell bullshit a mile away?”
Jack looked toward the door.
Miller’s grin widened. “Yeah. She got you.”
“She was preparing a kid to see her father.”
“And catching you hovering.”
“Hovering with purpose,” Jack corrected.
Miller laughed, then winced. “God, she really did get you.”
Jack looked toward the door.
Miller made a sound of deep, delighted pain. “You got called out by Child Life.”
Jack sighed. “She was working with a kid outside 417.”
“Yeah,” Miller said, softer now. “That’s Harris’s daughter.”
Jack looked back at him.
Miller’s expression shifted, humor thinning around the edges. “She’s been scared to go in. Mom’s trying, but it’s a lot.”
Jack thought of the rabbit in your hand.
“She any good?” he asked.
Miller huffed. “You saw her, didn’t you?”
That was answer enough.
Jack looked toward the hallway again.
Miller was quiet for a beat.
Then, because he was Miller, he added, “Her name’s on her badge, you know.”
“It was flipped,” Jack said.
Miller pressed his lips together. “Tragic.”
Jack gave him a flat look.
Miller smiled like a man who had found a reason to live another day.
“You want me to tell you?” Miller asked.
“No,” Jack replied immediately.
Miller stared at him for half a second. Then his grin went dangerous.
“Oh,” Miller said.
Jack narrowed his eyes. “No.”
Miller raised his hands, “I didn’t say anything.”
“You said oh.”
Miller settled deeper into his pillows. “Because there was an oh.”
Jack stood.
Miller laughed and winced again. “Careful, Abbot. She’s nice.”
Jack paused at the foot of the bed.
Miller’s smile gentled into something more knowing.
“And she’s not scared of you,” Miller said.
Jack’s fingers tightened once around the folded discharge papers.
No.
He could still hear your voice. Not gentle because you were afraid of what might break. Gentle because you knew things broke and still deserved to be touched carefully.
“No,” Jack said. “She isn’t.”
Miller watched him for another second.
Then he told Jack your name.
Jack did not ask him to repeat it.
He heard it clearly the first time.
He found you again forty minutes later near the elevators.
Jack told himself that was not why he had taken the long way out.
It was a hospital. There were only so many exits.
Technically.
You stood beside the coffee cart with your bag hooked over one shoulder, flipping through a stack of laminated cards while the line moved at the pace of federal infrastructure.
The stuffed rabbit was gone.
Returned to its owner, probably.
Jack found himself glad about that before he could decide it was a ridiculous thing to be glad about.
You looked up before he could walk past.
Your mouth curved. “Hovering again?”
Jack stopped beside you like he had meant to be there. “Leaving.”
“Near the coffee cart?” you asked.
Jack shrugged a shoulder, “Scenic route.”
Your eyes narrowed with amusement. “Through caffeine?”
Jack glanced at the menu board, then back at you. “You drink coffee?”
“Religiously,” you said.
That should not have pleased him.
It did.
Jack slid one hand into his pocket because apparently his body had decided to act casual even if the inside of his chest had become a tactical failure.
“Good,” he said.
You waited.
Jack waited too, because he was stubborn and because some doomed part of him wanted to see what you would do with silence.
You tilted your head. “Was that the whole question?”
His mouth twitched. “No.”
“Okay.” You shifted the cards against your chest. “I’m invested now.”
Jack looked at you for half a second longer than he should have.
“Have coffee with me,” he said.
Your eyebrows lifted. “That wasn’t a question.”
“No,” Jack said. “It was an invitation.”
You studied him, and for the first time all day, he did not feel assessed like a patient.
He felt assessed like a man who had walked up to a beautiful woman and made his interest known.
It was inconveniently terrifying.
You looked calm.
Jack did not trust that.
He had already seen what your calm could do.
“You always this confident?” you asked.
“When I’m right,” Jack answered.
“And you’re right about me wanting coffee with you?”
Jack let one shoulder lift. “Religiously seemed promising.”
You laughed then.
Not politely. Not because you thought he needed it.
A real laugh, warm and quick, and Jack felt it somewhere lower than his ribs.
“I didn’t say yes,” you reminded him.
Jack raised his brows, “You also didn’t say no.”
The line moved forward. You did not. Jack counted that as a victory.
“You don’t even know my name,” you said.
He did.
Miller had told him. Jack had held onto it with the grim determination of a man refusing to admit he had been handed something he wanted.
But he looked at your badge anyway.
This time, it was facing out.
Jack said your name like he had only just learned it. Like it had not been sitting in his head for the last half hour.
Your expression shifted, pleased despite yourself.
“And you are?” you asked.
“Jack,” he answered.
“Just Jack?”
“For coffee, yeah.”
You looked at him for another beat, making him stand there in it.
Making him wait.
He did not fidget.
He was proud of that.
Finally, you reached into the side pocket of your bag, pulled out a pen and a stack of Post-Its, and you wrote your number.
Jack watched you do it with an amount of attention he would later claim was unnecessary.
You handed it to him. “Coffee. Sometime.”
Jack took the Post It.
Your fingers brushed.
It was nothing.
It was not nothing.
“Sometime,” he repeated.
Your eyes flicked over him, bright and unafraid. “Try not to hover until then.”
Jack tucked the paper into his jacket pocket. “I’ll do my best.”
You started toward the elevators, then glanced back.
“Do better than that, Jack,” you said.
He stood there after you left, one hand still in his pocket, the other resting over the Post-It like it might disappear if he stopped paying attention.
For the first time all day, he did not feel like something being adjusted.
He felt like something had started.
Years later, people at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center would make a hundred wrong assumptions before they ever made the right one.
They would see you walk into the ER with your child life badge, your soft sweaters, and your calm voice, and they would see Jack Abbot look up like some part of him had known you were coming before the doors opened.
They would know you by your first name because children trusted first names faster than last ones.
They would know Jack mostly as Abbot because the ER had a way of sanding people down to the sharpest syllable.
They would not think to put the two together.
You worked days.
Jack worked nights.
Most of what anyone saw of you together happened in the seams: shift change, late consults, cafeteria overlap, the parking garage, the brief handoff spaces where one version of the hospital exhaled and another one started breathing.
They would see you pass him in the hall and fix his twisted ID badge without breaking your sentence.
They would see Jack let you.
They would think, " Oh.”
Interesting.
Robby would think, finally.
They would think it was new.
They would think it was a crush.
They would think he was learning how to be soft around you.
They would not know about room 417.
They would not know about Rabbit.
They would not know that the first time Jack saw you, he had been standing in a military hospital hallway with his leg aching and his pride worse, pretending he was not hovering.
They would not know you had looked at him and seen a man instead of a wound.
They would not know that one day, he would marry you.
That one day, years after that hallway, you would stand beside him with a ring on your finger and his son tucked beneath your ribs, a name folded between the two of you like a secret.
That Robby would know.
That everyone else would be late.
They would only know what they saw.
Jack watching you from across the ER.
You rolling your eyes when he hovered.
And the thing between you looking so much like the beginning of love that no one thought to ask if it had already survived years of it.
summary: the team shows up at spencer’s apartment to confirm his wife is real
a/n: sorry for not posting for so long, i’ve just gotten busy! hopefully i can start posting more again 🤍
The BAU does not forget things easily.
Especially not something like Dr. Spencer Reid secretly having a wife for over a decade.
So naturally, they show up. Uninvited.
⸻
It starts with Morgan.
“Hypothetically,” he says, leaning against Spencer’s desk the next morning, “if a group of your coworkers wanted to… say… verify that your wife exists—”
“She exists,” Spencer says flatly, not even looking up from his file.
Emily chimes in from across the bullpen, “We just think it’s suspicious that you’ve hidden a whole person from us.”
summary: spencer accidentally let it slip that he has a wife, but he thought that they knew
The bullpen is louder than usual.
A case just closed — messy, exhausting, emotionally draining — but closed. And that always brings a certain kind of restless energy to the team.
“Alright,” Derek announces, spinning slightly in his chair. “We deserve a drink. Real one. Not whatever’s been fermenting in the break room coffee pot.”
Emily snorts. “Seconded.”
“Thirded,” JJ adds, already grabbing her bag.
Spencer doesn’t look up at first. He’s reorganizing his go-bag with that meticulous focus he gets when he’s trying to decompress.
Hotch gives a small nod. “One hour. Then home.”
Morgan leans back in his chair and eyes Spencer. “You in, Pretty Boy?”
Spencer finally looks up, blinking like he just remembered he’s in a room full of people.
“Oh, um.” He glances at his watch. “I actually should probably head home.”
Morgan frowns dramatically. “Since when do you skip celebratory drinks?”
Spencer shrugs. Casual, almost too casual.
“My wife doesn’t love when I get back too late after a case. It messes with our routine.”
Silence.
Not the normal end-of-shift shuffle silence.
The kind where the air changes.
Emily freezes mid-zip of her purse. JJ slowly turns around. Morgan’s smile drops.
“…Your what?” he asks carefully.
Spencer blinks at him, “My wife.”
Morgan stands up fully now. “Your what?”
Spencer looks genuinely confused. “My wife? Why are you repeating it like that?”
“Reid,” Emily says slowly, “you don’t have a wife.”
Spencer stares at her, “Yes, I do.”
JJ’s eyebrows shoot up. “Since when?”
Spencer’s forehead creases like they’re the ones being ridiculous, “Since 2012.”
Morgan’s mouth actually falls open. “Two thousand and— Reid that was years ago.”
“Yes,” Spencer says patiently. “That’s generally how time works.”
“Spencer,” JJ says gently, “we would know if you were married.”
Spencer’s lips press together in mild disbelief, “I assumed you did know.”
“How?” Morgan practically shouts.
Spencer gestures vaguely. “I wear a ring?”
All of them look down. He does. A simple silver band. Always has. They just never clocked it. It blended in with his watch and the ink stains and the everything else that is Spencer Reid.
Emily steps closer. “You’re serious.”
Spencer exhales softly. “Of course I’m serious. Why would I joke about that?”
Morgan runs a hand over his head. “Okay, okay. Hold up. You’re married. To who?”
Emily crosses her arms. “So let me get this straight. You’ve been married for over a decade and we’ve never met her?”
Spencer blinks. “Well… yes.”
Morgan points at him. “That’s insane.”
Spencer looks offended. “It’s not insane.”
“It’s a little insane,” JJ says gently.
Spencer shakes his head, standing now, suddenly protective in a way they’ve never seen before.
“She’s not a secret,” he insists. “I just… I don’t bring her into this.”
Morgan narrows his eyes. “Why not?”
Spencer goes quiet for a moment.
And when he speaks again, his voice is softer. Not defensive anymore. Just honest.
“Because this job takes things.”
The room stills.
“She met me when I was just starting at the BAU. Before any of the… really bad stuff.” He swallows. “She’s seen what this job does. To all of us.”
Emily’s expression softens.
Spencer continues.
“She was there when I couldn’t sleep after my first execution-style case. She sat with me and read out loud because I couldn’t get the images out of my head.”
JJ’s eyes glisten.
“She was there when my mom’s condition got worse. When I didn’t know how to handle it. She learned about schizophrenia just so she could understand what I grew up with.”
Morgan shifts, quieter now.
“And when I—”
Spencer stops.
The prison memory hangs heavy in the air without him even saying it.
His jaw tightens.
“When I was in prison,” he finishes softly, “she visited every week. Even when I told her not to.”
Emily inhales slowly.
Spencer’s voice steadies, “She wrote to me every day. She memorized the visitor protocols. She advocated for me when no one else could. She never once doubted that I’d come home.”
Morgan’s teasing expression is completely gone now.
“She kept our apartment exactly the same,” Spencer continues, almost like he’s replaying it in his mind. “She said she didn’t want me walking into something unfamiliar.”
JJ wipes at her eye discreetly.
Spencer looks down at his ring, “She’s been there for every version of me. The anxious twenty-something. The grieving son. The addict. The inmate. The profiler who can’t always leave work at work.”
His lips twitch faintly, “She’s the only constant I’ve ever had.”
The room is completely silent.
Morgan finally speaks, softer than they’ve ever heard him.
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
Spencer hesitates, “Because this job makes enemies,” he says quietly. “And I could never forgive myself if something happened to her because of me.”
That lands harder than expected.
Hotch nods once. He understands that logic more than anyone.
Emily steps forward slightly. “So you just… what? Go home every night and we never knew?”
Spencer gives a small shrug, “Yes.”
Morgan exhales slowly. “Reid, that’s not something small.”
Spencer tilts his head, “It’s not small to me.”
There’s no arrogance in it. Just certainty.
“She makes me dinner when I forget to eat. She leaves sticky notes in my books when she knows I’ll be stressed. She reminds me that I’m more than my IQ and my trauma.”
His voice softens again, “She married me when I was still figuring out how to exist in the world. That’s not small.”
JJ smiles through tears. “Does she know what you do?”
“Yes.”
“And she’s okay with it?”
Spencer nods, “She worries. But she says she’d rather love me in a dangerous world than not love me at all.”
Morgan shakes his head slowly, “Reid, that’s real.”
Spencer frowns slightly. “Of course it’s real.”
Emily laughs weakly. “We just didn’t know you had that.”
Spencer looks genuinely confused again.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
And there it is, the quiet confidence.
He doesn’t see himself as someone unworthy of love because someone has loved him consistently for years.
Morgan finally smirks faintly. “Alright, so when are we meeting her?”
The Pitt x Reader x Batfam, Dr Robby x Wayne!Reader
This is my Masterlist for my crossover series between the Pitt and the Batfamily (and by extension a few other DC superheroes and villains) - it's a little bit of a slow burn romance
The reader is the sister of Bruce Wayne, she works in the ER, wading through the slough of patients. But maybe she finds a little bit of balance in the form of her attending. The catch is, no one at the Pitt knows who she really is or who she was? How long will that last?
Chapter 1: Day In , Day Out
Chapter 2: Just One of Those Days
Chapter 3: The Day It All Started (for him)
Chapter 4: The Day It All Started (for her)
Chapter 5: Days of the Past
Chapter 6: The Day That Just Won't End
Chapter 7: Just A Few Days
Chapter 8: When the Days Just Feels that Bit Heavier
Mini Chapter 8.5: Shark Has A Heart
Chapter 9: Going to Remember This Day ♥️
Chapter 10: Days of Newfound Bliss
Chapter 11: Crash My Day
Chapter 12: What A Day
Mini Chapter 12.5: The Daily Scoop from Supes
Chapter 13: A Day Without You Feels Like Forever
Chapter 14: Days Apart
Chapter 15: Take a Day Off, They Said, It'll Be Fun, They Said.
Chapter 16: Today of All Days
Chapter 17: When the Day Bleeds into the Night
Chapter 18: Training Day
Chapter 19: Do You Ever Regret That Day?
Chapter 20: Please, Not Now, Not Today 💔
Chapter 21: This Day Was Bound to Happen
Chapter 22: Hollowness of the Day
Chapter 23: The Early Light of Day
Chapter 24:Let Me Spend My Days With You ❤️🩹
Chapter 25: Discharge Day
Chapter 26: Days Spent With You
Chapter 27: First Day Back On Shift
Chapter 28: You Learn Something New Everyday
Mini Chapter 28.5: Shut Up and Breathe
Chapter 29: Days In The Manor
Chapter 30: Made My Day
Chapter 31: Tomorrow is Another Day
Mini Chapter 31.5: Don't Worry Hun
Chapter 32: That'll Be The Day
Mini Chapter 32.5: I Had A Little Help
Chapter 33: For The Rest Of My Days 💖
Chapter 34: The Start Of A Beautiful Day
Chapter 35: Day Of Surprises
Chapter 36: Day After Day
Chapter 37: The Day I Found Home 💍
Chapter 38: Dreaming of Sunnier Days
Chapter 39: One Day At A Time
Chapter 40: Days Wrapped Up In Your Embrace... 💕
Below are a few chapters following their lives after Chapter 40, exploring little snippets of their family life! 💖 (I just couldn't resist!)
Mini Chapter: Gentle Mornings
Mini Chapter: Bring Your Daughter(s) To Work Day
Baby Sitter Chronicles:
Mini Chapter: Cold Water Only ft. Jason Todd & Damian Wayne
Some Mini Chapters Still Incoming.
But Overall the Story is Complete!! 💖
THANK YOU TO EVERYONE FOR ENJOYING MY STORY!
Find my Main Masterlist Here
*I’ve left the reader’s age as vague, but as she is Bruce’s younger sister I’ve sort of written it in mind of being about early to mid 40s around about. While it is an x reader, using the last name Austen as a cover. (I promise there is a good reason for this) You can imagine her appearance however you wish, as an adopted or blood sister of Bruce. I’ve tried to keep any description as open for interpretation.
*I’m not basing the batfam off of one strict thing (but am using a fair few images from WFA just cause I like the consistency and their visual portrayal) 🤷♀️
(I've also posted this onto my ao3 under RedSakura101)
Likes, Comments and Reblogs are always welcomed and appreciated ♥️ and thank you to those enjoying my little fic! I am lowkey freaking out at how many people are reading and liking this 🥹
Feel free to let me know if you’d like to be tagged 😊
notes/warnings: Just fluff. The obligatory holiday fic for the season. Happy whatever you celebrate. I'm kind of in love with it and it's twice as long as I intended. Enjoy.
It was the day after Thanksgiving and you stood at the hub with a paper bag in hand. You weren’t even on shift today but you had come to perform the sacred duty of getting everyone to draw names for the holiday gift exchange. You’d arrived near shift change so you could get as many people as possible out of the way.
“What are you doing here?” Robby asked as he leaned on the counter beside you.
“It’s time to draw names,” you said as if that explained everything.
“I thought Gloria put the kibosh on that?” Dana said from behind you.
You glanced at her over your shoulder. “She said no Secret Santa because Santa is a Christmas thing and we have to be inclusive.”
Robby’s brow furrowed. “Then what exactly are we drawing names for?”
You smiled and handed him one of the sheets you’d printed out for everyone that was participating. “Welcome to the Pitt’s first annual Gifting Goblins event that just so happens to correspond with the winter holidays.”
Dana snorted and Robby’s lips twitched. They lasted about thirty seconds before you were all laughing. “Gifting Goblins?”
“Eh,” you said with a shrug. “Why not?” Noting you’d drawn the attention of several people around the hub you took the opportunity to make an announcement. “As you know Gloria said no Secret Santa this year.” You ignored the boos that went up from various staff members. “So you all get to be Gifting Goblins. You know the drill. Draw a name, make sure it’s not yours, then cross yourself off the list and take a sheet. First gift due by the second. If you do not get a gift by the second, please let me know. Don’t be an asshole and flake. Final gifts by New Year’s Eve this year.”
You placed everything on the counter and stepped away to let them have at it. The Pitt gift exchange was simple. Just do nice things for your fellow staff member throughout the month. A minimum of four little gifts though most usually did more, even if it was bringing a coffee in or whatever. The goal was to keep your identity a secret until the final gift. You set up a mailbox in the lounge where gifts could be left if so desired.
You pretended not to see Perlah and Princess exchanging names. You were supposed to keep the name you drew but people were always switching.
“Uh, question,” Trinity Santos said rocking on her feet in front of you.
“What’s up?”
She showed you the paper with Garcia’s name on it. “I thought it was for the emergency department only.”
You nodded. “With a couple of exceptions. Namely Garcia and Walsh. Did you want to trade with someone? Technically you’re not—”
“No,” she said quickly cutting you off. “This is fine. Really.”
“Good.” You gave her a small smile and patted her shoulder when she turned to go with a bounce in her step.
“Matchmaking again?” Robby asked, voice tinged with humor.
“And just how am I supposed to have manipulated what names people draw out of a bag, Robinavitch?”
He shrugged. “If anyone could it would be you.”
You crossed your arms over your chest and narrowed your eyes at him in annoyance. He just smiled at you. Idiot.
“What did you do now, Robby?” Jack Abbot’s question announced his presence.
You couldn’t stop the smile that crossed your face at the sight of one of your favorite people. “He’s accusing me of being able to control who picks what name.”
Jack looked affronted on your behalf. “You take that back. She would never.”
Robby just made a sound of half-hearted agreement and wandered off to check on a patient.
“Brat,” you muttered under your breath.
Jack chuckled and you turned to find him scanning one of the info sheets for the gift exchange. “Gifting Goblins?”
“I wasn’t about to let Gloria kill our favorite tradition around here.”
“Good for you, sweetheart.”
It was an hour into the night shift when Shen approached Jack. “Abbot, I want New Year’s Eve off.”
Jack glanced up from the chart he was looking at. “Take it up with Robby. He’s in charge of the scheduling, you know that.”
Shen rocked back on his heels. “I thought you might like to cover for me.”
Jack fully turned his attention to the other man. “And why would I want to do that?”
“Because I thought you might want to trade names,” Shen said and held up the piece of paper he’d drawn with your name on it. “She’s also covering for Lena that night.”
“Done,” Jack said, snatching the paper before handing over his own with Robby’s name on it.
“Awesome.” John smiled wide, gave Jack a nod and moved on to his next patient.
On December 1, Jack trudged into the ED at 18:45. Winter had arrived in Pittsburgh with a vengeance and his right leg was aching from the cold. He nodded greetings to those he passed on his way to store his bag then he headed for the breakroom. Coffee first, then handoff to see what fresh hell awaited him tonight.
The room was mercifully empty and Jack made a beeline for the coffee pot. It appeared to have been freshly brewed and he smiled a little as he poured himself a mug. His gaze drifted over to the mailboxes you had set up and his smile widened at seeing items in several of them. You tried so hard to make this a success every year and it always made you happy to see how into it people got.
Then he realized that his own box had something in it. Coffee temporarily forgotten he moved over to see what he’d gotten. A plain brown sack sat inside, his name written on the outside in block letters. He lifted it out and after confirming he was still alone, peeked inside.
Inside sat a dozen individual packets of trail mix, the expensive kind that were more nuts than filler. It was the blend he liked that had three different kinds of nuts, pumpkin seeds and dried cranberries. Lots of Omega 3 and protein. And tucked beneath them were half a dozen of his favorite protein bars. Not the brand he typically bought because they were cheaper and easier to find, but the ones he had to get from that one store across town.
Jack stood frozen, staring at the contents. It was such a simple gift but so specifically tailored to him that someone must have been paying attention to him. Very close attention.
“Well played, goblin,” he muttered to himself, feeling an unexpected warmth spread through his chest. He tucked one protein bar into his pocket for later and took the rest to his locker to stash away from greedy hands. The night shift hadn’t even started and it was already shaping up better than expected.
You arrived for your shift on the second with a bit of a bounce in your step. Everyone should receive their first gift by the end of the day. You hadn’t received anything yet, but that wasn’t unusual. When you arrived, you checked the list you’d left by the mailbox for everyone to check off that they’d received their first gift. Usually, you didn’t have to worry about anyone flaking after the first one.
There were a couple of names still to be marked off but a quick glance showed items for them in the mailboxes. But nothing in yours. You shrugged, there were hours left on your shift yet.
You didn’t think much more of it until you entered the breakroom at the end of your shift and still found nothing.
Oh.
It wasn’t like you could be your own Secret Santa Gifting Goblin. You sucked in a breath and straightened your shoulders. That was okay. Most of the fun for you was watching everyone else get doted on. And buying for your own recipient.
One of the benefits of running the exchange was you were in charge of making the name slips for everyone that signed up. And if Jack’s name happened to find it’s way into your pocket in the process, well, that was your business.
It wasn’t like you’d been planning your gifts since summer or anything. October maybe, but not before then. That would be pathetic.
You slid the strap of your bag further up your shoulder and headed toward the doors. You ran into Jack on your way out.
He stopped to greet you. “Hey. How was your shift?”
“The usual,” you said with a shrug. “No surprises waiting for you.”
“Good, good.” He nodded. “Get your first gift from your goblin?”
You did your best to maintain a neutral expression. “Oh yeah, a couple of days ago, already took it home.”
Jack frowned, his brow furrowing.
Before he could say anything, you gestured toward the door. “I should go. I need to run by the store tonight.”
“Yeah, sure. Be careful,” he said stepping aside.
“See you tomorrow,” you called over your shoulder and breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed behind you.
Jack watched you retreat, his frown deepening. Then he spun on his heel and headed straight for the hub where Robby was chatting with Dana.
“Hey,” he interrupted, “were any flowers delivered here today?”
Robby and Dana exchanged a glance.
“Flowers?” Dana repeated. “Not that I saw.”
“Definitely no flowers,” Robby confirmed. “Why? You expecting some?”
Jack swore under his breath and pulled out his phone. “They were supposed to be delivered at noon. I confirmed it twice yesterday.” He scrolled to find the florist’s number, punching it with more force than necessary.
“This is Jack Abbot,” he said as soon as someone answered. He was lucky they were open late. “I placed an order yesterday for delivery to Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center emergency department. Winter arrangement with red and white roses. It was supposed to arrive at noon today.” He paused. “Yes, that’s the recipient and the message for the card. No, it absolutely did not arrive. No, I don’t want a refund, I want the flowers delivered as promised. She starts work at seven tomorrow morning. As soon after that as you can, the earlier the better. Yes, I’ll hold.”
As Jack waited, Robby’s face split into a wide grin. “Flowers, huh?”
Jack glared at the pain in the ass he called a best friend. “Shut up, Rob.”
“Roses, too. Pretty elaborate for a gift exchange,” Robby continued undeterred. “Most people just go with candy or coffee. Maybe a gift card.”
“I said shut up.” Jack turned slightly away as the florist came back on the line. “Yes, I’m still here. First thing tomorrow, and I expect a substantial apology note attached. Yes. Fine.” He hung up and shoved the phone back in his pocket.
“So,” Dana drawled, “whose name did you say you drew?”
Jack gave her a flat look. “I didn’t.” He turned to Robby. “Let’s do handoff so you can get out of here.”
The next morning, a delivery person came through the main doors of the ED carrying a large arrangement of red and white roses exploding from a frosted glass vase, interspersed with pine branches, silver painted twigs and enough sparkly accents to make a showgirl jealous. A large note card dangled from the front with your name on it above, Sincere apologies from Allegheny Flower Shop.
“You can set those here,” Dana told him, clearing a spot on the counter for the flowers before calling your name over her shoulder. “Should have known he had her as soon as he said flowers,” she muttered to herself.
You appeared from around a curtain, eyes going wide. “Are those for me?”
Dana hummed in agreement and handed you the card. You opened it to find an apology from the flower shop along with a message that said: from one goblin to another.
You grinned then turned the vase so you could take in the entire arrangement. “They’re so pretty,” you said softly, your eyes getting suspiciously moist.
“Is something wrong?” Cassie asked as she came to stand beside you and smell the flowers.
You shook your head quickly. “No. It’s just…no one’s ever bought me flowers before. Not like this.”
“Never?”
“Nope.” You ran a finger over one of the rose petals. “One boyfriend said, and I quote ‘it wouldn’t have occurred to him’. Another didn’t see the point because they just die anyway. You get the idea.”
“You have shit taste in men,” Cassie observed.
You snorted a laugh. “Look who’s talking.” You buried your nose in the arrangement, inhaling deeply, eyes closed in pleasure. “These smell amazing.”
Across the room, Robby casually lifted his phone and snapped a photo of the moment, you surrounded by flowers, your happiness evident in the wide smile on your face. His thumbs moved quickly across the screen as he sent it to Jack.
Mission accomplished. She loves them.
Over the following days, Jack continued to find small, thoughtful gifts in his mailbox. One day was his favorite candy, another was a printout of a journal article about advances in prosthetic technology he’d been meaning to read but hadn’t found the time for. Then he’d gotten a vinyl Penguins decal for his new truck.
The next morning found him meeting a delivery driver at the bay doors to get the coffee he’d ordered for you. He sat the cup on the counter as he dug around in the drawer for a marker to write your name on it.
Finally locating a Sharpie, he reached for the cup only to find it missing. He looked up fully to see Robby taking a sip, his face immediately contorting into a grimace.
“This is not your usual order,” Robby said, staring accusingly at the cup.
Jack stared at him. “That’s because it was a gift, Robinavitch.”
Robby’s eyes widened in realization. “Oh. Oh shit.” He looked sheepishly at the cup then back to Jack. “Sorry, man. I only took one drink of it.”
Jack shook his head. “I am not giving her your backwash coffee, Rob.”
“It was barely a sip. And it’s still hot. She’ll never know,” he protested.
“I’ll know,” Jack replied flatly, taking the cup from Robby’s hand and dropping it in the trash with perhaps more force than necessary.
“That’s like eight bucks you just wasted.”
“Worth every penny to not be the guy who gives backwash coffee as a gift,” Jack retorted. He glanced at his watch. Not enough time to get another one delivered.
Robby rocked back on his heels. “So…Gifting Goblin duties not going as planned, huh?”
Jack gave him a look that would have silenced most people. Unfortunately, Robby was not most people.
“I’m just saying if you simplified things a bit, you probably wouldn’t have as many issues,” he continued cheerfully.
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Jack asked.
Before he could respond, you appeared. You spotted Jack and your face brightened. “Hey! How was your shift?”
Jack sighed, giving you a tired smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It was fine. No problems at all.” He shot a warning glance at Robby who looked suspiciously close to smirking.
“Well, don’t let me keep you,” you said. “I’m sure you want to get home.”
“Yeah,” Jack said, grabbing his bag. “Have a good shift.”
You smiled and disappeared down the hall.
“Better luck next time, Romeo.” Robby patted his shoulder.
Jack briefly considered whether punching a colleague would get him fired, decided it probably would, and settled for accidentally stepping on Robby’s foot instead.
A couple of days later, Jack’s eyes trailed you as you walked into the ED to begin your shift. He waited until you ducked into the breakroom for your morning cup of coffee and followed you. Your back was turned to the door as you checked your mailbox. He stepped over to the counter to pour himself a cup of coffee he wouldn’t drink.
“No way,” you said excited.
Jack glanced over his shoulder to see you smiling wide as you held the three books he’d given you to your chest. “Well, someone seems happy,” he said, turning to lean against the counter.
You turned to him with an expression of pure delight. “These have all been on my wish list for ages. And there’s a gift card to my favorite coffee shop.” You ran your fingers over the cover of the top book. “This is too much. The flowers were already—”
‘The point is to enjoy it,” Jack said, surprised by the softness in his own voice. He cleared his throat. “I mean, someone obviously thinks you deserve it. Don’t fret so much.”
You nodded, still looking slightly dazed. “Yeah, you’re right.” You grinned at him. “I guess me and one of these books have a date at my coffee shop on my next day off.”
Jack felt a wave of satisfaction. He’d gotten it right. You were happy and he’d made that happen. He watched as you headed out to start your shift, a new bounce in your step. He waited until you were out of sight before allowing a small, satisfied smile to cross his face.
Twelve hours later, after completing handoff with Robby, Jack headed into the breakroom to get his coffee and check his box. A colorful bag was stuffed into his box and he veered over to check it. It was much heavier than he expected when he pulled it out, colorful tissue paper exploded from the top.
He glanced inside and his eyes went wide. His hand closed around the neck of a bottle and he pulled it out. A fifth of a high-end spiced rum, the kind he’d mentioned was his favorite once during a staff outing. Beside it was something soft and fuzzy. Jack reached in again and emerged with a stuffed parrot. It was bright blue and yellow with an elastic band on one foot, clearly designed to perch on someone’s shoulder.
Frowning now, he reached into the bag one more time and extracted a black eye patch. Jack stared at the items on the table in front of him. Rum. Eye patch. Parrot. The joke landed a second later and he completely lost it.
A bark of laughter escaped him, followed by another and suddenly he was collapsing on a break room chair, shoulders shaking with mirth. He’d just received a complete pirate kit to go with his ‘peg’ leg.
It was terrible. It was brilliant. It was exactly the kind of humor he appreciated but most people were too afraid to direct at him.
“Jack? Are you okay in here?” Robby’s voice preceded him into the breakroom. He stopped short at the sight of Jack wheezing with laughter, tears forming at the corner of his eyes.
“What is so funny?” Robby asked, then noticed the items on the table. “Is that…is your goblin calling you a pirate?”
Jack, still unable to form words, simply nodded and pushed the items toward Robby who ran a hand down his face in exasperation.
“Isn’t this a little insensitive?”
This only sent Jack into another fit of laughter. He wiped tears from his eyes, finally regaining enough composure to speak. “Who cares? That’s funny as fuck.”
Robby looked uncertain. “You’re not offended? You don’t even know who gave it to you.”
“Why would I be?” Jack picked up the parrot and patted it on the head. “This is the first time anyone at this hospital has made a joke about my leg without immediately looking like they wanted to die afterward.”
He attached the parrot to his shoulder and held up the rum. “This is good shit, too. Not some cheap garbage.”
Robby hummed in thought. “They seem to really get you.”
Jack nodded. “Yeah. They really do.”
The gift exchange continued with little trinkets. You discovered a handcrafted leather bookmark in your box embossed with your initials. Jack found a dark blue scarf made of the softest material he’d ever felt the day after he’d complained about losing his old one.
Each small token seemed more thoughtful than the last. A travel mug that kept coffee hot for hours appeared in your box after you’d spent a shift complaining yours was always cold by the time you got a chance to drink it. Jack received a small bottle of high-end curl oil that smelled like cedar and citrus.
Every gift was a message. I see you. I notice what matters to you. I’m paying attention.
One evening Jack limped slightly as he made his way into the hospital, the cold seeping into his joints and making his prosthesis feel like it was attached to a block of ice rather than his leg. Three straight nights of a winter cold snap had left him irritable and hurting more than he cared to admit.
He needed hot coffee desperately and headed toward the breakroom as soon as he took the handoff from Ketterman, the day shift attending. His box contained several items and Jack made his way over, looking forward to his evening brightening just a bit. He needed it tonight.
He pulled the items out one at a time. Two different types of unscented ultra-moisturizing lotion—the specialized kind meant for amputees that wouldn’t be greasy or leave any sort of residue. A small tube of nerve pain cream that he recognized as the medical grade variety. His fingers hovered over the items, a lump forming in his throat.
These hadn’t been grabbed from some drugstore display. These were specific products selected with knowledge and care. The kind of products he used but rarely discussed because he hated to acknowledge that vulnerability, that weakness.
Someone had noticed. Someone had seen him wince when the weather turned, maybe caught him massaging his residual limb during a quiet moment on shift and instead of politely ignoring it as most people did, they’d actually thought about what might help.
Jack swallowed hard, running his thumb over the label of the nerve cream. It was his preferred brand, the one that actually worked when phantom pain kept him awake at night. They had to have researched the best one because he knew for a fact he’d never mentioned that to anyone.
Something soft, folded into a square sat in the box behind where the lotions and cream had been. He lifted out what appeared to be a t-shirt. He shook it open and as the design came into view, his emotional moment shifted into unexpected laughter.
The shirt was white with a simple illustration. A cat was lying under a rainbow with text that read I’M FUCKING FINE. THE REST OF YOU NEED THERAPY.
It was perfect. Absolutely perfect. The dark, cynical humor he appreciated mixed with the surprisingly thoughtful leg care products. Whoever his goblin was they understood both parts of him. The part that hurt and the part that used humor to cope with it.
He stashed everything in his locker except the shirt which he put on under his scrub top. A smile played at his lips every time he remembered what was written across his chest as the night wore on.
The next morning, when Robby arrived to take over Jack was waiting at the hub.
“You look like you’re in a suspiciously good mood,” Robby commented, setting down his coffee. “Nothing major overnight?”
“Surprisingly quiet,” Jack confirmed with a shrug then grinned. “Want to see what my goblin left me?”
Robby raised his brows. “Sure, but if it’s an actual peg leg I’m calling HR.”
Jack glanced around to make sure no patients were nearby, then pulled up his scrub top to reveal the shirt underneath.
Robby leaned in to read it and then his face split into a grin. “Oh my god.”
“Right? It’s fucking perfect.”
“Your goblin is deranged,” Robby declared, shaking his head but still smiling.
“Isn’t it great?” Jack asked, letting his scrub top fall back into place.
“Suits you,” Robby admitted. “Though I’m pretty sure Gloria would have an aneurysm if she saw it.”
“Just another service I provide,” Jack replied, gathering his things to head home. His leg still ached, but somehow it bothered him less today.
You were pulled directly into a trauma when you arrived for your shift the next day and it took a couple of hours before you could even grab a coffee, never mind checking the boxes.
Inside yours was something rectangular wrapped in simple blue tissue paper. It was heavier than you expected as you pulled it out and laid it on the table. You unwrapped it carefully, then froze in disbelief. Inside was a set of charcoal gray Figs scrubs. Brand new in exactly your size.
“Oh no. That’s entirely too much,” you said aloud, running your fingers over the buttery-soft fabric.
Cassie entered the breakroom, peering at your gift and letting out a low whistle. “Holy shit. All I got was a McDonald’s gift card.”
You blinked, still staring at the scrubs and said absently, “You love McDonald’s”
Cassie grinned. “I know, but not more than Figs.” She reached out to feel the fabric, lifting the top to look underneath. She chuckled. “They got you the jacket, too. That’s a mint right there.”
Your stomach dropped. “I can’t keep these. That’s far too much.”
“You absolutely can,” Cassie argued. “You aren’t giving these back. I won’t let you.” She nudged your shoulder. “Just enjoy it. Someone obviously wanted you to have them and is using the exchange as an excuse.”
“But there’s a limit.”
“There is not. Not officially.” When you hesitated, she continued. “Look, if your goblin wants to spoil you, that’s their business. Don’t ruin their fun by being noble.”
Your fingers were still tracing the soft fabric. “They are really nice.”
“And they’re practical. It’s not like they got you diamond earrings or something. These are for work. You’ll wear them literally all the time.”
You considered this, a slow smile spreading across your face. “They are pretty amazing.”
“Exactly. Now try them on and tell me if I need to be more jealous than I already am.”
Two days later, you arrived for your shift in your new gray Figs. They fit perfectly, professional but flattering with just enough give to be comfortable during a twelve-hour shift. You felt good in them, and judging by Cassie’s exaggerated pout when she saw you, you looked good too.
“Not fair,” she grumbled. “But I did have a fantastic breakfast sandwich this morning.”
As you headed to the nurse’s station to check in, you passed Jack and Robby finishing up their handover. Jack’s sentence trailed off mid-report as he caught sight of you. His eyes tracked from your shoulders down to where the perfectly tailored pants met your shoes then back up again. A small, appreciative grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Morning, gentlemen,” you said, heat flooding your cheeks at his obvious appraisal.
“Morning,” Jack replied, voice a touch lower than normal. “New scrubs?”
You nodded.
“They look…” Jack paused, choosing his words carefully. “Professional.”
Robby snorted. “That’s not what your face just said, but okay.”
Jack shot him a look then turned back to you. “They suit you.”
“Thank you,” you replied.
A moment of silence stretched between you until Robby cleared his throat dramatically. “And on that note, we have patients to see and Jack has a home to go to. Right, Jack?”
Jack nodded, still looking at you. “Right. Have a good shift.”
As he walked away you caught yourself watching his retreating form wondering if you were imagining the extra attention and really hoped you weren’t.
The ED on New Year’s Eve was always busy. Drunks with varying degrees of alcohol poisoning and injuries from falls, a steady stream of car accidents as the night progressed and the inevitable chest pains from people who overexerted themselves shoveling snow.
The department filled with the typical casualties but the staff maintained a festive atmosphere despite the chaos. Several people had brought in finger foods that were set up in the lounge and Jack had brought in several bottles of sparkling grape juice.
He kept watching the clock. Not because he was eager for the shift to end, but he wanted to make sure he gave you your gift before midnight. He couldn’t stand you thinking you’d been forgotten again.
At 23:45 during a brief lull, Jack found himself at the hub where you were updating a chart.
“Hey, got a minute?” he asked.
You looked up with a smile. “For you? Maybe even two minutes.”
The corner of his mouth twitched up in response. From his pocket he withdrew a simple white envelope. “It’s more an IOU than a gift,” he explained as he handed it to you.
“You were my goblin?” you asked.
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“You’ve already done too much, Jack. I don’t need anything else,” you argued.
“Just open it.”
You carefully opened the seal and pulled out a simple white card with snowflakes embossed on it. Inside were the words Dinner for two at Del Frisco’s.
For a moment you simply stared at it, then you looked up with wide eyes. “That’s really too much.”
He shook his head. “It’s not. But I’d like to be the one to take you.”
The statement hung in the air between you for a long moment.
“Like…” You trailed off as you searched his face.
“Like a date,” he confirmed, a quiet confidence in his tone that thankfully failed to betray the rapid beating of his heart. “You can say no of course, but I’d love it if you didn’t.”
A slow smile spread across your face, transforming your tired features into something that made Jack’s chest tighten. You reached into your scrub pocket and pulled out your own envelope, holding it out to him with a grin.
“What’s this?”
“Your final Gifting Goblin present, Dr. Abbot,” you replied, eyes dancing with mischief.
“You were my goblin?”
You nodded and warmth flooded him at the thought that it had been you that so perfectly captured him with your gifts.
He tore open his envelope with considerably less care than you’d shown yours. Inside were two tickets to the Carnegie Museum of Natural History.
“You remembered,” he said softly, looking at the tickets with genuine surprise. He’d mentioned that the museum was one place he hadn’t been that he really wanted to see in the city. Once. Months ago.
His eyes met yours, a pleased smile forming. “Two tickets, huh?”
You matched his smile as you echoed his earlier words. “Yeah. I’d like to be the one to take you. You can say no of course, but I’d love it if you didn’t.”
Jack’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Sweetheart, that sounds like a date.”
“It is.”
From down the hall someone began counting down to the new year. Others quickly joined in.
TEN! NINE! EIGHT!
Jack moved around the counter placing one hand on the back of your chair, the other on the desk as he leaned into your space. “So, museum first, then dinner? Make a day of it?”
SEVEN! SIX! FIVE!
“That sounds perfect,” you replied, eyes locking onto his.
FOUR! THREE! TWO!
He traced the line of your face with the back of one finger before leaning closer as shouts of ONE went up.
“Happy New Year, baby,” he said, lips brushing yours before he closed the distance.
The kiss wasn’t long, just a beat or two, but it was the absolute perfect way to begin a new year and a new life with your goblin.
This is an ongoing Jack Abbot x reader / Jack Abbot x you fanfiction. So new chapters will be added as we go.
I can't add any more links to this post (apparently there's a link limit and I had no idea). So this is part 1 of my series master list - you'll find part 2 at the bottom.
If you ever have ideas, thoughts or something you'd love to see, feel free to drop me a message or an ask. I can't promise anything, but I'll definitely see what I can do.
Content warnings: some angst, some fluff, unplanned pregnancy and relationship trouble - because we like to suffer a little before things get better
Summary: When you went grocery shopping you didn't expect to come home with the number of a very handsome ED doctor
~~~ ~~~ ~~~
Part 1: You stole my cart
When you went grocery shopping you didn't expect to come home with the number of a very handsome ED doctor
--- --- ---
Part 2: Wanna grab coffee?
You finally kiss him. Later you google his name... and understands he's carrying far more than you'd expected.
--- --- ---
Part 3: "Wanna come over?"
What starts as a flirty dinner invitation becomes a night of honesty and careful firsts.
--- --- ---
Part 4: I knew you were trouble
Your first morning together. One cheeky comment from you. And suddenly - another first.
--- --- ---
Part 5: Am I your girlfriend?
All you wanted was clarity. Instead it became an inside-joke - and the start of your favourite little game.
--- --- ---
Part 6: And you are...?
You just came to pick your boyfriend up for breakfast after his shift. Instead you accidentally became the main attraction of the entire emergency department.
--- --- ---
Part 7: I can't compete with ghosts
A shower, a bedside drawer and a discovery you never expected - and suddenly you're in your first real fight.
--- --- ---
Part 8: I'm like Mary Poppins - just more handsome and with more drugs
Two days of fever, no voice and ignored messages. (Un)fortunately for you, Jack Abbot notices.
--- --- ---
Part 9: I've got a face for television, baby
A cozy lake house getaway. No bodies to bury. Just some fluff.
--- --- ---
Part 10: I pretend I'm not completely confused by this
You were always the one preaching honesty and open communication. And now you're the one keeping a secret.
--- --- ---
Part 11: I told you to slow down with the drinks
When Jack thinks you're sick because you drank too much, the real reason turns out to be far more sobering - for both of you.
--- --- ---
Part 12: Don't you dare apologize, kiddo
The night isn't over yet and neither is the conversation
--- --- ---
Part 13: I'll be right here and clean up the mess
Some nights are harder than others. Good thing you're not facing them alone anymore.
--- --- ---
Part 14: Reminds me of my time in Afghanistan, just a bit nicer
You can take the doctor ouf of the hospital but you can't take the hospital out of him.
--- --- ---
Interlude I
The next three chapters will be a little different in style. I wanted to show a bit of Jack’s side of the story, and there’s probably no better way to do that than through his therapy sessions.
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part I)
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part II)
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part III)
--- --- ---
Part 15: What's next? Bungee jumping?
What happens when you're finally released from the hospital? Apparently: snow, Christmas plans, Jack being overprotective… and a whole lot of fluff.
--- --- ---
Part 16: Grief-induced rebound-shag? Did he really say that?
Christmas Party at Robbys place. That's it. That's the plot. Enjoy!
--- --- ---
Part 17: You can't say that anymore
Apparently the thought of fatherhood changes a few things about Jack. Unfortunately, one of those realizations happens in the bedroom.
--- --- ---
Part 18: I'm not Santa but I brought gifts anyway
Christmas decorations appear where Jack definitely didn’t leave them, gifts are exchanged, and pregnancy hormones make New Year's Eve a little different than planned.
--- --- ---
Part 19: You shouldn't be worrying about money
You never liked talking about money. Unfortunately sometimes life forces the conversation. Luckily Jack doesn't mind taking care of things.
--- --- ---
Part 20: The eyes, Jack. The eyes.
You are telling a funny story. And Jack... listens.
--- --- ---
Part 21: Didn't know your dad was here helping you move
Moving day, creepy neighbour and a jealous Jack. Happy ending guaranteed.
--- --- ---
Part 22: I'm a hopeless romantic trapped in the body of a slightly sarcastic boomer
Jack was never the most romantic guy. And then Valentine's Day happened. The morning brings a surprise neither of you ever wanted.
A/N: This chapter contains some angst, including bleeding during pregnancy, mentions of blood and a miscarriage scare
--- --- ---
Part 23: I've been thinking about something...
Jack has been thinking about you again. It's lucky he's a brilliant physician because communication clearly isn't his strongest skill.
--- --- ---
Part 24: Hard to predict what I'll do in the haze after night shift
Jack likes to be prepared. Unfortunately for you that now includes preparing for the baby like it's a medical emergency.
--- --- ---
Part 25: I'm not your punching bag
Pregnancy hormones, old wounds and the difficult art of actually talking to each other.
--- --- ---
Part 26: Not my fault you can't keep it in your scrubs
Sometimes all a man needs is brunch with his best friend.
--- --- ---
Part 27: That's not enough time
Sometimes honest conversations take time… and it seems like the time has finally come.
--- --- ---
Part 28: Congratulations on the degree, Dr. Abbot
Waiting is the worst part - especially when nerves take over. And especially when your boyfriend is a highly trained physician who’s used to being in control… until he’s not.
--- --- ---
Part 29: I didn't know she was your girl
A quick trip to your old apartment turns into a lesson in boundaries - Jack style.
--- --- ---
Part 30: You guys act like he committed a crime
You had one simple plan: in, out, no drama. Well. The plan did not survive.
--- --- ---
Part 31: You never have to apologize for calling me or being scared
You're home alone, very pregnant and suddenly your body starts doing something it definitely did not do before...
--- --- ---
Part 32: It's about the fact that I don't want you to die
When Robby asks you to pick up your boyfriend you expect him to be drunk. Not… whatever this is.
--- --- ---
Bonus chapter: Did you actually think this through?
Jack gets hurt on a SWAT call and calls the one person he trusts most - unfortunately, this person has opinions.
--- --- ---
Part 33: You had a problem. I fixed it. No big deal.
Jacks an emergency medicine specialist. If you have a problem he will find a way to handle it. Apparently he’s also an expert in any kind of emergencies.
--- --- ---
Part 34: Sorry for being so fucking late
It starts with “This is probably nothing” and ends with “Oh god, this is happening.” And the only question is: where is Jack?
--- --- ---
Interlude II: And she called you?!
Let's answer the very important question before moving on: Where the hell was Jack? (A very short interlude)
--- --- ---
Part 35: You did so fucking brilliantly, kiddo
He made it. And now there’s no turning back.
--- --- ---
Part 36: She deserves to become her own person
The first quiet moment alone with your daughter and your boyfriend. You are happy - but the guilt hasn’t quite let go yet.
--- --- ---
Part 37: I think we made a mistake
Robby is the first visitor. He did not plan on getting emotional about it.
--- --- ---
Part 38: You two do realize you're not a couple, right?
Jack introduces his newborn daughter to the ED. Featuring proud dad energy, Robby being the worlds most intense godfather and a team that is absolutely losing it over baby Lizzie.
--- --- ---
Part 39: I don't know what to do. I don't know anything
The first days with a newboarn aren't easy... but you're not doing it alone.
--- --- ---
Part 40: I'm glad he finally stuck with something
Jack is excited for his sisters visit. You try to be too. But something about her just doesn't feel quite... right.
--- --- ---
Part 41: It's not against you, darling. It's just... personal
Some comments linger. Some truths explode. And not everything said can be taken back.
--- --- ---
Part 42: I get it. Family isn't easy
Bad timing, family drama and a man who is absolutely done being polite.
--- --- ---
Part 43: I don't want you thinking about my sister the first time we have sex again
You try to make an effort. He makes it very clear you don’t have to.
--- --- ---
Part 44: You had it coming
Family is complicated. Especially when the truth finally shows up.
--- --- ---
Bonus Chapter: You don't get to decide what kind of woman I should be
Some conversations aren’t about winning. They’re about being heard.
--- --- ---
Part 45: I didn't think it was all battle royal out there
Daycare hunting hits like a competetive sport you didn't know you'd already lost
--- --- ---
Bonus chapter: Wow. Not even hypothetical me gets any freedom?
Jack and Robby try to figure out childcare. It's not their ... most productive conversation.
--- --- ---
Part 46: You wanna tell me something?
What should've been a quiet brunch turns into a fight about something that means very different things to both of them - and suddenly thirty years of friendship feel shaky.
--- --- ---
Part 47: But now listen carefully - Daddy's first important life lesson for you
First baby group, first mom friends - and Jack who’s somehow more nervous about all of it than you are
--- --- ---
Part 48: That face needs to populate a whole bloodline
What starts with a new member in the baby group turns into jealousy - and ends in an insufferable ego boost.
--- --- ---
Part 49: I know exactly who to call
Lizzie needs her first shots. Jack thinks he can handle it. Spoiler: he cannot.
--- --- ---
Part 50: I think I'm more comfortable falling apart in my own apartment
A sleepless night, a screaming baby and the overwhelming fear of failing.
--- --- ---
Part 51: It's just a rough patch. Okay?
You are one breakdown away from walking out. Jack has seen worse - and he's not letting you fall apart.
--- --- ---
Part 52: If you think I'm helicoptering - he's next level
You hit your limit last night. Today you pick yourself back up- with help, of course.
--- --- ---
Part 53: She's totally judging you
A quiet afternoon, a gentle conversation... and Lizzie having opinions
--- --- ---
Part 54: I don't need an audience
An intimate moment gets unexpectedly interrupted.
--- --- ---
Part 55: Good call, labeling your boss the department slut
Lizzie is already a few months old but that doesn't stop the Pitt crew from throwing a party.
--- --- ---
Part 56: I think that's a bad idea, girl
When the nights get too overwhelming, you find yourself reaching out for help. But some things are easier to hide than to explain.
--- --- ---
Part 57: I thought things were going well
Too many things left unsaid, one moment too far - and suddenly the damage is real. (Aka Jack fucks up tremendously.)
--- --- ---
Interlude II:
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part IV)
Jack's in therapy. It gets uncomfortable fast.
--- --- ---
Part 58: Please tell me she insulted you
Brunch again. Jack has a conversation with Robby that's uncomfortable - for at least one of them.
--- --- ---
Part 59: Must be a world record with only one-and-a-half legs
Sometimes tough conversations really are just a walk in the park. (With Robby of all people.)
--- --- ---
Interlude III:
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part V)
Therapy again. That's the plot.
--- --- ---
Part 60: We're okay. So let's be... okay
A small breakdown, a quiet reset - and the work begins.
--- --- ---
Interlude IV:
Let's talk about it (The Couple Sessions - Part I)
Jack takes his therapist's advice… and you end up in couples therapy.
--- --- ---
Part 61: And sorry I'm not a woman you could hit on
When you and Jack plan your first baby-free night out, you find a babysitter. It's not Robby - and he takes it personally.
--- --- ---
Part 62: Maybe they think we're having an affair
No baby. No chaos. Just them, wine, bad joked - and a piece of Jacks past that no one was supposed to know.
--- --- ---
Part 63: That was the funniest thing you ever said
You were just going to do some laundry. Instead you find something Jack’s been hiding - cue a misunderstanding, a minor crisis and Jack trying (very badly) to be responsible.
--- --- ---
Part 64: Don't do that, girl. Some of us had a rough shift
Lizzies first Thanksgiving: an extra guest, a questionable amount of food, a brief deep dive into systemic issues and a resident performing turkey surgery. Karaoke may or may not be involved.
--- --- ---
Bonus chapter: robbby forced me. 0/10 expeirence. miss you.
Karaoke.
--- --- ---
Part 65: I feel like we missed a memo
Plan: sexy breakfast for boyfriend. Reality: boyfriend brings coworkers.
--- --- ---
Part 66: So, we are negotiating with terrorists now?
Jack Abbot, experienced medical professional, outsmarted and emotionally manipulated by a baby with strong opinions and excellent grip strength.
--- --- ---
Part 67: I think I could use your help too
Jack runs into his therapist in public and is forced to watch Robby hit on her in real time.
--- --- ---
Part 68: I'm working nights over Christmas, by the way
Jack reveals he's working over Christmas turning a simple holiday plan into a quiet but painful argument.
--- --- ---
Interlude V:
Tell Me About It (The Jack Sessions - Part VI)
Jack is in serious need of therapy today
--- --- ---
Part 69: I just need a break
Jack tells you the real reason he chose to work Christmas. It goes about as well as you'd expect.
--- --- ---
Part 70: That's not a win. That's a warning
Jack has a therapist. And then he has Robby. Reality checks included. Coffee optional.
--- --- ---
Bonus chapter: A knee to the balls would probably fix that dick-swinging behavior
What happens after you walk out on Jack - and before you go back to face him? Well… the answer’s simple: A much-needed girl talk. (And wine.)
--- --- ---
Part 71: That is emotional bullshit with fake snow
Christmas arrives. You expect the worst - and get something better anyway
--- --- ---
Part 72: I'm a big girl, you know?
Jack is late. And this time you don’t wait.
--- --- ---
Part 73: Not now, Lizzie. Daddy needs his hands free to sort that guy out
In the weird limbo after Christmas, you decide to throw a New Year’s Eve party - complete with too many guests, a little harmless flirting and the ongoing challenge of keeping Robby away from Mara.
--- --- ---
Part 74: She's doing coke with some guy in the bathroom
“It's just a few days.” Turns out a few days is more than enough for Jack to realize what he actually wants - and what he might be losing.
--- --- ---
Interlude VI:
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part V)
It's day five of your absence and Jack has another therapy session - one that’s very much needed and emotionally charged.
--- --- ---
Bonus chapter: Tell me again - why didn't you bring Jack?
You were looking forward to some alone time with your mom - until she called you out.
--- --- ---
Part 75: You're really not making this easy for me, huh?
You come home. Nothing is fully fixed - but it's a start.
--- --- ---
Part 76: Can I ask you something?
Coffee, communication and the quiet realization that you're actually going to make this work.
--- --- ---
Interlude VII:
What the hell are you working on?
Jack at the gym. A very short interlude.
--- --- ---
Part 77: But boy, I guess he’s a disaster on the inside
A much mneeded girls night and an unexpected visitor. Tumbler included.
--- --- ---
Interlude VIII:
:)
Some texts between Robby and you.
--- --- ---
Interlude IX:
Inter-Interlude: Your best friend is completely unhinged
A word (or many) from the author: so I decided to make an account for my non-Bucky Barnes fics to live. I am trying to keep @mixedfandomfics and @buckybarnesfic as reblog accounts as much as possible.
Anyways, this is my first fic for Brendon Park. I wrote this when I was supposed to be working. For some background: Brendon and Reader are the same age (about 40) to keep it fairly canon. They do have two additional off-screen children.
I don't know how to write toddler speak without the child sounding dumb so use your imagination there.
Word count: 580
Summary: Brendon gets a call in the middle of surgery.
Find it on AO3
Brendon wouldn't say he was 'jamming out' during the surgery but he was enjoying the music playing overhead while he worked. This was not a routine scheduled knee or hip replacement; this was an unfortunate individual who had been trying to get home when someone else decided to drive recklessly and caused a massive accident. Brendon didn't worry about the clock but he knew he'd be here another hour at least.
A voice interrupted Brendon's focus, "Dr. Park, your wife is calling," the circulating nurse, Emily, called to him.
He had texted you before the surgery not to expect him home anytime soon. "Go ahead and answer it," he responded, looking over to the nurse for her nod that he could speak. "Hey sweetheart, you're on speaker phone."
His family was no secret to the staff of the OR. He had photos in his office of his family. The only ones that were ever surprised were the new students or anyone from another department that happened to come into his office.
"Sorry to interrupt but uh … it's time for Goodnight Moon," you said hesitantly.
Brendon paused his movements before letting out a small sigh. "No reasoning with the enemy?"
"I tried, baby. I knew you were tied up. But he's three."
Brendon nodded despite you not being able to see it. Three year olds didn't see reasoning or logic at times. He knew you would have done anything else to have avoided calling while he was working. Texting was different; he'd respond when he could. "Alright, let's go."
As you switched to speaker phone on your end, he heard you say, "Daddy's on the phone. He'll read the story."
Brendon chose to ignore the looks exchanged between the staff. He had read Goodnight Moon every night for a solid year. Other books were often in addition to Goodnight Moon, but it was a mandatory read. He could recite it in his sleep.
"HI DADDY!" a loud voice exclaimed.
"Shh," you said. "Daddy can hear you without yelling."
"Hi, buddy. You got your book?"
"Yeah and Bunny," he said referring to the bunny plush that came with the book.
"Good. In the great green room, there was a telephone and a red balloon, and a picture of -"
"Cow jump over the moon!" His son said happily. Brendon wasn't the only one who had this book memorized.
"Hey, who's reading this story? Me or you?"
"Daddy!"
"That's right," Brendon said. "And there were three little bears sitting on chairs, and two little kittens-"
"And a pair of mittens," the little voice wasn't quite so loud now as he listened to his dad's voice.
Brendon continued on. "And a little toy house, and a young mouse. And a comb and a brush and a bowl full of mush." Brendon paused to see if there would be an interruption. "And a quiet old lady whispering 'hush'," he said the last word in a loud whisper.
"Goodnight room, goodnight moon…" Brendon recited even though the other side of the phone had gone very quiet. Finally he finished and he listened for any stirring.
"He didn't make it past 'goodnight bears'" your whispered voice came over the line. "I'll see you when you get home. I love you."
"Love you too, give the kids a hug for me," he nodded to Emily to end the call. After the phone call ended, it was business as usual. Gone was Brendon the Dad and Dr. Park returned.
Summary: A night out with Robby, Santos, Whitaker, Javadi, and Mel takes a turn when you get drunk, refuse to leave the bar, and start loudly demanding to know where your husband is. Santos calls Jack. Jack arrives. Unfortunately for everyone in the bar, you are drunk and do not immediately recognize him as your husband.
Warnings: alcohol use, drunk reader, suggestive jokes, reader being extremely horny for her own husband, Jack being responsible and not engaging sexually while reader is drunk, soft caretaking, lots of teasing, lots of “hell yeah.”
Author's Note:
I don’t know what to tell you. Sometimes a woman gets drunk, forgets she is married, and tries to hit on her own husband in public. Sometimes that husband happens to be Jack Abbot. Sometimes he has to provide ring verification every five minutes while trying to get her to drink water.
This is love.
Xoxo, Del
By the time Santos called Jack, you had been singing for twenty-three minutes.
Not continuously.
There had been pauses.
Important pauses.
One pause to tell Robby he was doing the background vocals wrong. Another to inform Whitaker that his attempt to close the tab was “emotionally hostile.” Another to point at a man near the jukebox and announce, with deep conviction, that he was not your husband because your husband had better shoulders.
Mel had tried water.
Javadi had tried fries.
Whitaker had tried logistics.
Robby had tried joining in, which had only made everything worse.
And Santos, because she had the glare of a woman who had spent years keeping doctors from making stupid choices, and no patience left, finally pulled out her phone.
You were standing beside the booth with one hand braced on the table, swaying to the beat of a song that was no longer playing.
“Baby! Woo-hoo, where the hell is my husband? Woo-hoo! What is takin' him so long to find me? Woo-hoo!”
Robby lifted both hands as if he were conducting you. “Great projection.”
Santos pointed at him. “Stop encouraging her.”
Robby shrugged, “She’s an artist.”
“She is refusing to leave a bar because she thinks her husband has been misplaced,” Santos replied.
You turned sharply. Too sharply. Mel caught your elbow before gravity could make a compelling argument.
“He is not misplaced,” you said.
Santos lowered the phone slightly. “No?”
You frowned, “He is missing.”
Javadi nodded from the end of the booth, phone in hand, filming with the calm detachment of someone documenting history. “The distinction is important.”
Whitaker rubbed both hands over his face. “It is not.”
You slapped one palm gently against the table. “My husband is handsome and tall and sexy and has doctor hands.”
Robby leaned toward Mel. “Doctor's hands is specific.”
Mel nodded. “And accurate.”
“And,” you continued, because you were not finished and everyone needed to understand the scale of the emergency, “he has very serious pecs.”
Santos closed her eyes.
Robby whispered, “Here we go.”
You pointed at him. “Respect the pecs.”
“I do,” Robby said immediately.
Whitaker slid your glass of water toward you. “Can we respect the pecs from the parking lot?”
You shake your head quickly, “No.”
“Why?” He groans.
You point towards the door, “Because my husband is not in the parking lot.”
Santos pressed Jack’s contact and lifted the phone to her ear.
You gasped. “Are you calling him?”
She nodded, “Yes.”
“No!” You exclaimed.
Santos looked at you. “No?”
You shook your head, “I don’t want to call him.”
“You have been singing for him for twenty-three minutes,” Santos said.
You rolled your eyes like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “I want him to appear.”
Robby slapped the table once. “That is marriage.”
Santos ignored him and turned slightly away as the call connected.
Jack answered on the second ring. “Everything okay?”
His voice came through low and alert, and you froze.
Santos looked at you.
You stared at her phone like it had become sacred.
“Abbot,” Santos said.
There was a small pause on the other end. “Santos?”
“You busy?” She asks.
“At home.” Jack’s voice sharpened. “Is she okay?”
You grabbed Mel’s wrist and whispered very loudly, “Is that my husband?”
Mel patted your hand. “Yes, honey.”
You looked down at your left hand.
Your wedding rings gleamed under the warm bar lights.
You gasped. “I have wife jewelry.”
Robby bent forward with a wheeze. “Wife jewelry.”
On the phone, Jack went quiet. “What was that?”
Santos looked at you as you lifted your hand in front of your face and admired your rings with genuine awe.
“She is okay,” Santos said carefully.
Jack exhaled. “Define okay.”
You turned toward the booth again, apparently remembering your mission. “Oh, baby, where the hell is my lover?” You pick up your song.
Jack went silent.
Robby threw his head back and supplied a terrible echo. “Woo-hoo!”
Santos pinched the bridge of her nose.
Jack said, “Is that her?”
“No,” Santos said. “That is the jukebox haunting me.”
Jack sighed, “Santos.”
“Yes, that’s her.”
“Is she hurt?” He asked.
“No.”
“Sick?” He continued.
“No.”
Jack exhaled, “Crying?”
You pointed at a man near the pool table. “Not him. My husband has a better ass.”
Mel covered her mouth with a hand.
Santos stared at the ceiling. “No. Not crying.”
There was a pause.
Then Jack said, dry as hell, “Did she say something about my ass?”
Robby lunged across the table, trying to get closer to the phone. “Tell him she said better.”
Santos shoved his forehead back with two fingers. “She is refusing to leave until her husband comes to collect her.”
You leaned toward Santos’s phone. “Tell him to wear the gray sweatpants.”
Santos pulled the phone away from you. “Absolutely not.”
Jack made a sound that might have been a cough. “I’m leaving now. Send me the address.” He was already moving.
“All right,” Santos said. “I’ll send it.”
In the background, Robby shouted, “Tell him she’s been reviewing his ass for twenty minutes!”
Jack went silent again.
Santos closed her eyes. “I’m hanging up now.”
You reached toward the phone. “Wait, I want to talk to him.”
“No,” Santos said, ending the call.
Your lower lip trembled, “But he’s missing.”
“He’s on his way.” She told you.
That stopped you. Your mouth fell open. “He’s coming?”
Santos slid her phone into her pocket. “Yes.”
You laid a hand on your chest, “To me?”
“Yes.” Trinity nodded.
You pressed both hands to your cheeks. “Oh, fuck.”
Whitaker nodded toward the door. “Great. Now we can go.”
“No,” you said immediately.
His shoulders dropped. “Why not?”
You looked at him like he had just asked the stupidest question in recorded history. “I have to be here when my husband appears.”
Robby raised one hand. “I support her.”
Santos snapped, “No one asked you.”
You sat back down in the booth and folded your hands on the table like you were waiting for a job interview.
Mel slid the water toward you again. “Drink some water while you wait.”
You stared at the glass.
Then at Mel.
Then at Santos.
“What if he gets here and I’m drinking water?” You ask.
Javadi tilted her head. “Would that be bad?”
You frowned, thinking hard. “No. Hydration is sexy.”
Whitaker looked at the ceiling. “Thank God.”
You picked up the glass, took one sip, and set it down with a proud nod.
Then you leaned toward Robby. “Do you think he knows he’s my husband?”
Robby’s face lit with dangerous joy.
Santos pointed at him. “Do not.”
Robby held up both hands. “I didn’t say anything.”
Her eyes narrowed, “You were about to.”
Robby frowned deeply, “I have never done anything wrong in my life.”
Javadi looked up from her phone. “There are videos.”
You tapped your rings against the table, watching them sparkle. “I’m going to ask him.”
Mel smiled. “Ask him what?”
“If he’s my husband.” You answer.
Whitaker muttered, “This will be efficient.”
“It will not,” Santos said.
And it wasn’t.
Because when Jack walked in seven minutes later, everything in you stopped working.
He came through the door in jeans, sneakers, and a dark hoodie under his jacket, like he had pulled on the first clothes he found and driven over without thinking about anything except getting to you. His hair was messy, his expression serious, and his eyes scanned the bar once before landing on your booth.
On you.
You stopped mid-hum.
Your hand tightened around Mel’s wrist. “Oh no.”
Mel followed your gaze. “What?”
You pointed. “That man has pecs like my husband’s.”
Robby twisted in his seat so fast he nearly knocked over Whitaker’s drink.
Santos sighed. “That man is your husband.”
You shook your head slowly, eyes fixed on Jack as he crossed the bar. “No.”
Javadi kept filming. “Denial phase.”
Jack reached the table and looked you over first, quick and clinical, because he was Jack. No visible injury. No tears. No panic. Just you, drunk and bright-eyed and staring at him like he had been sent from some divine catalog of bad ideas.
His shoulders eased. “Hey, baby.”
You blinked. Then slowly turned to Santos. “He called me baby.”
She nodded slowly, “Because he is your husband.”
You whipped back toward him. “You are?”
Jack’s mouth twitched.
He lifted his left hand without hesitation.
His wedding band caught the bar light.
You looked down at your own rings.
Then back at his.
Then at your rings again. “Oh, my god.”
Jack’s face softened. “Yeah?”
You beam. “We match.”
“We do.” He replied.
You looked him up and down, with a long pause at his chest. “Hell yeah.”
Robby slammed both hands on the table. “And we’re off.”
Jack pointed at him without looking away from you. “Don’t.”
You leaned toward Mel, still staring at Jack. “He has very serious pecs.”
Jack closed his eyes for half a second.
Mel’s shoulders shook. “I know, honey.”
“Do you think he works out?” You whispered to Trinity.
Santos answered before Jack could. “Occasionally.”
You nodded solemnly. “It’s working.”
Jack opened his eyes. “Okay. Time to go.”
You frowned. Then looked him up and down again. “Hey, soldier.”
The whole booth went quiet.
Jack stared at you.
Santos slowly turned her head. “Oh, my god.”
You gave Jack what you clearly thought was a seductive smile. “You come here often?”
Jack’s mouth twitched again, despite his best efforts. “To retrieve my drunk wife from a bar? No.”
Your eyes went wide. “Wife?”
He lifted his hand again.
You looked at his ring.
Then yours.
Your whole face lit up. “Hell yeah.”
Javadi, still filming, said, “The verification system remains functional.”
Jack looked at her phone. “Are you recording?”
“Yes.” She answered instantly.
Jack groans, “Why?”
“Documentation,” Victoria answered.
“It’s behavioral science,” Robby added.
Jack ignored all of them and reached for the water glass instead of you. “Drink.”
You froze. Then you sat up straighter, eyes suddenly sharp with drunk discovery. “Huh.”
Jack paused. “Huh?”
You pointed at him. “Attending voice.”
Robby made a delighted noise. “Oh, she clocked it.”
Jack gave him a flat look. “Do not participate.”
You leaned toward Santos, whispering very loudly. “He said drink like he was about to order labs.”
Santos nodded. “He did.”
“I did not,” Jack said.
Mel patted your shoulder. “You kind of did.”
Jack pushed the glass closer. “Three sips.”
Your lips parted. “Oh, fuck me.”
Jack closed his eyes. “Please just drink the water.”
You picked up the glass with both hands, still staring at him. “You’re very bossy for a stranger.”
Jack opened his eyes. “I’m not a stranger.”
You narrowed your eyes.
Then you looked down at your rings again.
Jack lifted his hand.
You inspected his wedding band with deep seriousness.
“Right,” you said. “Husband.”
“Yes,” Jack confirmed.
You took one sip.
Jack nodded once. “Good.”
You set the glass down too hard. “No.”
His brow furrowed. “No?”
“You can’t say ‘good’ with attending voice.” You frowned.
Robby dropped his forehead onto the table. “She’s right.”
Jack pointed at him. “Not another word.”
You finished the water because Jack stood there with crossed arms and serious eyes, and the world had become a place where hydration was suddenly compelling.
When you set the glass down, Jack picked up your coat. “Arm.”
You inhaled sharply.
Santos pointed at him. “That one was attending voice.”
Jack’s jaw flexed. “I need her arm in the sleeve.”
You looked at him, dazed. “You need my arm?”
Jack took a slow breath. “Baby.”
You melted back against the booth. “Oh, Jackie.”
That got him. Just a little. His expression shifted, the stern line of his mouth almost breaking.
Santos saw it immediately. “Don’t reward her.”
“I’m not rewarding her,” Jack said.
“You liked Jackie,” Santos replied.
Jack held the coat open and looked at you. “Arm.”
You stared at him. Then slid one arm into the sleeve. “Bossy.”
He guided the coat around your shoulders. “Other arm.”
You looked at Mel. “He wants the other one too.”
Mel nodded, fighting for her life. “Coats usually do.”
You gave Jack your other arm. He pulled the coat into place and zipped it halfway with careful, practical hands. You looked down at the zipper. Then up at him. “That was hot.”
“It was a zipper.” Jack deadpanned.
You sighed happily, “You did it like a procedure.”
Robby lifted his head. “Sterile field: wife edition.”
Jack did not turn around. “Robby.”
“Sorry.” Robby lowered his head once more.
Santos stood and grabbed her bag. “We are leaving before she proposes to him.”
You froze. Then your head turned slowly toward Jack. “I proposed?”
Jack’s expression softened at once. “No, baby.” He lifted his left hand before you could even ask, wedding band, catching the bar light. “I proposed.”
You looked down at your rings. Then at his. Then up at him, stunned and pleased and drunk-happy. “You wanted to marry me?”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Still do.”
Your whole face lit up. “Hell yeah.”
Robby dropped his forehead back to the table. “They’re disgusting.”
Jack crouched slightly in front of you and offered his hand. “Stand up.”
The booth went silent. You stared at him. Then you looked at Santos. “Attending voice.”
Santos nodded. “Full attending voice.”
Jack’s eyes flicked briefly to the ceiling. “I am trying to get you upright.”
You nodded, “You’re doing it with authority.”
“You are drunk in public,” Jack replied.
You clicked your tongue, “You’re hot in public.”
Mel made a small sound into her hand.
Jack’s ears went faintly pink.
You saw it. “Oh my god,” you whispered. “Jackie’s blushing.”
Jack shook his head, “I am not.”
“You are.” You squeal with delight.
Jack’s hand stayed steady in front of you. “Up.”
You pressed one hand dramatically to your chest. “Fuck.”
Santos stood and grabbed her bag. “We are leaving before she discovers a military kink.”
Jack’s head snapped up. “Santos.”
She shrugged, “What? She’s halfway there.”
You tilted your head, considering. “A what?”
“Nope.” Jack took your hand and helped you stand. “We’re going home.”
For one glorious second, you were upright and triumphant.
Then the room tilted. Jack caught you by the waist.
Your entire body went still. “Oh, fuck.”
“Balance,” he said.
You stared up at him. “You said that like an order.”
“It was an explanation,” Jack replied.
You smiled up at him, “Do it again.”
“No,” Jack answered immediately.
Robby lifted his head. “She’s not wrong.”
Jack’s eyes cut to him.
Robby lowered his head again. “Withdrawn.”
You touched Jack’s chest lightly with one finger. “Responsible soldier husband.”
Jack looked down at your hand. Then at your face. “Doctor husband. Former soldier.”
You nodded solemnly. “Doctor husband with command voice.”
Mel laughed into her hand.
Jack took a slow breath. “Arm over my shoulder.”
Your eyes went wide. “Jackie.”
“Arm,” he repeated, then pointed to his shoulder. “Here.”
You looked at Santos. “He pointed.”
“I saw.” She answered.
You licked your lips. “He pointed and said here.”
Trinity nodded solemnly, “You’re going to survive.”
You shook your head furiously, “You don’t know that.”
Jack guided your arm over his shoulders.
You held on to him and immediately looked delighted. “I’m touching him.”
Santos nodded. “You are.”
“Legally?” You asked, looking to Jack, bright and hopeful.
Jack lifted his left hand in front of your face.
You checked his ring. Then yours. “Hell yeah.”
Jack slid an arm around your waist and pulled you carefully against his side.
You went very still. Then you looked down at his arm. “Oh, fuck me.”
Jack sighed. “Please walk.”
You looked up at him, eyes wide and delighted. “Can you say it again, but like bossier?”
“No,” Jack said.
“Absolutely not,” Santos said at the same time.
Robby lifted his head just enough to gasp for air. “I can’t believe it. This is foreplay with witnesses.”
Jack pointed at him without loosening his hold on you. “Not foreplay.”
You leaned into his side and whispered loudly. “But later?”
Jack closed his eyes. “You’re drunk.”
You nodded, “But later, when I’m not drunk?”
“Later,” Santos said quickly, “is between you, Jack, and God.”
Javadi nodded. “And possibly the HOA, depending on volume.”
You looked at Jack. “Do we have an HOA?”
He shook his head, “No.”
You leaned closer to him, “Then later?”
Jack’s jaw tightened. “Walk.”
You inhaled sharply. “Oh, that was better.”
Santos threw both hands up. “Door. Now.”
Jack started moving.
You went with him, tucked carefully into his side, one arm over his shoulders, his arm secure around your waist, your coat half-zipped and your dignity somewhere under the booth.
You made it three steps before he said, “Watch your feet.”
You looked up at him. “Attending voice.”
“Safety voice.” He corrected.
You shrugged, “They’re cousins.”
“Eyes forward,” Jack replied.
You sighed dramatically, “Oh fuck me, that one too.”
Santos followed behind you, laughing now despite herself. “This is the worst evacuation I’ve ever seen.”
Jack kept you tucked firmly against his side. “It is not an evacuation.”
“You’re using evacuation posture,” you said.
He looked down at you.
You smiled up at him, drunk and delighted. “I like it.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “I know.”
Halfway to the door, you twisted carefully to look back at the table.
“Everybody be cool,” you announced. “I’m leaving with my husband.”
Robby raised both hands. “Hell yeah, Mrs. Abbot.”
You stopped.
Jack stopped with you, patient but visibly suffering.
You looked down at your rings.
Then grabbed his left hand and checked his.
The band was still there.
You smiled, delighted all over again. “Hell yeah.”
Jack’s face softened.
Then you glanced behind him one more time.
“And he has a great ass!” You cheer.
Jack immediately started walking again.
“Goodnight,” he called over his shoulder.
Santos waved. “Hydrate her.”
Mel added, “Text when you get home.”
Whitaker pointed at Jack. “Do not let her order fries.”
You gasped. “Traitor.”
Javadi lifted her glass. “The record will show we tried.”
Robby cupped his hands around his mouth. “Ask him to walk bossier!”
Jack pushed the door open with his shoulder and guided you into the cool night air.
The second the air hit your face, you sighed dramatically and leaned a little more heavily into his side.
Jack adjusted his hold. “You okay?”
You looked up at him.
The bar lights spilled behind him, catching the edge of his jaw, the tired concern in his face, the little pinch between his brows that meant he was trying to figure out if you needed water, food, sleep, or all three.
Your drunk brain, unhelpfully, sorted those options into one category.
Husband.
“Jack?” You asked quietly.
Jack looked down at you, “Yeah, baby?”
“You’re really my husband?” You whispered the question.
He lifted his left hand between you before you even asked.
You looked at his ring.
Then down at yours.
Then up at him.
Your smile went soft and bright and drunk-happy. “Hell yeah.”
Jack shook his head, but he was smiling now. “Yeah,” he said, guiding you toward the car. “Hell yeah.”
You made it halfway across the parking lot before you stopped again.
Jack looked down. “What?”
You stared at him very seriously. “You came when I sang.”
His mouth twitched. “Santos called.”
“But I sang.” You persisted.
Jack nodded, “You did.”
“And you appeared.” You added with delight.
“I did,” Jack replied.
You nodded, deeply moved. “Powerful.”
Jack opened the passenger door and kept one hand at your back. “In.”
You looked at the seat. Then at him. “I like it when you give directions.”
Jack almost smiled, “I have noticed.”
“Can you say ‘in’ again?” You asked, looking up at him.
His answer comes quickly, “No.”
“Meaner?” You tried.
This answer was faster: “Absolutely not.”
You sighed and got into the car anyway, mostly because Jack’s hand was warm at your back and he looked like that, and you were only human.
He leaned across you to buckle your seatbelt.
You went very still.
Jack paused immediately. “Okay?”
You nodded, eyes wide. “You smell good.”
He huffed a quiet laugh and clicked the seatbelt into place. “You’re drunk.”
“You smell good when I’m drunk.” You amended.
Jack shook his head, “That’s not how that works.”
“It is for me.” You replied with a happy shrug.
Jack braced one hand on the roof of the car and looked down at you.
His expression was amused. Tired. Fond in a way he would absolutely deny if Robby had been there to witness it. “You need water when we get home.”
You pointed at him. “Bossy.”
“You need sleep.” He added.
You smiled. “Oh, fuck.”
“And no flirting with me until you can walk in a straight line.” Jack continued.
Your mouth fell open. “You’re denying your wife?”
Jack held up his left hand.
You looked at his ring automatically.
Then at yours.
The distress vanished.
You nodded, “Hell yeah.”
He smiled despite himself. “And yes. I’m denying my drunk wife.”
You considered that, then nodded slowly. “Responsible husband.”
He smiled softly, “Trying to be.”
You looked him up and down from your seat. “Hot.”
Jack shut the door before you could say anything else. You watched him walk around the front of the car. The parking lot lights were doing very good things to him. His shoulders. His hoodie. His jeans. When he opened the driver’s side door, you were still staring.
He slid in and caught your expression immediately. “No.”
You frowned deeply, “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to,” Jack commented.
You looked out the windshield, dignified. “I was admiring privately.”
You looked at his hands on the steering wheel. “Oh, fuck.”
He closed his eyes. “Baby.”
You looked down at your rings.
Then, at his hand on the wheel, wedding band visible under the passing sweep of the parking lot light.
“You called me baby.” You sighed happily.
He pulled out of the parking space. “I’m your husband.”
You smiled at his ring. “Hell yeah.”
The drive home was mostly quiet. Mostly.
You hummed under your breath until Jack, without looking away from the road, said, “No more husband song.”
You turned your head toward him. “I like it when you’re bossy.”
“I know.” He replied.
You sat up straighter, “Say something else.”
“No.”
“That was something.” You mumbled.
He sighed.
You smiled out the window like you had won.
By the time he pulled into the driveway, your energy had softened around the edges. The feral husband appreciation was still there, obviously, because Jack existed and you had eyes, but it had gone warm and sleepy.
Less bar announcement.
More gravity.
Jack came around to your side and opened the door.
You looked up at him.
He looked down at you. “Out.”
Your mouth parted.
Jack pointed at you. “Do not.”
You pressed your lips together, nodding seriously. Then whispered, “Attending voice.”
He helped you out anyway.
You wobbled once on the driveway, and his hand found your waist immediately.
You leaned into him. “Good catch.”
He gave you a little grin, “Good wobble.”
You gasped. “You praised me.”
“I should not have,” Jack replied, regretting his choice immediately.
You smiled up at him, “I liked it.”
Jack looked down at you, “I know.”
Inside, the house was dim and quiet. Jack locked the door behind you, then turned back to find you standing in the entryway, looking down at your left hand again.
He leaned one shoulder against the wall. “Checking?”
You lifted your rings toward the hall light. “Still married.”
Jack held up his left hand. His wedding band gleamed.
Your smile went loose and delighted. “Hell yeah.”
He took your coat off first.
Not because you helped.
You did not help.
You got distracted halfway through by the flex of his forearm when he pulled the sleeve down your arm. “Oh, fuck.”
Jack paused. “What?”
You didn’t look up, “Your arm.”
“My arm is removing your coat,” Jack said.
“Yeah.” You stared at it. “That’s the problem.”
Jack exhaled through his nose and hung your coat on the hook. “Kitchen.”
You looked at him sharply. “Attending voice.”
Jack sighed, “I’m getting you water.”
“You said kitchen like an order.” You argued.
Jack inhaled, “It was a destination.”
“A hot destination.” You corrected him.
He pointed down the hall. “Move.”
You inhaled. “Jackie.”
“No.” He said instantly.
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.” You said with a whine.
Jack gave you a look, “I do.”
You followed him anyway, because his hand settled at the small of your back and your drunk brain apparently classified that as a life-altering event.
At the kitchen counter, he gave you more water and two crackers.
You stared at the crackers. Then up at him. “Are you feeding me?”
“I am preventing tomorrow from being worse,” Jack replied.
Your eyes went wide and affectionate, “You provide.”
“I provide saltines.” Jack amended.
You picked one up and took a dramatic bite. “Sexy.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Chew.”
You froze. Then pointed at him with the cracker. “Attending voice.”
Jack tilted his head, “Chewing is not optional.”
“Oh, my god.” You fan yourself with the cracker.
He dragged a hand down his face. “Please eat the cracker.”
You did, mostly because he watched you with that serious, focused Jack expression, and you had already learned at the bar that being perceived by your husband while he gave basic instructions was dangerous.
After water and crackers, he got you upstairs.
Barely.
There was a brief negotiation on the landing because you stopped to admire his butt from a lower step and whispered, “Perspective,” like you had made a scientific discovery.
Jack looked over his shoulder. “Keep walking.”
You gripped the railing. “Attending voice.”
“Stairs voice.” He corrected you.
You shrugged, “Same family.”
When you finally reached the bathroom, Jack set your makeup remover, toothbrush, and face wash on the counter as if he were preparing for a procedure.
You leaned against the doorframe and watched him. “You’re setting up supplies.”
Jack nodded, “I am.”
“Like an attending.” You add.
“Like a husband who knows you’ll sleep in mascara if I don’t help,” Jack replied.
You gasped and looked down at your rings.
Jack lifted his left hand immediately.
You checked. Satisfied, you nodded. “Verified.”
He handed you a makeup wipe. “Face.”
You took it, then blinked. “Huh.”
Jack’s eyebrows lifted. “What?”
“You said face.” You answered.
Jack nodded, “I did.”
“Very direct.” You replied with a crooked smile.
Jack looks over your face, “You have makeup on it.”
You touched the wipe to your cheek, still watching him. “Bossy skincare husband.”
Jack leaned back against the counter and folded his arms. That was a mistake.
You stared at his chest.
He noticed. “Face,” he repeated.
You closed your eyes. “That was worse.”
“Makeup off.” He tried again.
You threw your head back in defeat, “Oh, fuck.”
He held out his hand. “Give me the wipe.”
You handed it over without thinking. Jack stepped closer and gently tipped your chin up with two fingers. The bathroom went very quiet. He wiped beneath one eye with slow, careful strokes, his other hand steady at your jaw. His face was close enough that you could see the tired fondness in his eyes.
You swallowed. “Jackie.”
His thumb stilled for half a second. “Yeah?”
“You’re really good at this.” You whispered.
He smiled softly, “At taking off mascara?”
“At being mine.” You said, almost breathless.
His expression softened.
Then, because you were drunk and incapable of letting tenderness survive unbothered, you added, “Also, your pecs are close.”
Jack closed his eyes. “There she is.”
You smiled.
He finished with your makeup, then handed you your toothbrush.
“Toothpaste,” he said.
You looked at the toothbrush. Then at him in the mirror. “Attending voice.”
“Toothpaste voice.”
You brushed your teeth while glaring at him with exaggerated suspicion.
Jack watched you in the mirror, arms crossed, trying and failing not to smile.
When you finished, he pointed to the sink. “Spit.”
You blinked around the toothbrush. Then slowly looked at him. “Jack.”
“What?” He asked.
Your eyes widened, “You can’t just say spit like that.”
His jaw tightened. Not anger. A smile he was trying to kill. “I am asking you to brush your teeth.”
“You are issuing commands in a bathroom.” You say, mouth foamy.
Jack looked down at your mouth, “You have toothpaste in your mouth.”
You pointed the toothbrush at him. “Dangerous.”
“Sink.” He commanded.
“Oh, fuck.” You spat, rinsed, and accepted the towel he handed you.
“Good,” he said.
You pressed the towel to your mouth and froze.
He sighed immediately. “I forgot.”
“You said good.” You grinned.
He sighed again, “I did.”
“With the voice.” You say, eyebrows raised.
Jack shrugged, “It slipped.”
You lowered the towel and pointed at him. “Dangerous.”
“Bed,” he said.
You stared. “Jack.”
He pointed toward the bedroom. “Now.”
Your mouth dropped open. “Oh, fuck me.”
Jack muttered something under his breath and guided you into the bedroom.
He found one of his old T-shirts and a pair of sleep shorts from your drawer. Then he turned back to you, clothes in hand. “Can I help?”
You looked at the shirt. Then at him. Then down at your rings.
Jack lifted his hand before you could ask. You checked his wedding band.
“Okay,” you said. “Husband verified.”
He nodded once, “Good.”
You pointed at him immediately. “You did that on purpose.”
“I did not.” He replies innocently.
You pouted, “You weaponized good.”
“I am trying to get you into pajamas,” Jack replied.
Your frown deepened, “Domestic warfare.”
He helped you sit on the edge of the bed. Then he crouched in front of you and touched the hem of your top. “Arms up.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Is this a trick?”
He smiled, “No.”
Your brow furrows, “Because I’m drunk.”
“Exactly.” Jack agreed.
You look at him suspiciously, “You’re not going to be weird.”
“I’m not going to be weird,” Jack promised.
You leaned closer, whispering with great seriousness. “I might be weird.”
His mouth twitched. “I know.”
You lifted your arms.
Jack changed you with the careful efficiency of a man determined not to let his drunk wife turn pajamas into a legal incident. Shirt off, sleep shirt on. No lingering. No teasing. No letting his eyes go where drunk you absolutely wanted them to go.
Which, naturally, offended you. “You’re very respectful.”
“I try,” Jack replied.
You groan, “It’s annoying.”
“I know.” He said.
You sighed, “It’s hot.”
“I know that too.” He said with a smile.
He helped you step into the shorts while you held both hands on his shoulders for balance.
The second your palms settled there, you sighed. “Shoulders.”
“Balance,” Jack corrected.
“Shoulders.” You repeated dreamily.
He pulled the shorts up to your hips and patted your side once. “Done.”
You looked down at yourself. Then at him. “You dressed me.”
Jack shrugged, “I helped.”
“You’re like a sexy pit crew.” You say with a wink.
Jack stared at you.
You nodded, pleased with yourself. “Fast. Focused. Good with hands.”
He stood and pointed at the bed. “Lie down.”
Your eyes went wide. “Attending voice.”
He continued to point, “Bed.”
You looked at him desperately, “Oh, Jackie.”
“Do not make bed weird.” He groaned.
You pouted, “You made it weird when you pointed.”
He pulled the blanket back. “In.”
You climbed under the covers, mostly because the single syllable nearly took you out.
Jack tucked the blanket around your waist, then set the water on the nightstand.
“You need sleep,” he said.
You looked up at him, suddenly softer. “You’re staying?”
His expression shifted. “Yeah, baby. I’m staying.”
You looked down at your rings one more time. Then reached for his hand.
Jack gave it to you.
You checked his wedding band, slower now, your thumb brushing over the metal.
“You proposed?”
He sat on the edge of the bed beside you. “I proposed.”
“And I said yes?” You asked happily.
His mouth softened. “You said yes.”
You smiled, sleepy and bright. “Hell yeah.”
Jack leaned down and kissed your forehead.
“No sex,” You murmured. “I’m drunk.”
Jack huffed a laugh against your temple, “I know, baby.”
Your eyes closed. “It sucks, though, because you have amazing pecs. And a great ass.”
He laughed quietly and brushed your hair away from your face. “Go to sleep.”
You sighed into the pillow. “Attending voice.”
“Husband voice,” he corrected, softer.
Your smile was almost gone with sleep. “Jackie.”
“Yeah?” He answers quietly.
“Still hot.” You murmur into your pillow.
He stayed there until your breathing evened out, his thumb moving once over your rings before he let go. Then he slipped into the bathroom, changed, came back, and climbed into bed beside you. You rolled toward him automatically, even in sleep, one hand landing against his chest like you were verifying he was still there. Jack covered your hand with his. Your rings pressed lightly against his skin.
The Next Day...
In the morning, you woke up to pain, sunlight, and consequences.
Mostly consequences.
Your head hurts. Your mouth was dry. Your body felt like it had been assembled incorrectly. For one blessed second, you remembered nothing after the second round of drinks.
Then your phone buzzed.
You opened one eye.
On the nightstand, your screen lit up with a message from Robby.
MRS. ABBOT LIVE AT THE BAR: WHERE IS MY HUSBAND TOUR
You closed your eye again. “No.”
Beside you, Jack was already awake.
You could feel it.
You turned your head very slowly.
He was lying on his side, one arm tucked under his pillow, watching you with the calm, devastating expression of a man who knew everything.
You swallowed. “How bad?”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Define bad.”
You groaned and pulled the blanket over your face.
He reached over and tugged it down just enough to see you. “You reviewed my body in public.”
Your eyes closed. “Oh, my god.”
“Pecs got mentioned several times.” He added.
“Jack.” You whined.
He grinned, “Butt got a standing ovation.”
You covered your face with both hands. “I need to leave the country.”
“You also called your rings' wife jewelry.”
A pause.
You peeked through your fingers. “That’s kind of cute.”
Jack nodded, “It was very cute.”
Your stomach softened despite the hangover.
Then he added, “You made me show you my ring every time someone told you we were married.”
You lowered your hands. “I did?”
He lifted his left hand. His wedding band gleamed in the morning light. Your eyes flicked down to your own rings automatically.
Jack noticed.
A smile started at the corner of his mouth.
You pointed at him. “Do not.”
He raised both his hands, “I didn’t say anything.”
“You looked smug.” You replied, eyes narrowed.
Jack tilted his head, “I’m allowed.”
“You are not.” You argued.
Jack smiled, “You kept checking.”
“I was drunk.” You defend.
Jack looked down at his ring. “You were thorough.”
You groaned again and rolled onto your back. “I hate myself.”
“No, you don’t,” Jack said.
You stared at the ceiling. “I hate Robby.”
“That’s fair.” Jack agreed.
Your phone buzzed again.
This time, Jack picked it up before you could stop him.
“Jack.” You warned.
He looked at the screen. Then his mouth twitched.
“No.” You groaned.
He turned the phone toward you.
The video thumbnail showed you in the booth, hand dramatically raised, mouth open mid-song. At the same time, Robby performed backup vocals, and Santos looked as if she were reconsidering friendship as a concept.
You stared.
Then slowly turned to Jack. “Delete it.”
“It’s not on my phone.” He replied.
You groaned, “Tell Robby to delete it.”
“I will,” Jack answered.
You narrowed your eyes.
Jack’s expression stayed too innocent. “After I watch it once.”
You huffed, “Jack.”
He pressed play. Your own drunk voice filled the room with devastating commitment. On-screen, Robby echoed you terribly.
Then the video shifted as Santos muttered, “I’m calling Abbot.”
Your face lit up. You grabbed Mel’s wrist and shouted, “Tell him to wear the gray sweatpants!”
Jack paused the video. Silence. You stared at the ceiling. Jack stared at the phone.
Then he looked at you. “The gray sweatpants?”
You pulled the blanket over your face again. “I was unwell.”
“You were specific.” Jack corrected you.
“I had a medical condition.” You attempted to explain.
“Being horny for your husband is not a medical condition,” Jack replied.
You slowly lowered the blanket.
Jack’s eyebrow lifted.
You pointed at him. “You’re a doctor. Diagnose it.”
He laughed then. Really laughed. Warm and low and unfairly pleased.
You groaned, but you were smiling too. He set the phone aside and leaned over you, bracing one hand near your shoulder. Your eyes flicked to his arm before you could stop yourself.
Jack noticed that too. “Still?”
“Shut up.”
His smile widened.
You looked down at your rings, partly because you were embarrassed and partly because the habit had apparently survived the alcohol. Then, quietly, Jack lifted his left hand beside yours.
The rings caught the same strip of morning light.
Your chest softened. “We match,” you said, voice rough from sleep and singing and terrible decisions.
Jack’s expression went gentle. “Yeah, baby,” he said. “We match.”
You stared at the rings for a second.
Then at him.
Even hungover, even humiliated, even with video evidence waiting in the group chat, you could not help it.
Find My Pitt Masterlist here
Jack could be relentless when it came to stirring up trouble.
Especially when it came to poking a little fun at PTMC's Shark.
What no one could quite understand was why? Or how Jack managed to get away with it.
Not until you, Jack's fearless firefighter of a wife, comes rushing into the ER.
Turns out your presence worries more than just Jack.
Notes: strong language. established relationship. medical inaccuracies. injuries. Jack being relentless when it comes to teasing his brother-in-law. overprotective Shark.
Word Count: ~4.5k
Jack was known to poke a little fun here and there.
Known to keep a steady head, a calm resolve.
Keeping things light hearted despite the weight of the work. Whatever troubles he had he buried them deep inside, something very few people knew..
It was a trait most carried whilst working the night shift.
An air of indifference, so polarising from the dayshift’s tightly wound energy, it could give someone whiplash.
But one thing remained the same between the day and night shift.
Was its need to feed on gossip.
Gossip was what made the ER spur on. Or at least, simply helped maintain a little sanity for those who worked there.
He loved stirring up a little humour.
His therapist had told him more than once that it was a coping mechanism – but he countered that comment by asking what harm could a little laugh here and there really do?
Whenever someone new came aboard.
One of the inevitable questions that came to their mind was – How did you lose your leg?
Now it wasn’t like everyone outright asked him, most skirting around the topic, too afraid to ask, too timid to broach such a personal topic.
But there were times where some intern or student let their curiosity get the better of them.
Had let the question pass by their filter.
And that such time was now.
As Ogilvie raised a brow, pointed at Jack’s leg and straight up asked, “How’d you lose it?”
A hush falling over those nearby, a huff of annoyance at his blunt question. The insensitivity of it all.
But in Jack’s eyes, the timing couldn’t have been more perfect.
As Jack catches sight of PTMC’s Shark. The chilling orthopedic surgeon that made everyone’s blood freeze at the sight of him.
That made people part and duck their heads, averting their gaze.
Only a select few found the ability to stand toe-to-toe with him. To not waver in his presence.
And one of those few, was Jack Abbot.
A grin slipping onto Jack’s face as he answers dryly in response to Ogilvie's question, “Bitten off by a shark"
Jutting a finger over towards Park, "That one, that one took my leg,” the words were so blatant, and dry.
An expression of complete seriousness taking over Jack’s features as he spoke.
One that Ogilvie honestly couldn’t decipher from being real or false. His mind knew it was a joke, and yet Jack’s delivery couldn’t have sounded more honest.
Catching word of the joke, Park merely scoffed with the slightest shake of his head, concealing the faintest chuckle beneath his breath.
It wasn’t the first time Jack had made that joke.
And both knew it certainly wouldn’t be the last. The joke never once got old, for either of them.
Jack often brushed off questions about his leg with a simple, before you ask…it was a shark. It was one of Jack’s favourite jokes when avoiding the topic.
Jack shot a look back at Ogilvie, “Now shouldn’t you be helping with hand-offs?”
“Uh–yeah, course,” His eyes widened, stammering slightly with a nod of his head, ducking away.
Jack clicks his tongue, turning to face Park, “I swear that kid is going to make a fight break out in here if he doesn’t learn to bite his tongue”
An air of mutual respect hangs between them. A silent understanding between the two.
“And this is why I chose to go into surgery and not emergency med”
“Hm, and why’s that?”
“The patients tend to be less chatty,” Brendon’s eyes glance up at the clock, eyes furrowing as he simply nods towards Jack. “Makes it easier to talk shit”
Jack merely chuckles from his response, patting his back before Park disappears back upstairs.
It was rare.
But not an uncommon sight to see Jack and Brendon get along.
Whenever they passed each other, every one could tell that there was a friendliness between their interactions.
No one could quite pinpoint why.
Or how.
But it was clear that Brendon tolerated Jack.
But this mutual respect didn’t mean Jack didn’t divulge himself in a little gossip here and then about the Shark.
Whether he’d be passing by as his colleagues spoke, catching wind that the topic was about Park.
He’d add certain little things, “I heard he only ever listens to the soundtrack of Jaws whilst he operates” True or not, he liked to poke fun at the man.
“And how do you know that?” Santos would raise a brow in question.
Jack would simply shrug, “Heard it from someone I know”
It’d be simple things, small things that amused Jack.
Slipping in little truths here and there.
The information always chalked up to having heard it from someone he knew.
Now this someone as far as anyone knew could’ve been anyone, from admin, to a scrub nurse to a fellow doctor in the hospital that Jack was friends with.
No one any wiser to the fact that he was, in fact, referring to his wife.
Brendon Park’s sister.
You.
It was no secret to the staff of PTMC’s emergency department that Jack was happily married.
He proudly wore his wedding ring for all to see.
Speaking highly of you, a clear pride and deep devotion in his tone as he spoke of you.
He kept a photo of you in his wallet, and his camera roll was filled with photos of you and him, simply happy. Just waiting to be pulled out and scrolled through.
The sight of you never failed to bring a smile to Jack’s face.
Slipping you into the conversation with ease. Without even realising it, he could easily spend minutes talking about you to anyone that would listen.
On occasion even doting about you to his patients whilst he worked.
Going on and on about how strong and courageous you were. Fearless. Compassionate.
…
From the moment Jack had laid eyes on you.
His first thought was that you were smoking hot.
Literally smoking as you brushed away at the ashes from your suit, smoke curling from behind you.
Whilst you walked out of the building you and your team had just wrangled with, containing the burning embers until they were out.
He was on the scene assisting the SWAT team as a medic.
And he simply couldn’t take his eyes off of you as you carried yourself with confidence. Words firm as you made the next orders for your team. You were captivating. As you took control of the chaos around you.
How you had taken the time to crouch down and console one of a young boy who had gotten caught up in this mess.
It was that little boy that had brought you over to him.
Having tugged off your glove, your hand was wrapped with his, as you stopped before Jack. The slight dusting of embers on your cheek.
“Do you mind checking up on him? Just want to make sure he didn’t inhale too much of the smoke,” you had asked. “I’d go to the EMTs, but they’re all a bit preoccupied at the moment”
Jack nodded, “Of course,” his eyes moving down to the boy, whilst he crouched before him, to appear a little more friendly.
“What’s your name, kid?”
“George”
“Well George, I’m Dr Abbot, but you can call me Jack. Do you mind if I take a look at you, make sure everything’s ok?”
George nods, “Ok,” his hand never lets go of yours. Clutching it tightly.
“You were pretty brave in there,” Jack said whilst glancing up at you.
You shrugged slightly, “All part of the job, isn’t it?”
Eyes drifting down to the little boy by your side, “Though I think you were braver than me George, maybe you’ll be a firefighter one day huh?”
“Or you could be a doctor?” Jack added.
While George’s nose scrunched up laughing at the two of you. His mind drifted away from the stressful events, as he focused on you both.
“Saving lives, and helping people,” Jack continues to say.
While you twist your mouth, debating his words, “Firefighters do all that too, and we get to ride in a pretty cool truck, what do you say George?”
Whilst George tilts his head in thought.
Jack chuckles, feigning defeat, “When you say it like that, being a firefighter does sound pretty cool”
“Then I’ll count on seeing you at the sign ups,” you remark jokingly.
Jack’s hands moved swiftly, announcing anytime he did something, and what he was checking for. From checking his pupils, to listening to his heartbeat, Jack was thorough.
“Can you take a deep breath in for me George?” Jack asks, while George agrees, “One, two, three, and out, that’s it.”
Your eyes watch as Jack continues to be gentle, humorous as he makes the young boy laugh.
There was something soothing about Jack.
Something that made the adrenaline coursing through you begin to rest and settle. Heart steadying.
“Seems like everything is in order, George, I’d offer you a lollipop but it seems like one of the only things I don’t have in my pockets,” Jack jokes.
“Hey Park! We’ve located the kid’s mom,” one of your colleagues called over. Whilst you nodded in acknowledgement, before looking back at Jack.
“Thanks again for the help, doc”
“That’s what I’m here for,” Jack nodded.
You both hesitate for a moment, not yet wanting to part. “I don’t know what it is about you Abbot, but something tells me you’re trouble”
“Hopefully the good kind,” he replies, with a small quirk of his lip.
“–Park, c’mon!” you’re urged once more.
“I’m coming,” You hum, with a small nod of your head as you wave at Jack. “I’ll see you around”
“See ya”
One of his colleagues comes up to his side, as Jack’s eyes follow you. “Who was that?”
“I don’t know, but I’d like to,” he replied.
Clapping his shoulder, Jack’s attention snapped to the side, “Maybe next time Romeo,” and with that Jack is pulled away to attend to another injury.
From that moment on.
It felt like each time Jack saw a fire truck or a cluster of firefighters, he always, without meaning to, searched for your face in the crowd. Had kept an eye out just to see you once more.
Until eventually it had faded.
His hope had begun to dissipate. Pittsburgh was a big city afterall. The chance of seeing you again was slim to none.
Days turned into weeks, which had turned into months.
Until you had become a distant memory, simply a nice idea.
Well.
That was until you had tapped on his shoulder. Whilst standing in line at a coffee shop one late afternoon, smiling as he met your eye.
You would be lying to say your mind didn’t drift to the memory of the medic you had met all those months ago.
The image of him flitting into the forefront of your mind. How his eyes held a depth to them, unwavering, calculating. The way he held eye contact with you. Softening ever so slightly.
There was a story behind those hazel eyes.
A story you wanted to know.
Eyes tracing his features, as you took in his appearance. No longer wearing the camo tactile suit of a SWAT medic, instead simply in a black t-shirt and cargo pants.
Upon meeting your eyes, they blinked in surprise, before a smile graced his features.
“Well if it isn’t Pittsburgh’s finest firefighter,” he tilts his head, “It’s good seeing you again”
“I see I made quite an impression,” you grinned. With this look in your eye that had him enthralled.
“As if I could forget, Park wasn’t it?” he said.
With a smile you nodded in confirmation, “But you can call me Y/N”
“Well if you’re not busy, how about you join me for some coffee?”
You pause for a moment, letting the offer stand in the air. Before you eventually nod, “I’d love to”
“Great,” a twinkle sparked in his eyes.
Intrigue developing.
Laughter and smiles shared over coffee. Swapping stories from your own funny moments as a firefighter to Jack’s own mishaps in the ER.
A friendship gained, with the feeling that something more could develop.
When schedules aligned. You’d share a coffee or tea, or whatever you felt like, maybe even breakfast before your shift started and after his shift ended.
You had grown closer until soon, the line between friendship and something more had become blurred.
As Jack leaned in, hand caressing your cheek gently. Waiting, tentative, longing to cross that line. Until you tugged him down, crashing your lips against his, melting into his embrace with a sigh.
It was messy at first, clumsy and new.
Trying to find your rhythm together. But once you did. It was absolute bliss. A peace harbouring between you both.
Understanding one another, even in the silences when words felt too difficult to say.
That wasn’t to say it was all perfect.
That there weren’t times you wanted to pull your hair out in frustration as he’d shut you out. Or times where you would be reckless coming home worn out from a shift as Jack would incessantly worry over you.
But you both pulled through.
You learned to grow, to be better. For yourselves. And for each other.
Jack should’ve known that a life with you would always be full of surprises.
Especially when you insisted he meet your brother.
The brother you had mentioned a handful of times, how he was scary but a real softy once you got to know him.
Imagine Jack’s surprise when he opened the door to your home, only to be confronted by the sight of Brendon Park.
The orthopedic surgeon known as the Shark of the very hospital that Jack worked at.
It definitely started out as a tense meeting.
Whilst you tried your best to melt the tension. It didn’t go past you to see how Brendon’s jaw clenched, eyes narrowing at Jack. How Jack held his gaze. Cool. Unflinching.
Both simply, polite. But nothing more.
A stale mate.
Only once you slapped him in the arm did his cold facade begin to fracture. “Cool it,” you muttered to Brendon with a pointed look.
Jack watched as Brendon relaxed, how it was clear he cared for you. The way you both interacted with ease. A clear bond.
A side to Brendon he never thought he would get to see.
Jack followed your lead as you teased Brendon, whilst Jack would add his own quips, growing bolder with each passing meeting.
And though Brendon was never one to reveal the cards closest to his chest.
He was glad to see you so happy with Jack.
And even happier when he watched as you and Jack had exchanged your, I Dos, words of cherished promises and love. Brendon couldn’t believe it, the little girl he once grew up with was now grown and married.
Hell, Brendon still couldn’t believe the risks you put yourself through day in and day out as a firefighter.
Even if at times all Brendon wanted to do was wrap you up in bubble wrap and ensure you were ok. He knew that wasn’t a solution.
But no matter what, no matter how much time would pass he would always worry over you. It was part of his job as your brother.
Even if you were confident and able.
Fearless. Bold.
When you walked into a room it was as though you would gain control of it. Eyes would look to you. Your shoulders pushed back, a keen look in your eye.
You and Jack made quite the pair.
That was the you that those in the ER had grown to know. In the fleeting moments when you’d drop by, You’d always take a moment to say hello to everyone whenever time allowed.
Even sometimes bringing in a little something for everyone to eat – knowing all too well the negative impact an empty stomach can have on morale.
You were always a welcomed sight.
Unfortunately.
Tonight was one of those nights they wished they didn’t see you. On the cusp of changeover, just as the night shifters had begun to filter in as those from the day began to file out.
A trauma had been called through.
Another trauma.
Nothing out of the ordinary, especially for those in the Pitt. Barely batted an eye at the information, simply going through the motions as they prepared for it.
Female, a firefighter that had simply got caught in a bad accident.
What no one had expected however.
Was you.
The moment the gurney rolled through the doors it felt like everyone had their breaths caught in their throat.
Snapping back into motion as they hear your muffled groans.
Jack felt like he couldn’t move.
It felt like his heart had stopped.
You were lying there.
Covered in soot. Your gear, partially cut away. A cervical collar wrapped around your neck. One of your legs securely stabalised in an inflated splint.
Bruises already blooming across your jaw.
Yet somehow.
Somehow.
You still managed a grin, running high on adrenaline or on the medications, that was something you couldn’t decipher.
“Hey–” you managed to choke out, voice strained.
“Jesus Christ," Jack had muttered, feet moving fast as he moved beside you. Eyes flickering to everything and everyone as they work around you.
You pull his attention back to you, as you grasp his hand. “Look at me,” you said firmly.
His brows knitted. Worry plastered all over his face.
“Don’t do that”
“Do what?”
“That face, that terrified look doesn’t suit you,” you mumble out, breathing short between your words. “Especially on your handsome face”
A few of the others in the room stifle a laugh.
Jack bites his lip, before sucking in a harsh breath, “I’m sorry love,” his hand clasps yours tighter. Unable to shake the worry from his features.
“I’m going to be fine”
No matter how many times you might say that to him. Jack’s shoulders remained tense. On edge. His attention flickers between you and your vitals. Doing his best to keep you alert.
To keep you talking.
To keep you breathing.
To keep you smiling.
Because smiling meant that you were okay. At least, okay by your standards.
Robby moved fluidly, quick and efficient, doing his very best to ensure you were going to make it through this. He was not going to be the reason Jack lost another wife…
“Page ortho,” he had directed, eyes assessing your leg. No signs of broken skin tissue, which was good, less risk of infection. But there was clearly something wrong with your leg.
Ordering scans as they assess the damage.
Shit.
That was the thought that had crossed Jack’s mind once the word ortho filled the air. Eyes glancing down to his watch.
There was no way Park would still be here.
No way that he would be the surgeon called down.
A wave of relief had washed over him as the orthopede that had appeared, was instead one of the residents.
Watching intently as they worked upon you, feeling the weight of Jack’s eyes.
It seems.
That Jack’s slight relief was short lived.
“What’s the verdict?” Park’s deep voice echoed in the room.
The universe has a strange sense of humour.
The room stilled.
As Brendon appeared at the door. Eyes stern, cold, calculating as he glances at those around the room.
But once his eyes land on you.
He freezes.
Eyes widening, a lump forming in his throat. Dana might have called him down here.
But this was not what he had expected to see.
Not who he had expected to see.
When she had said the words urgently. He imagined a lot of different scenarios. But he never once expected to see you here.
“It appears to be a fractured tibia,” the resident reported.
You snorted, “Think it’d be okay if I borrow your crutches?” you teased Jack.
“Do you really think this is the time to be joking?”
“You could teach me how to use ‘em,” you continued.
Those around you laugh lightly from your jokes.
All except for Brendon and Jack.
“What happened?” Brendon’s face hardened.
Just as the resident was about to speak up, about to explain the details of your fractured tibia. They stopped short, noticing that his attention was directed at you.
“I’m fine,” you replied.
Brendon shook his head, moving to assess the imaging himself, “Fine people don’t get wheeled into the ER”
“Everyone has a bad day,” you shrug, wincing slightly from the movement. Jack’s hand grips yours tighter.
“And what did your bad day include?” he asks, words clipped.
“Building collapsed, that’s all,” you murmured. Your other hand waved lazily, trying to decrease the situation.
“Y/N?” he asked once more.
You simply complained, “Oh my god, you’re hovering”
His brows knit at your words, “I’m not hovering, just worried. Right Jack?”
“Right,” Jack nodded.
Brendon crosses his arms over his chest, lips pulled taut.
"I am making sure you're okay."
But there was this glint in your eye, one that Jack had seen far too many times to count. One he had recognised immediately.
Oh no.
Robby arching a brow at the sight.
Whilst the others watch in confusion, completely left in the dark as to what was happening. Never had Park shown such interest in a patient.
Before Jack could stop you, your arm had reached up.
Your finger pressing against Brendon’s nose.
As you booped him.
You had fucking booped Shark’s nose.
Everyone held their breaths, waiting for his reaction, waiting to see what would happen.
The look on Brendon’s face was one of blinking shock.
Whilst you bore a delighted grin.
“What the fu–” he had grumbled out.
Until you had booped his nose again, his hand catching your wrist. Firm but not harshly.
“What are you doing?” he raises a brow as he looks to you, eyes narrowed.
Whilst Jack pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I read somewhere that sharks back down if you bump them on the nose,” you had explained, a small laugh escaping you before forming into a harsh cough.
Instead of a growling rage. Instead of a harsh retort.
The whole room watched as Shark, PTMC’s fiercest orthopedic surgeon. The very man that could make medical students and interns cry with a simple click of his tongue.
Any harshness had been bitten back, as he instead crouched by your side, grasping your free hand.
Here he was.
Softening.
“Are you ok?” he asks you, softly.
“I will be if you let anyone here do their job,” you squeeze both of their hands, eyes moving to glance between them both.
“It’s not my first broken leg, and you know it,” you looked at Brendon.
He remarks, “Don’t blame me for worrying over you”
Your hand slipped from his, as you pinched his cheek, “I know you’re just being a good brother”
Brother.
The word travelled through to the ears of those nearby. Eyes widening in shock. As if today couldn’t have brought any more surprises.
“As the break is clean and transverse, surgery isn't necessary,” someone had announced. “It’ll likely be a cast for several months to allow it to heal”
You sigh.
Whilst you had been putting on a brave face you had a genuine feeling of relief rush through you. No surgery was a good sign.
Even if you were feeling good now. Anything could happen.
“I love you both, a lot–” you had begun to say.
Jack clenched his jaw, shaking his head, “Don’t speak like that”
You send him a look, “I’m just saying I love you”
“That tone says something else,” his words hang between you.
“I love you too,” he leans down to press a kiss to the side of your head.
Robby lets out a chuckle as he catches a glimpse of outside the trauma room. Knowing that this incident had added fuel to the flames, gossip spread like wildfire.
Just outside of the trauma room, where you laid, Brendon on one side, as Jack stood on the opposite.
The second it became clear that you weren’t dying.
That you were in the clear.
The second everyone realized your injuries amounted to a cast, a handful of bruises, and a mandatory period of sitting still that would undoubtedly drive you insane—
The gossip began.
Dana bit back a grin as she overheard the murmurs that passed through. This was something that was definitely going to stick around.
“Well this explains it.” Santos said arms folded over her chest.
Whitaker raised a brow, “Explains what?”
She elbows him as though it were obvious, “Explains why Abbot and Shark get along”
“They’re obviously playing civil for her sake,” Princess comments, nodding in agreement. “Seems like Mrs Abbot was once Miss Park”
“They’re always acting like this” Ellis stated as she came up to check up on charts.
“Did you know?”
Ellis stared at them confused. “You didn’t?” her eyes scanning those before her. The dayshifters who had gotten caught up once more with overtime.
And those who simply didn’t want to leave until they knew you were ok.
“No,” Santos exclaimed.
Javadi shook her head, “Had no idea”
“Why would we know that?”
Their shock had only worsened once Mel joined the conversation. “What’s everyone talking about?”
“Y/N, Abbot’s wife, the firefighter” Mohan began to explain.
“Yeah?”
“She’s Park’s sister”
“Oh,” Mel said.
“Oh?” Santos raised her brow.
She tilted her head, brows furrowing, “I thought everyone knew that?” her eyes glanced around at those standing there. Meeting Ellis’ eye who nods, believing the same thing.
“How did you know this?”
“Dr Abbot mentioned it,” Mel explained. It was in passing and so small, to the point that Mel didn’t think anything more of it.
“Of course he did,” Javadi sighed.
Questions brewing in their mind. Their thoughts run wild.
Questions about what it was like having Park as a brother?
What was it like having Park as a brother in law?
How did Abbot not cower when he realised?
Did Park give an overprotective brother talk?
Everything and anything that came to mind.
They would simply have to wait for their questions to be answered just until you were feeling better.
Your hand not once leaving Jack’s as he stood by your side. Soothing you and consoling you.
The worry that had pent up within him now finally was able to settle.
You were safe.
That was all that mattered to him, and to Brendon.
At least now everyone could say that one thing was for sure.
While a shark might not have taken Jack’s leg.
It was true.
That a shark’s sister had taken his heart.
Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed. I just loved the idea of Jack using the excuse of a shark biting his leg off, only to tease his brother in law Brendon. Both finding a middle ground when it came to joking about the other. and I totally picture most of the night are already in the know about your relation to Shark as well as Mel!! catching everyone else off guard about it. Just know that no one can look at Abbot or Park the same after this interaction haha
Let me know what you thought ✨
There will be more to come for the Shiver Collection!! Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist ♥️
Next up will feature Mateo Diaz x Reader: Tricky Fish
Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕
For more Jack Abbot Works check out my series below!
Such as my Dr Jack Abbot x Reader Who Would've Thought series here💖
Or my fic Based on Waitress the Musical, Dr Jack Abbot x Waitress!Reader Sugar, Butter, Flour series 🥧
Or for a lil bit of hurt with eventual comfort check out Jack and the reader create a bond through being widowers, I Know You're Hurting series
Or check out my overall Masterlist here
Summary: After a pediatric patient panics during an IV start, you end up in the ED with a dislocated shoulder, a lot of pain meds, and absolutely no filter. The day shift learns three things very quickly: Jack Abbot is your husband, you picked that one, and apparently, his forearms are medically relevant.
Warnings: established relationship, married Jack and reader, injury, shoulder dislocation, medical procedure/reduction, pain medication/loopy reader, swearing, suggestive humor, sexual jokes, Jack being hot as a clinical intervention, Robby being Robby, fluff, crack treated seriously, hospital setting, peds nurse reader, very unserious wedding lore
Author’s Note: This is very much the sister fic in spirit to Where Is My Husband? Same deeply married chaos, same loopy wife energy, same Jack Abbot being forced to endure public affection against his will. Except this time, Robby discovers that “sexy doctor husband” is not just a title — it is, unfortunately for Jack, a clinically useful intervention. This one is ridiculous, soft, unhinged, and honestly exactly the kind of nonsense I love putting these two through. Jack is trying so hard to be a serious, worried husband; Robby is having the best shift of his life; Dana is quietly enabling chaos under the guise of professionalism; and Reader is simply telling the truth. Loudly. On medication.
You’re welcome.
Xoxo, Del
The first rule of pediatrics was that fear moved faster than pain. You had learned that early.
Pain made kids cry. Fear made them bolt.
Eli Mereiter had been trying very hard not to do either for almost twenty minutes.
He sat in the center of the peds exam bed with his knees tucked under the thin blanket, his left wrist cradled against his chest, his cheeks blotchy from the effort of pretending he was fine. His mother stood near the head of the bed, one hand on his shoulder and the other twisting the strap of her purse so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
“You’re doing great,” you told him.
Eli looked at the IV tray and swallowed. “No, I’m not.”
You crouched beside the bed so you were closer to eye level.
“You are. Great doesn’t mean you aren’t scared. It means you’re still here with me even though you are.”
His eyes flicked to yours.
The honesty helped. It usually did. Kids could smell a lie faster than adults could dress one up.
“It’s gonna hurt,” he said.
You nodded.
“It’s going to pinch. I won’t call it nothing.” You rested one hand on the mattress, close but not touching him without warning. “But it’ll be fast, and you don’t have to watch.”
His mouth trembled once before he pressed it flat. “I don’t want it.”
“I know.” You gave him a serious nod. “That’s fair. We can hate it together.”
Eli looked at you like that was suspicious. “You hate it?”
“I hate it when kids have to do scary things,” you said. “But I like when they get through them and realize they were braver than they thought.”
His mom made a quiet sound behind him.
You glanced up at her and gave a small, reassuring smile before looking back at Eli.
“How about this,” you said. “You pick where you look. Mom’s face, the ceiling tile that kind of looks like a potato, or me.”
Eli’s brows pinched together. “The ceiling tile doesn’t look like a potato.”
You looked up. “It absolutely does.”
He glanced up despite himself. For one second, his attention shifted. Not enough to make him calm, but enough to give him somewhere else to put the fear.
“That one?” he asked.
You nodded. “Very potato.” His mom gave a wet little laugh.
The nurse beside you finished prepping the IV with practiced quiet. You saw Eli clock the movement anyway. His eyes cut to the tourniquet. Then the alcohol wipe. Then the catheter.
His breathing changed. You leaned in slightly. “Eli. Look at me.” His gaze snapped back to yours.
You kept your voice low and even. “Can you breathe in with me?”
He tried. His breath caught halfway.
“That’s okay,” you said. “Again. Smaller this time.”
The nurse reached for his arm. Eli saw the flash of the needle. Fear got there first.
“No,” he said.
His mother tightened her hand on his shoulder. “Eli—”
“No!” He jerked backward, fast and hard, trying to get away from the tray, from the nurse, from the whole room.
“Hey, hey.” You moved with him. “You’re okay.”
But he was already twisting. His sneaker slid against the paper sheet. His hip caught the edge of the mattress. The bed rail was down on your side because you had been sitting there with him, and his small body tipped toward the open space between the bed and the floor.
You moved before thought could catch up.
Your hand caught the back of his gown. Your other arm shot across his chest, bracing him before he could fall.
For half a second, you had him. Then his weight hit your shoulder wrong. Something shifted. Not cracked. Not snapped.
Slipped.
White-hot pain tore through your shoulder and down your arm so violently that the room went gray at the edges. You made a sound you did not recognize.
Someone grabbed Eli from the other side.
“I’ve got him,” the other nurse said. “I’ve got him.”
Good, you thought. That was good.
You went down hard on one knee, your right arm hanging wrong, breath gone from your chest.
Eli was crying now. Not the scared kind. The guilty kind.
“I hurt her,” he sobbed.
You tried to lift your head. Bad idea. Pain slammed up the side of your neck and behind your teeth.
“No,” you forced out. Your voice sounded thin. Far away. “No, honey. You didn’t.”
A hand touched your back. “Don’t move,” someone said.
You tried to breathe through your nose. “Is he okay?”
“He’s okay,” she repeated, firmer this time. “We have him.”
Eli’s mother had him against her now, both arms wrapped around his shaking body. His face was turned toward you, wet and horrified.
You managed to focus on him. “Eli.”
His crying hitched. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.” You swallowed down nausea. “I know you didn’t. You got scared. That’s different.”
His face crumpled harder. You looked at his mom. “Tell him I’m not mad.”
“We will,” she said quickly.
You closed your eyes for half a second. “Please tell him.”
“We will,” the nurse said beside you. “But right now, we need to get you downstairs.”
You opened your eyes. “No, he needs—”
“He has his mom,” she said gently. “And he has Megan. We’ve got him.”
You wanted to argue. Your shoulder pulsed once, deep and sickening, and the rest of the sentence disappeared. Someone called down to the ED before they moved you. You heard pieces of it through the pain and the blood rushing in your ears.
“Staff injury coming down from peds.”
“Likely right shoulder dislocation.”
“Caught a pediatric patient who panicked during IV prep.”
“Vitals stable.”
“Severe pain.”
Nobody said your name. Or maybe they did, and it got swallowed somewhere between the exam room and the elevator. Either way, by the time they got you into a wheelchair, your scrubs were damp at the collar, your vision kept narrowing at the corners, and your arm had become a separate, terrible country you refused to look at.
You hated being the patient.
You hated it so much you almost missed the part where you were terrified. Almost.
The elevator ride downstairs felt both too fast and too slow. Someone kept telling you to breathe. Someone else kept asking your pain number. You gave a number that was probably too low because saying the real one made it feel more real.
The ED doors opened.
The familiar noise hit first. Monitors. Shoes. Voices. The distant roll of a cart.
Robby was already at the mouth of a bay when they wheeled you in, tablet in hand, chief-of-the-ER face on. Dana stood beside him with gloves already pulled on, calm and unsmiling in the way that meant she had already cleared the room in her head. Santos hovered just behind her like she could smell a procedure from three bays away. Princess was at the computer, and Javadi stood near the supply cart, trying very hard to look like someone who was not internally rehearsing every step of a shoulder reduction.
“Peds called down,” Robby said. “Likely right shoulder disloca—”
Then he saw your face. The chief of the ER expression dropped clean off.
For one second, he was not chief of anything. He was just your friend. “What the fuck, dude?”
You tried to glare at him. “Great bedside manner.”
Robby was already moving. He came to your side, one hand bracing the wheelchair arm, his eyes sweeping over your face.
“Look at me,” he said. “You with me?”
You blinked at him through the pain. “No, Robby, I thought I’d dissociate recreationally.”
His jaw tightened. “Answer me like less of a pain in my ass.”
You sighed. “I’m with you.”
“Good.” He glanced at the peds nurse behind your chair. “They called down a peds nurse. They did not say it was you.”
“Would that have changed your medical plan?” you asked.
“No.” His eyes flicked to your shoulder, and the doctor came back into him all at once. “It would have given me thirty more seconds to emotionally prepare for both my friend being injured and Jack killing me.”
“Jack is not going to kill you,” you replied.
Dana made a quiet sound. Robby pointed at her without looking. “Do not contribute.”
Dana lifted both gloved hands. “I said nothing.”
“You thought loudly.”
Santos leaned slightly to see your arm better. “Is it anterior?”
You swallowed through the pain. “Is Eli okay?”
Robby’s attention snapped back to you. Then he looked to the peds nurse. “Eli is the kid?”
The peds nurse nodded quickly. “Eight-year-old. Wrist injury. He’s okay. Megan stayed with him and his mom.”
Your eyes closed. “Did someone tell him I’m not mad?”
Robby went still for half a beat. His expression changed again. Softer this time. Worried in a way he could not hide behind sarcasm fast enough.
“Yeah,” he said. “They told him.”
“He won’t believe them,” you murmured.
Robby looked at you. “He might.”
“He’s eight.” Your voice thinned around the pain. “Eight-year-olds think everything is their fault.”
Robby looked at you for one second too long. Then he nodded once, like he was putting that away for later. “Okay,” he said. “We’re going to get you on the bed. Slow. Dana, support the arm. Javadi, do not look terrified.”
Javadi straightened. “I’m not terrified.” Robby looked at her.
You hated the careful hands and the count of three and the way pain still broke through your teeth when they moved you.
You hated that Robby’s face stayed calm. That meant it looked bad.
Once you were on the bed, Dana slid a pillow under your arm with the clean precision of a woman who did not waste motion. Princess clipped a monitor to your finger. Javadi asked about allergies, her voice only a little too bright. Santos hovered at the foot of the bed, watching your shoulder with open interest until Dana glanced at her.
Santos lifted her hands. “I’m not touching anything.”
“Correct,” Dana said.
Robby looked up from your shoulder. “Pain number.” You hesitated.
He gave you a look. “Do not make me ask like I don’t know you.” You told the truth.
Robby’s mouth tightened. “Thank you for not lying to me twice.”
“I lied once,” you admitted.
Robby shook his head. “You lied badly once.” Your breathing hitched. “Did someone tell Eli?”
The peds nurse, still lingering near the curtain, nodded. “Megan did. His mom did too.”
“But did he believe them?” you pushed.
Robby braced one hand lightly on the bed rail. “Do not try to sit up.”
You looked at him. “I wasn’t.”
“You thought about it,” Robby replied.
Your eyes narrowed. “You can’t prove that.”
“I’m chief of emergency medicine,” he said. “I can prove anything if I chart creatively.”
A laugh tried to escape you. It did not make it past the pain. Robby saw that too. His voice shifted.
“IV, x-ray, then pain meds before we reduce it,” he said. “Let’s get films and make sure we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
“Love being discussed like a broken chair,” you muttered.
Robby leaned over you, penlight in hand. “I have never met a chair this mouthy.”
Princess found a vein in your good arm. You looked away while she taped the line down. That felt ridiculous, considering you had started hundreds of IVs yourself, but today your body had decided to be dramatic, and you were not giving it more material.
Robby watched your face. “You okay?”
“No,” you answered honestly.
Robby almost smiled. “Good answer.”
Princess glanced up from your IV. “Do you want us to call someone?”
“Yes,” you said immediately.
Robby’s eyes narrowed like he already knew where this was going.
Princess kept her hands near the computer. “Who should we call?”
“Jack Abbot.”
The room did not stop. Not yet. Princess typed, then paused.
Her eyes moved from the screen to you. “Dr. Abbot?”
You breathed through your teeth. “Yes.”
The room went a little too quiet. You opened one eye. “What?”
Santos looked from you to Robby. “Night-shift Abbot?”
“How many Jack Abbots do you know?” you asked.
Javadi made the mistake of whispering, “Dr. Abbot is her emergency contact?”
“He’s my husband,” you said, like that explained the entire universe.
It did, actually. Just not to the room. Santos stared.
Javadi looked like someone had changed the laws of physics in front of her.
Princess’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. Dana, somehow, did not move at all.
Then her eyes narrowed. “The sandwich.” You closed your eyes. “Dana.”
Santos looked at her. “What sandwich?”
Dana didn’t look away from the monitor. “Shift change. Three weeks ago. Abbot was coming off nights. She was passing the desk with a stack of peds charts.”
Princess leaned around Javadi. “I remember that.”
“He had half a sandwich in his hand,” Dana said. “Tore the crust off without breaking conversation, held it up, and she took it on the way by.”
You breathed carefully through your teeth. “I was hungry.”
“You said thanks,” Dana added.
Santos blinked. “That’s it?” Dana finally looked up.
“That’s the point.” A beat passed.
Then Princess pointed toward you. “Wait. The parking lot.”
You opened one eye. “Please don’t.”
“I saw you two by the employee parking last month,” Princess said. “He switched sides with you near the cars.”
Javadi blinked. “Switched sides?” Princess looked at her like this was obvious. “The sidewalk rule.”
Javadi’s brows pulled together. “The what?”
“When the guy walks closer to the street,” Princess said. “Protective thing. Old-school. Very romantic if he’s hot.”
Santos made a face. “That sounds fake.”
Dana adjusted the pulse ox cord. “It’s not fake.”
Princess pointed at Dana. “Thank you.”
You stared at the ceiling. “Can we not analyze my husband’s walking patterns while my shoulder is in another fucking zip code?”
“And he had your bag,” Princess added.
“It was heavy,” you said.
She looked at you. “It had little strawberries on it.”
Robby’s mouth twitched. “Jack carried a strawberry bag?”
You gave him the best glare you could manage while lying flat with your arm attempting secession. “You are supposed to be my doctor.”
Santos’s face changed. “Oh, my god. The fire alarm drill.”
“No,” you said.
“You had his jacket,” she said.
“It was cold.”
“No.” Santos pointed, too delighted to stop herself. “He put it around your shoulders before you asked.”
Dana’s gaze sharpened with recognition.
Santos nodded hard. “And took your clipboard so you could get your arms through the sleeves.”
Princess looked at Robby. “You knew?”
Robby held up one hand. “I was at the wedding.”
The room shifted again. Javadi whispered, “There was a wedding?”
You stared at the ceiling. “I’m starting to think day shift needs hobbies.”
Robby looked at you, and this time his humor was gentle around the edges. “You married a night-shift attending and then wandered around this hospital accepting crustless sandwich halves like that was normal.”
“It is normal,” you replied.
“For married people,” Dana said.
Santos looked personally offended. “I am usually very good at noticing things.”
You swallowed through another pulse of pain. “Sorry my marriage was inconvenient for your brand.”
Robby pointed at you. “Pain has not made her less mean. Excellent prognostic sign.”
Princess was still looking at you like she had discovered treasure. “So Dr. Abbot is your husband.”
“Yes.”
“And he brings you coffee,” Princess added.
You inhaled. “Yes.”
“And the sandwich,” she continued.
“Yes.”
Princess’s eyebrows rose. “And the parking lot.” You closed your eyes. “I would like drugs now.”
Robby’s smile faded enough for his concern to show again. “Soon,” he said. “We’re moving.”
Then he held out his hand toward Princess. “I’ll call him.”
You looked at him. “You don’t have to.”
“I do, actually,” Robby replied.
“Why?”
Robby’s face softened around the edges, just enough that your chest hurt for reasons that had nothing to do with your shoulder.
“Because he’s going to be worried,” he said. “And if a stranger calls him, he’s going to scare somebody.”
You sighed. “Jack doesn’t scare people.”
“No,” Robby said. “But when he’s worried about you, he gets very concise.”
Dana hummed. “That’s true.”
You closed your eyes. “Tell him not to speed.”
Robby shook his head. “I’m not promising that.”
“Robby,” you said, trying to sound reasonable.
He sighed. “I’ll suggest moderation.”
Robby stepped a few feet away from the bed and tapped Jack’s contact. You watched him through the pain, sweat cooling at the back of your neck. He pointed at you without lowering the phone. “Try not to dislocate anything else while I’m gone.” The call rang once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth ring, Jack answered.
His voice came rough with sleep and irritation. “What, Robby?”
Robby glanced back at you. You were pale on the bed, jaw tight, your good hand fisted in the sheet while Dana adjusted the monitor.
“Your wife is in the ED,” Robby said. “She’s fine. I’ve got her.”
The line went silent. Then Jack’s voice came back low and awake. “What happened?”
“Right shoulder dislocation,” Robby said. “Peds incident. She caught a kid before he fell and took the force the wrong way. She’s conscious, stable, and pissed off, which I’m taking as a good sign.”
Another pause. Jack breathed out once, sharply. “Of course she caught the kid.”
“Yeah,” Robby said, softer. “That was my reaction too.”
You lifted your head an inch off the pillow. “Tell him not to speed.”
Robby looked over his shoulder. You stared back, sweaty and serious.
“She says not to speed.”
Jack was already moving. Robby could hear it through the phone: sheets, a drawer, something hitting the floor. “Tell her I’m coming.”
“Jack,” Robby said carefully.
“I heard her,” Jack said sharply.
Robby nodded once. “Good.”
“Thanks, brother. I’m on my way,” Jack replied.
Robby’s mouth softened. “Yeah,” he said.
He ended the call and came back to the side of the bed. “He’s coming.”
You let your head fall back against the pillow. “Good.” The word came out smaller than you meant it to. Robby heard that too. For a second, he was quiet.
Then he nodded to Princess. “Now give her the good stuff before she remembers she’s trying to be reasonable.”
Princess pushed medication into your IV. Warmth moved up your arm a few seconds later, strange and soft. The pain did not vanish, but the edges of the room began to loosen. The lights blurred a little. The monitor beep sounded farther away.
You blinked. “Wow.”
Santos leaned closer. “How’s that?”
You turned your head toward her slowly. “You have two faces.”
Robby’s mouth twitched. “Better?”
You inhaled. “I can still feel my skeleton making bad choices.”
“So, somewhat.” Robby grinned.
You looked toward the curtain. “Did someone tell Eli I’m not mad?”
Robby exhaled. “Yes.”
“I’m not mad,” you repeated.
“I know.”
You blinked hard. “No, but he needs to know.”
“He knows,” Robby replied gently.
You frowned. “You’re just saying that.”
“I am saying many things,” Robby said. “This one happens to be true.”
You tried to sit up. Every person in the room reacted.
Dana touched your good shoulder. “Nope. Stay back.”
“I should tell him,” you told her.
“You should keep your shoulder still,” Robby said.
You frowned at him. “You’re being bossy.” Robby shrugged. “It’s on the mug.”
“Jack has a mug that says World’s Sexiest Doctor,” you replied without thinking. The pain meds were softening things too much now. Words had started wandering into places you had not invited them.
Robby slowly turned his head. “I’m sorry. He has a what?”
You winced. “It was a joke. I got it for him when we were dating.”
Princess looked delighted. “And he kept it?”
You breathed through another pulse of pain. “He drinks out of it every morning.”
Santos stared. “Abbot drinks coffee out of a World’s Sexiest Doctor mug?”
Dana, dry as dust, added, “That explains more than I wanted it to.”
Robby pressed his fingers to his mouth like he was trying to hold in actual joy.
You glared at him. “You’re supposed to be my doctor.”
“I am,” Robby said. “And this is healing me.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. The ED lights drifted above you. Your body felt heavy against the bed, but your mind kept circling the same places. Eli crying. Your shoulder slipping. Jack coming. You blinked slowly. “Did someone tell Eli?”
Dana adjusted the blanket around your legs. “Yes.”
“Did someone tell Jack?” you asked.
Robby’s mouth twitched. “Yes.” You nodded, satisfied for exactly one second.
Then you frowned. “Which one is coming to see me?”
Robby stared at you. “What?”
“Eli or Jack?” you asked.
Princess turned toward the computer with suspicious speed. Santos looked openly delighted. Robby’s expression brightened with pure, terrible affection.
“Oh,” he said softly. “This is going to be a great drug for you.”
You frowned. “Don’t be weird.”
Robby patted the bed rail. “Try not to say anything incriminating before your husband gets here.”
Your eyes closed, but you could still hear the smile in his voice. “Jack already knows everything.”
Robby made a thoughtful sound. “Sure,” he said. “Let’s test that.”
Robby stayed beside the bed after Princess pushed the medication. One hand rested on the rail. His eyes moved from your face to the monitor, then to your shoulder, then back to your face again. He was not joking as much now.
You hated that. “Stop looking worried,” you said.
His mouth twitched, but it did not quite become a smile. “Stop giving me reasons.”
You blinked at him, the lights blurring softly around the edges. “Rude.”
“Consistent,” Robby said.
Dana adjusted the blanket over your legs, brisk yet careful. “That’s one word for it.”
The medication had made the room strange. Softer, but not kinder. The monitors sounded farther away, and the overhead lights had started to bloom at the edges. Your shoulder still hurts. Not as sharply as before, maybe, but it was there under everything, pulsing and wrong. You tried to shift away from it. Your body disagreed. “Bad,” you muttered.
Robby leaned in a fraction. “Pain?”
You shook your head. “Existence.”
He nodded once. “Fair.”
Dana checked the line of your IV, then glanced at him.
Robby’s eyes returned to yours, and something in his face softened. “Hey,” he said. “World’s Sexiest Doctor.”
You frowned. “What?”
“The mug,” Robby said, voice lighter on purpose. “You said he drinks out of it every morning.”
Your face softened before you could stop it. “He does.” Princess turned from the computer with immediate interest. Santos, who had been pretending not to hover near the foot of the bed, stopped pretending. Dana’s expression did not change, but her eyes flicked toward you.
Robby leaned one forearm against the rail. “Still can’t believe he committed to the bit.”
“It’s not a bit,” you said.
Robby’s eyebrows lifted. “No?”
You looked at him like he was missing the obvious. “It’s true.”
Santos’s mouth curved. Dana looked down at the monitor. Princess pressed her lips together like she was holding something very large behind her teeth. You blinked at the ceiling, dreamy and annoyed all at once. “He is the sexiest doctor.”
Robby drew back like you had slapped him. “Rude.”
You turned your head toward him slowly. “You’re right.”
His expression softened. “Thank you.”
“Ellis is pretty hot, too,” you murmured happily.
Robby froze. Princess made a sound and turned sharply toward the computer. Santos whispered, “Wow.”
Dana closed her eyes. Robby stared at you. “That was not the correction I was requesting.”
You considered him through the pleasant fog around your thoughts. “You have nice hair.”
Robby’s hand went to his chest. “That was devastatingly lukewarm.”
“It is nice.”
“Nice hair,” he repeated, wounded. “That’s what I get after years of friendship.”
“You’re my friend,” you said.
His expression shifted. For one second, the joke left his face. “I know.”
You watched him through the blur. “You’re a good doctor.”
Robby’s hand tightened slightly on the rail. “You’re on excellent medication.”
“I mean it.”
“I know,” he said, quieter.
Dana looked away first. Santos suddenly found the supply tray very interesting. Robby cleared his throat and straightened. “Okay,” he said, his voice returning to a steady tone. “Let’s get ready.”
The words landed wrong. Your smile faded. The room shifted back into medicine too quickly. Gloves. Positioning. Dana adjusting the bed. Santos watching Robby’s hands intently. Javadi standing too still by the supplies, trying to look prepared. Your stomach dropped through the medication. “Wait.” Robby looked back at you. “Yeah?”
Your good hand tightened in the sheet. “You’re doing it now?” His expression softened. “Soon.”
“No.”
Dana’s hand settled lightly near your good shoulder. Not holding you down. Just there.
Robby stepped closer. “I know.”
“No, Robby.” Your voice stayed even, but barely. “I don’t want to do it.”
Robby did not flinch. “I know you don’t.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you mean it.”
You swallowed hard, throat suddenly tight. “I don’t want it to hurt.”
Robby’s face changed again, not much, just enough to show you he hated this part too. “I’m going to be as gentle as I can.”
You frowned. “That’s what people say before they do stuff that sucks.” Santos muttered, “Accurate.”
Dana looked at her. Santos lifted both hands. “I’m validating.”
Robby ignored her and kept his eyes on you. “It is going to suck,” he said. “But the longer it stays out, the worse it’s going to feel. I want to get it back where it belongs.”
Your breathing went shallow. The medication had made everything loose except the fear. That stayed sharp. Clear. Mean. You looked toward the hallway. “Fine.” Robby waited. You glared at him, sweaty and medicated and angry enough to hide behind it. “I’ll do it if Jack is my doctor.”
The room paused. Dana looked at Robby. Princess looked at the hallway. Javadi looked like she had just realized this was not covered in any textbook.
Robby let out a slow breath. “Yeah,” he said carefully. “That’s not how this works.”
You frowned at him. “He’s a doctor.”
“He is.” Dana’s voice stayed calm beside you. “He’s also your husband.”
You looked at her like she had helped your case. “Exactly.” Robby’s mouth twitched despite himself.
Before he could answer, Jack’s voice cut through the department. “Where is she?”
Your head turned. Completely. All the thoughts in your brain scattered like startled birds. Jack was halfway down the hall, moving fast and trying not to look like he was moving fast, a hoodie under his unzipped jacket. His hair was sleep-rough on one side. His jaw was tight, his eyes already searching, already locked on the room. The second he saw you, his pace changed.
Your good hand lifted off the sheet. “That one.”
Robby followed your gaze. For the first time since the reduction tray came out, true humor broke through his worry. “Oh,” he said softly. “Okay.”
Jack stepped into the bay. You pointed at him, certain now. “I want that one.”
Jack froze for half a second. His eyes moved over you. Face. IV. Monitor. Shoulder. Robby. Dana. Back to your face.
Then he was at your side. “Baby.”
The word hit the room like a dropped instrument. Santos stared very hard at the floor. Princess pressed her lips together. Javadi’s eyes went wide, then wider, like she was watching hospital folklore become sentient.
You smiled up at him. “Hi.”
Jack took your good hand, his palm warm and familiar around yours. “Hi.”
His thumb moved once over your knuckles. You exhaled. You felt it happen before you could stop it. Your shoulders did not relax, not really, but your breathing changed. Your grip loosened from the sheet. The sharp edge of panic moved back by an inch.
Robby saw it. His eyes flicked to the monitor, then to Jack’s hand. “Interesting.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Don’t.”
“I’m observing.”
“You observe too loudly.”
Robby’s mouth curved. “I am her physician.”
Jack’s jaw tightened. “You are enjoying being her physician too much.”
“I was worried,” Robby said.
The joke thinned for a second. Jack looked up. Robby held his gaze. “Still am.”
Jack’s face shifted.
You squeezed his hand. “Don’t do serious faces.”
Jack looked back down at you. His thumb moved again. “Sorry.”
You studied him, hazy and affectionate. “You came.”
“Of course I came.”
You turned your head toward Dana, solemn and proud. “I picked that one.”
Dana’s mouth twitched. “So I’m hearing.”
Jack closed his eyes. “What did you give her?”
“Pain control,” Robby said. “Not enough to explain all of this.”
You tugged lightly on Jack’s hand. “He’s being rude.”
Jack looked at Robby. “Stop being rude.”
Robby pointed at him. “You weren’t even here.”
“I believe my wife.”
Princess turned toward the computer again, but not fast enough to hide her smile.
Santos murmured, “That was hot.”
Dana said, “Santos.”
“What? It was,” Santos replied with a shrug.
Jack ignored all of them and leaned closer to you. “How bad?”
“Bad.”
His face softened. “Yeah?”
You nodded, then regretted it. “Don’t let me do head stuff.”
“I won’t,” Jack promised.
You frowned. “Having a head is bad.”
“I’ll make a note,” Jack said with a soft smile.
Robby stepped closer to your injured side. “Okay,” he said. “We’re going to try Cunningham.”
“No.” Your response was immediate.
Jack’s hand tightened around yours. Robby did not react like the word surprised him. “I know.”
“No, I don’t want Cunningham. It sounds smug,” you told him.
Robby’s brow raised. “It’s a reduction technique, not a man at a country club.”
You frowned at him. “Still smug.”
Jack’s thumb brushed your knuckles. “Look at me.”
You turned your eyes back to him. “No.”
Jack’s eyes softened. “You’re already doing it.”
You glared. “That’s annoying.”
His mouth almost smiled. “I know.”
Robby looked between you and Jack. Then his eyes moved to the monitor again. A thought entered his face.
Jack saw it immediately. “No.”
Robby blinked. “I didn’t say anything.”
Dana adjusted the bed so you were sitting up more, angled slightly back against the raised mattress. The movement sent a pain-sparking sensation down your arm. “Fuck.” Your eyes squeezed shut. “Fuck, this is worse than my fucking IUD insertion.”
The room went silent. Jack’s thumb stilled against your hand. “Okay,” he said carefully.
You opened your eyes and glared at the ceiling. “I thought I knew pain. I was wrong.”
Dana’s mouth twitched near the monitor. Princess turned very deliberately toward the computer.
Jack leaned closer. “Baby.”
“No.” You turned your glare on him. “This is your fault.”
His brows pulled together. “My fault?”
“Yes.”
Jack blinked once. “How is this my fault?”
“Because,” you said, furious and medicated, “if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t know this was worse.”
Robby looked up. Jack did not move.
“I was doing fine,” you continued. “I was in my celibate phase. I was at peace.”
Jack’s face changed by exactly one dangerous millimeter. “You were not at peace.”
“I was close.” Your eyes narrowed. “Then you came along with your stupid handsome face and your stupid arms, and then I got the stupid IUD, and I thought that was pain. But no.”
Robby nodded slowly. “That is a clinically fascinating chain of blame.”
Jack did not look away from you. “So your shoulder hurts because I’m handsome.”
Dana did not look away from the monitor. “Do not repeat Mrs. Abbot.” Your face softened immediately.
Jack noticed. His eyes dropped back to yours, something warm cutting through the mortification. “What?”
You blinked up at him, drug-soft and suddenly pleased. “She called me Mrs. Abbot.”
Jack’s thumb moved once over your hand. “Yeah, baby.”
A small smile pulled at your mouth. “That’s me.”
Robby looked from you to Dana. Dana adjusted the pulse ox cord with perfect neutrality. “What?”
“You’re enjoying this,” Robby said.
“I am maintaining room discipline.”
“You called her Mrs. Abbot.”
Dana’s mouth barely moved. “That is her name.” Your smile widened.
Jack looked at Dana, then back at you, and his face softened despite himself. Dana glanced at the monitor. “See? Therapeutic.” Robby’s eyes dropped to Jack’s sleeve.
Jack saw it happen. “No.”
Robby smiled. “I didn’t say anything.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “You looked at my sleeve.”
“Clinically,” Robby replied.
Jack shook his head. “Absolutely not.”
You blinked up at Jack, still angry, still hazy, still betrayed by the entire medical system. “He does have nice forearms.”
Jack stared at the ceiling. Robby nodded toward Jack’s arm. “Roll up your sleeve.”
Jack looked at him. “Excuse me?”
“She’s tensing.”
Jack gave Robby a look. “You want me to roll up my sleeves.”
“I want patient compliance,” Robby corrected.
Jack looked at Dana. Dana glanced at the monitor, then at you. “It would probably help.”
Jack’s face went flat. “Not you too.”
Dana shrugged. “I’m practical.”
Robby looked delighted. “See? Medicine.”
Jack exhaled through his nose, then dragged one sleeve of his hoodie up his forearm. Your eyes followed the movement immediately. You hated yourself a little. Not enough to look away. His forearm flexed as he pushed the fabric past his elbow, tendons shifting under skin, the veins at his wrist standing out when his fingers curled once around the bed rail. Your mouth went soft.
Robby pointed at you. “There.”
Jack’s eyes cut to him. “Do not point at my wife while she’s objectifying me.”
“I am pointing at a response to treatment,” Robby replied with glee.
You looked at Jack’s arm. “Treatment is good.”
Princess made a strangled sound. Javadi stared straight ahead like a resident determined to survive rounds with her soul intact.
Jack leaned closer to you. “You are making this very difficult.”
You blinked. “Me?”
“You.” His thumb brushed your cheek. “Very stubborn. Very pretty. Extremely bad at being a patient.”
The giggle came before you could stop it. Soft. Helpless. Embarrassing. Jack’s eyes warmed. Robby looked like he had just discovered a new antibiotic. “Oh, that’s excellent.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Ignore him.”
“You think I’m pretty,” you said.
“I married you,” Jack replied.
“That’s not an answer.”
His mouth curved. “Yes, baby. I think you’re pretty.”
You melted. Completely. It was humiliating. It was also his fault. Robby adjusted your injured arm, careful and slow, guiding your hand toward his shoulder. The position made pain spark hot and immediate. “No.” You tried to pull back. “No, fuck this.”
Jack’s face sharpened. Robby’s tone stayed calm. “I need thirty seconds.”
“I don’t want thirty seconds,” you said, frowning.
Robby’s expression softened, “I know.”
“No, I want that one to do it,” you said, looking from Robby to Jack.
Jack leaned closer. “You have that one.”
“I want that one to doctor me.” Your lower lip jutted out.
Robby, far too cheerful, said, “We’ve covered the conflict of interest.”
You frowned at him. “Sexy doctor husband.”
Jack looked at Robby. “Fix her shoulder.”
Robby looked at Jack’s hoodie. Jack saw it. His whole body went still. “No.”
Robby lifted both hands. “I didn’t say anything.” Jack stared at him.
Robby smiled. “She responded well to forearm.”
“Forearm is not a drug,” Jack shot back.
Robby shrugged. “It is today.”
Jack dragged a hand down his face. “Fuck me.”
You, who had been blinking hazily at the ceiling, turned your head with alarming speed. “Yes.”
The room stopped. Completely. Jack’s hand froze halfway down his face. “No.”
You frowned, offended. “Rude.”
Princess turned toward the computer with the focus of a woman fighting for her life. Santos stared at the floor, shoulders shaking.
Dana checked the monitor. “Heart rate response noted.”
Jack looked at her. “Dana.”
She did not look up. “I report data.”
Robby pressed his lips together. “For the record, that was the fastest she’s oriented to verbal stimulus since the medication.”
You reached weakly for Jack’s hand. “Sexy doctor husband.”
Jack looked down at you. Your eyes were glassy from medication and pain, your good hand tight around his, your face still trying so hard to stay mad because scared was too vulnerable, and both of you knew it. His irritation lost some of its shape. “Fine,” he muttered. Robby brightened. Jack glared at him. “Don’t look so happy.”
“I’m a scientist observing results,” Robby replied, delighted.
Jack stood beside the bed and reached back, fingers catching the sweatshirt at the back of his neck. Your eyes locked onto the movement. He pulled it over his head in one smooth drag, the hem catching for half a second on the white T-shirt underneath. The shirt stretched across his chest and shoulders when he lifted his arms. His biceps shifted under the fabric. His forearms flexed as he dragged the sweatshirt free.
The room went very quiet. You stared. Completely gone. Jack paused with the sweatshirt in one hand. Just for a second. Long enough to let you look. His mouth tilted, barely. “Better?”
You nodded slowly. “Wow.”
Robby made a sound that might have been spiritual.
Jack dropped back into the chair beside you and took your hand again. “Eyes on me.”
You obeyed immediately. “Sexy doctor husband.”
Jack closed his eyes. “Good Lord.”
Robby looked at the monitor, then at Jack. “That was outstanding.”
Robby grinned. “You removed clothing, and her heart rate stabilized.”
“That is not what happened,” Jack replied with a sigh.
Dana glanced at the monitor. “It sort of is.” J
ack looked betrayed. “Dana.”
She shrugged. “I report data.”
Robby gestured toward you, far too pleased with the entire clinical situation. “Magic Mike: ED Edition.”
Jack’s head snapped up. “No.”
Robby’s grin spread slowly. “I don’t know, brother. You danced at your wedding. Pretty risky, if memory serves.”
Jack’s stare went flat. “Robby.”
“There was a certain Eminem song involved,” Robby continued.
Your head turned on the pillow. “Shake That.”
Jack closed his eyes. “Do not help him.”
Robby pointed at you, delighted. “That’s the one.”
Dana looked up from the monitor. “You danced to ‘Shake That’ at your wedding?”
“No,” Jack said immediately.
You turned toward him with surprising speed. “Jack.”
His eyes opened. “Baby.”
Your brow furrowed, “Don’t you dare deny that.”
Princess pressed both lips together and turned toward the computer as if it had suddenly become fascinating. Santos stared between you and Jack, openly thrilled. You lifted your good hand as much as the IV allowed and pointed at him. “That moment changed my brain chemistry.”
Jack looked toward the ceiling. “Good Lord.”
Robby nodded solemnly. “For the record, I was there. It changed several people’s brain chemistry.”
Jack’s head turned slowly. “You cried during the father-daughter dance.”
“You and your wife offended decent people everywhere with that dance,” Robby said.
You nodded, glassy-eyed and completely unashamed. “Yep. My grandma left.”
Jack looked down at you, horror flickering across his face. “Your grandmother left?”
You blinked up at him. “You didn’t know that?”
“No,” Jack said. “I did not know that.”
“She came back for cake,” you added.
Jack looked at you. “That does not make it better.”
Robby’s grin widened. “I’m just saying. It was a lot of wedding.”
Jack’s eyes cut to him. “You ended that night with half your shirt unbuttoned because a bridesmaid took your tie off with her teeth.”
Santos’s head snapped up. “With her teeth?”
Dana did not look away from the monitor. “Do not repeat wedding lore.”
Princess turned from the computer, delighted. “Did he go home with her?”
Robby pointed sharply at your shoulder. “We have a patient.”
Jack’s mouth curved, barely. “He did.”
Robby stared at him. “Betrayal.”
Jack shrugged. “You started this.”
“I started a medical discussion,” Robby defended.
Jack narrowed his eyes. “You called me Magic Mike.”
Robby frowned. “In a medical context.”
You looked between them, soft and dreamy now, the medication turning the memory warm around the edges. “It was perfect.”
Jack’s expression shifted. “Our wedding?”
You nodded. “You danced. I danced. Robby got slutty.”
Robby pointed at you. “For the record, ‘Robby got slutty’ is not medically relevant.”
Your eyes drifted back to Jack. You studied him for one long, medicated second. “You got slutty.”
Jack’s brows lifted. “I did not.”
You gave him a look. “Tell that to your hips.” You kept looking at Jack, still dreamy and deeply serious. “And hands.”
Jack closed his eyes again.
Santos made a tiny sound. “He got slutty.”
Dana did not look away from the monitor. “Do not repeat Mrs. Abbot.”
Your face softened immediately. Jack noticed. Of course, he noticed. His thumb moved once over your hand. “She called me Mrs. Abbot.”
“I heard,” Jack said, quieter now.
A small smile pulled at your mouth. “That’s me.” Jack’s expression softened before he could stop it.
Robby looked from you to Dana. “You’re enjoying this.”
Dana adjusted the pulse ox cord with perfect neutrality. “I am maintaining room discipline.”
Jack looked at you slowly. He looked down at you, and something in his expression changed. Not embarrassed now. Worse. Amused. “You know, baby,” he said, voice low, “I didn’t hear you complaining that night.”
Your mouth parted. For one blessed second, the medication actually managed to quiet you.
Robby looked delighted. “Oh, that worked.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Don’t.”
You blinked up at Jack, soft and glassy-eyed and deeply sincere. “I was thoroughly enjoying it.”
Dana closed her eyes. Princess turned fully toward the computer.
Robby pressed a hand to his chest. “That is a lot of marriage for a workplace.”
Jack’s jaw flexed, but his thumb moved over your hand again. “Trouble.”
You smiled faintly. “You started it.”
Robby pointed at Jack. “She’s right.”
Jack looked at him. “You started it.” Robby nodded. “Also true. Still worth it.”
Dana adjusted the bed, then looked at both of them. “Shoulder now. Wedding crimes later.”
You frowned. “They’re not crimes if everyone had fun.”
“Your grandmother left,” Jack said.
“She came back for cake.”
Robby nodded. “Strong recovery.”
Jack looked at him. “You are done.”
Robby smiled. “Brother, I have barely begun.”
Dana’s voice cut through, calm and final. “Robby.”
Robby lifted both hands. “Shoulder now.”
Jack leaned closer to you, resigned and soft all at once. “Eyes on me, trouble.”
You looked at his white T-shirt, then his face. “I am looking,” you said. “That’s the problem.”
For half a second, he looked like he might say something that would make the entire situation worse.
Robby must have seen it coming, because he clapped once, sharp and quiet. “Okay,” he said. “Shoulder.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “You heard the man.”
You frowned at him. “I don’t like the man.”
Robby adjusted his gloves at your injured side. “The man is hurt by that.”
Dana moved closer to the bed, one hand resting near your good shoulder. “Mrs. Abbot,” she said, calm and even. “We’re going to sit you up a little more.”
Your face softened immediately. Jack saw it again. His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “You like that.”
You blinked at him. “Like what?”
His voice went quieter. “Mrs. Abbot.”
A small, helpless smile pulled at your mouth. “That’s me.”
Jack’s expression changed. Not enough for anyone else to call him out on it, maybe, but enough for you to feel warmer than the medication could explain. “Yeah, baby,” he said. “That’s you.”
Robby looked at Dana. Dana kept her face neutral. “Therapeutic,” she said.
Jack did not look away from you. “Do not note that.”
Robby shrugged. “I have a whole mental chart now.”
“Delete it,” Jack shot back.
Robby grinned. “HIPAA doesn’t apply to my thoughts.”
Dana raised the bed before Jack could answer. The motion sent your shoulder into a hot, mean pulse. Your good hand tightened around Jack’s. “Nope.”
Jack stepped in closer immediately. “I’ve got you.”
“Nope,” you said again, sharper this time. “I changed my mind.”
Robby’s voice stayed steady from your side. “You can hate it.”
“I do hate it. I hate the concept. I hate whoever invented Cunningham,” you groaned.
Robby nodded once. “Probably fair.” You went on, “I hate that his name is Cunningham.”
“It is a useful medical procedure,” Robby replied.
You turned your glare on him. “Don’t defend Cunningham to me right now.”
Jack leaned into your line of sight. “Look at me.”
You looked at him. Mostly because he was very close. Also, because the T-shirt was still doing hateful things across his chest. Jack’s eyes narrowed faintly, like he knew exactly where your attention had gone.
“My face,” he said.
You sighed. “Your face is also a problem.”
Robby glanced at the monitor. “Problem appears effective.” Jack turned his head a fraction. “Robby.”
“Data,” Dana said.
Jack gave her a betrayed look. Dana’s brows lifted. “I report it.”
Robby slid your injured hand carefully toward his shoulder. The second your arm shifted, pain sparked bright and fast down your side.
“Fuck.” Your eyes squeezed shut. “No, no, no, fuck that.”
Jack’s free hand came to your cheek. Warm palm. Steady fingers. No pressure, just contact. “Hey.”
You shook your head. “No, Jack, I really don’t—”
“I know.”
Robby paused, his hands still supporting your arm.
Jack’s thumb moved once beneath your cheekbone. “I know, sweetheart.”
You opened your eyes. His face was right there. Close enough to blur at the edges. Worried in that contained way that made your chest hurt. Soft in the places no one else knew to look.
“I don’t want it to hurt,” you whispered.
Jack’s expression gentled. “I know.” Your throat tightened. “I’m being so stupid.”
“No,” he said immediately.
Robby’s voice came from your side, quieter now. “You’re not.”
Dana’s hand stayed light near your shoulder. “You are allowed to be in pain, Mrs. Abbot.”
Your mouth trembled. That was rude of her, honestly. Using the name like that.
Jack watched your face, and something in him settled. “Be mad,” he said softly. “Swear at Robby. Insult Cunningham.”
Robby lifted one hand. “I would like to opt out of one third of that.”
Jack ignored him. “But keep looking at me.” You swallowed. “You’re bossy.”
“I know.” Jack smiled softly.
You narrowed your eyes. “You like being bossy.” His mouth curved, barely. “With you?”
Your eyes widened a little. Jack’s thumb moved along your cheek. “Yeah.”
The room went dangerously still. Robby’s face brightened. “Oh, that was good.”
Jack’s eyes cut toward him. “Do not grade me.”
“I’m not grading. I’m appreciating the technique.”
Dana looked at the monitor. “Heart rate improved.” Jack exhaled through his nose. “Good Lord.”
You stared at him, caught between pain and medication and the unfair fact of him. “Sexy doctor husband.”
His jaw flexed. “Apparently.” Robby moved your elbow another careful inch. You tensed immediately.
Jack’s hand slid from your cheek to the back of your head, fingers threading gently into your hair. “Eyes on me.”
You tried. You really did. Your gaze dropped to his mouth first.
Jack noticed. His mouth twitched. “My eyes, trouble.”
“I’m trying,” you groaned.
He smirked. “You’re doing terrible.” You made a small, offended sound.
Jack’s thumb stroked lightly at the base of your skull. “But you’re very pretty while you do it.”
A giggle escaped you before you could stop it. It came out wet, shaky, and ridiculous.
Robby froze. Dana glanced at the monitor. Princess made a tiny sound near the computer.
Santos looked like she might need to sit down. Jack’s eyes softened. “There she is.”
You frowned at him. “You’re flirting medically again.”
“I am not,” Jack replied.
Robby adjusted his grip on your elbow. “You are.”
Jack kept his face angled toward you. “No one asked you.”
“I did,” you said.
Jack looked back at you. “You did not.”
“I spiritually asked,” you said with a sigh.
Robby pointed at you. “She gets me.”
Jack’s hand tightened carefully at the back of your head. “That is what worries me.”
The laugh that tried to leave you broke into a gasp when Robby began working at the muscles around your shoulder.
Pain rose again, deep and threatening. “No,” you said, voice thin now.
Jack’s teasing vanished. Just gone. His face steadied. “Breathe with me.”
“I don’t want to breathe.”
He raised a brow. “Do it anyway.” You frowned. “That’s mean.”
“I know,” Jack agreed.
“Fuck, Jack.”
His eyes held yours. “I’ve got you.”
Robby’s voice came low and focused. “Good. Just like that. Try not to fight me.”
You turned your eyes toward him in outrage. “Try not to fight you?”
Jack’s hand at the back of your head guided you back. “Me.”
You sucked in a breath. “Robby is saying stupid things.”
“I know.” Jack nodded.
“I can hear you,” Robby said.
Jack’s thumb swept once under your eye. “Ignore him.”
“He’s touching my shoulder,” you said, miserable.
Jack tilted his head closer to you. “Because he’s fixing it.”
“I don’t like him,” you said with a frown.
Jack smiled softly at you. “You love him.”
“Not right now,” you said, brows furrowed.
Robby nodded without looking up. “Temporary friendship suspension. Accepted.”
Dana looked at you. “Hold still, Mrs. Abbot.”
The name hit exactly where it had before. Your breathing hitched, but this time it hitched softer.
Jack saw it. Robby saw it. Dana absolutely saw it. Robby looked at Dana. “You’re good.”
Dana didn’t look away from the monitor. “I know.” Jack leaned closer. “You’re doing good.”
You stared at him. “I am?”
“Yeah,” he replied.
Your eyes burned. “I’m making this difficult.” Jack nodded once. “You’re scared.”
“I’m swearing,” you continued.
He shrugged a shoulder. “I’ve heard worse.”
“I told everyone about our wedding crimes.” Your lower lip wobbled.
His mouth moved like he was fighting a smile. “That one we’ll discuss later.”
“You got slutty.”
Jack closed his eyes. “Not now.” Robby’s shoulders shook once.
Jack’s eyes opened. “Do not laugh during my wife’s reduction.”
Robby’s expression snapped back into focus. “Guilty.”
Pain flared again, sharper this time, and your whole body tried to pull away.
Jack’s hand held steady at the back of your head. Not forcing you. Keeping you with him. “Look at me.”
You blinked away tears. “I am.”
“No.” His voice dropped. “Really look.”
You did.
His eyes were dark and close and worried. His thumb moved against your cheek, slow and sure.
“There you go,” he murmured. “Stay right there.”
Your breath shook. “This fucking sucks.”
“I know,” Jack murmured.
You went on. “Cunningham is a bad man.”
“Probably.” Jack nodded with a soft smile.
Robby glanced up. “Cunningham did not personally do this to you.”
You glared at him through tears. “He knows what he did.” Robby nodded. “I’ll allow it.”
Jack’s mouth brushed the edge of a smile.
You caught it. Even through pain. Even through fear. Even through the medication making the room swim around the edges. “You’re laughing.”
“I’m not,” Jack replied.
You glared at him. “You are.”
“Only because you’re mean on drugs,” he said, smiling softly at you.
You inhaled sharply. “I’m allowed to be mean right now.”
“Yeah,” Jack said, impossibly soft. “You are.”
Robby’s hands shifted. The pressure changed. Your body knew before your brain did.
You went rigid. “No.” Jack’s face sharpened. “Baby.”
“No, no, no, I don’t want—” You shook your head despite the pain.
His hand cupped your face more firmly. “Look at me.” Your eyes found his. “I am looking.”
“Good,” Jack said, his voice low and steady.
Your eyes burned as you stared up at him. “Jack.”
His hand stayed firm at the back of your head, fingers threaded carefully into your hair. “I’ve got you.”
You swallowed hard, trying not to pull away from Robby’s hands. “I hate this.”
“I know.” Jack’s thumb moved along your cheek.
Your breath hitched, half pain and half panic. “I hate your stupid face for helping.”
His mouth curved just enough to ruin you. “Use it.”
“What?”
“My stupid face.” His thumb brushed beneath your eye. “Look at it instead of your shoulder.”
You stared at him. “I hate that that works.”
“I know,” Jack murmured.
You glared at him. “Your face is medically annoying.” Robby murmured, “Groundbreaking terminology.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Not now.”
Robby’s hands shifted again. You felt the pressure build. Slow, careful, awful.
Jack saw you brace. Of course he did. His voice dropped. “Be good for me.”
Your face went soft immediately. “Oh, that’s unfair.”
Jack’s thumb brushed beneath your eye. “I know.”
“You’re cheating.” You tried to glare at him, but the medication and his hand in your hair made it a weak attempt.
His mouth curved, barely there and deeply unrepentant. “I know.”
Robby, without missing a beat, said, “Cheating is medically allowed right now.”
Jack’s jaw flexed. “Do it now.”
For one suspended second, there was only Jack’s face, his hand in your hair, his thumb on your cheek, and Robby’s steady pressure on your arm.
Then the joint shifted. Not violently. Not with a dramatic crack.
Just a deep, sickening slide, followed by sudden release. You gasped.
The wrongness vanished all at once. Your whole body folded toward Jack on a broken little sob.
He caught you carefully, one hand still cradling your head, the other braced at your good shoulder. “I’ve got you,” he said immediately. “I’ve got you.”
Robby exhaled. “Shoulder’s back.”
You breathed hard against Jack’s white T-shirt, your face pressed into the warmth of his chest, tears leaking more from relief than pain now. “Holy shit.”
Jack’s mouth brushed your hair before he seemed to remember there were witnesses. “Yeah.”
“That was awful,” you breathed, tears falling.
Jack kissed your head. “I know.” You turned your face enough to look up at him. “You were helpful.”
His expression softened. “Yeah?”
You nodded, still floating, still furious, still very much on drugs. “Sexy doctor husband.”
Robby pulled off his gloves with great satisfaction. “For the record, Cunningham with targeted husband exposure: wildly effective.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Document that and die.”
Robby smiled. “Brother, this is medicine now.”
You blinked up at Jack, wet-eyed and dazed. “I picked that one.”
The room went quiet around the softness in your voice. Jack’s thumb moved once along your cheek. “Yeah,” he said. “You did.”
You stared at him for another long, drug-soft second. “I picked good.”
His face changed. Not a lot. Enough. “Yeah, baby,” he said quietly. “You did.”
Robby pressed a hand to his chest. “I need everyone to know I am handling this with incredible maturity.”
Dana looked at him. “You are not.”
“No,” Robby agreed. “But I almost did.”
Jack’s hand stayed against the side of your face for another second before he seemed to remember the rest of the room existed.
“Post-reduction films?” he asked, glancing toward Robby.
Robby pulled his gloves off and dropped them into the trash. “Already ordered.” Jack nodded once.
Robby gave him a look as he stepped back to your injured side. “Neurovascular was intact before. Checking again now.”
“I know you are,” Jack said.
Robby lifted his brows. “Do you?” Jack’s mouth flattened. “I’m standing right here.”
“Great,” Robby said. “Then stand there husbandly and let me be her doctor.”
You turned your head slowly against Jack’s palm. “You’re both doctors.”
Robby leaned closer, careful as he checked your hand. “Only one of us is currently allowed to practice medicine on you.”
You looked at Jack. “I vote that one.” Jack closed his eyes. “Baby.”
Robby did not look up from your fingers. “Your vote has been received and rejected by the ethics committee.”
You frowned at him. “I don’t like the ethics committee.”
“The ethics committee is me,” Robby said.
You blinked at him. “That tracks.”
Santos made a tiny sound near the foot of the bed. Dana glanced at her. Santos pressed her lips together and looked at the floor.
Robby touched your fingers gently. “Can you wiggle these for me?” You wiggled them.
Robby nodded. “Good. Any numbness or tingling?”
You stared at him, still dazed. “Just in my dignity.”
“That is not innervated by the axillary nerve,” Robby said.
You blinked. “Show-off.”
Jack’s thumb moved over your cheek again. The motion was small. Your body noticed anyway.
Robby saw that too, because of course he did, but for once he did not comment.
Dana adjusted the sling on the tray beside the bed. “We’ll get her immobilized once Robby’s done checking you,” she said. Jack’s attention shifted to the sling. His jaw tightened by a fraction.
You saw it even through the medication. “You’re doing the face.”
Jack looked back down at you. “What face?”
“The face,” you said.
Robby glanced over. “Oh, I know the face.” Jack did not look at him. “No one asked you.”
Robby’s voice stayed light, but not careless. “It’s the face he makes when he wishes he could make it easier for you.”
Jack went quiet. So did you. Your fingers tightened around his. “You did,” you said.
Jack looked down at you. “What?” Your smile was small and drug-soft. “You made it easier.”
His thumb moved once over your hand. “Yeah?”
You nodded, eyes glassy and sincere. “Yeah. Because you’re hot. And a doctor. And smart. And sexy. And my husband. And I love you.”
The room went very still. Jack’s face softened all at once.
Then you added, very seriously, “And you’re hot.”
Robby’s mouth opened. Dana looked at the monitor like it had become essential to her survival.
Jack brushed his thumb over your knuckles. “Is that all?”
You blinked up at him, exhausted and earnest. “No.” His mouth curved. “No?”
You shook your head once, barely. “But I’m tired and drugged.”
Jack’s expression warmed into something painfully fond. “Okay, baby.”
Robby pressed a hand to his chest. You swallowed, the edges of the room still warm and watery.
“And Eli?”
Robby’s expression gentled before the joke could get there.
“Megan called down while we were getting the films ordered. He’s okay.”
You stared at him. “She told him?”
“She told him,” Robby said. “His mom told him. He knows you’re not mad.”
You blinked hard. Jack’s hand tightened around yours.
Robby leaned a hip lightly against the counter, his voice quieter now. “He drew you a picture.”
Your throat closed. “He did?”
“Apparently it’s you with a cape,” Robby said.
Princess smiled from the computer. “And a very large arm.”
You made a sound that tried to be a laugh and almost became something else. “Is it anatomically correct?”
Robby looked at Princess. Princess shook her head. “Not even close.” You closed your eyes. “Good.”
Jack brushed his thumb over your knuckles.
Your eyes burned again, but softer this time. “He doesn’t think I’m mad?”
Robby shook his head. “He thinks you’re a superhero.”
You went very still. Jack felt your hand tighten around his. Then your face crumpled. “Oh, no.”
Jack leaned in immediately. “Baby?” Your eyes filled too fast for you to stop them. “I’m leaking.”
Jack’s expression softened all at once. “You’re crying.”
“I know.” Your mouth trembled. “I don’t want to.”
“That’s okay,” he murmured.
You shook your head. “It’s embarrassing.”
“No, it isn’t,” Jack replied, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.
You sniffled. “It is in front of the day shift.”
Robby’s face softened from the counter. “Day shift can handle feelings.”
Santos looked suspiciously focused on the floor. Princess turned toward the computer, blinking too much.
Dana adjusted the sling on the tray without looking up. “Mrs. Abbot,” she said evenly, “day shift has seen worse.”
Your smile wobbled through the tears. “She called me Mrs. Abbot.”
Jack’s thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching a tear before it reached your cheek. “Yeah, baby.”
You looked up at him, wet-eyed and overwhelmed. “He thinks I’m a superhero.”
Jack’s face changed. Not a lot. Enough to make you cry harder. “He’s right.”
Your chin trembled. “Jack.”
“He is,” Jack said, voice low. “You protected him.”
A tear slipped hot down your cheek. “I scared him.”
“You helped him.”
The words landed so gently that they hurt. You made a broken little sound and tried to wipe your face with your good hand, but Jack caught your fingers before you could tug at the IV.
“I’ve got it.” He brushed another tear away with his thumb.
You sniffed. “I’m leaking a lot.”
His mouth softened. “I know.”
You exhaled. “I hate this drug.”
“No, you don’t.” He smiled gently.
You thought about it, tears still sliding down your cheeks. “I kind of love this drug.”
Robby nodded from the counter. “There she is.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Let her leak.”
Dana smiled gently. “Mrs. Abbot,” she said, crisp and even, “I’m going to help support your arm while we get this situated.”
Your eyes opened the rest of the way. A smile pulled at your mouth immediately, even through the tears.
Jack looked down at you. “There it is.” You blinked at him. “What?”
He brushed one knuckle lightly along your jaw. “That smile.”
You looked toward Dana, pleased and hazy. “She called me Mrs. Abbot again.”
Dana did not look up from the sling. “That is your name.”
Robby pointed at her. “You’re doing it on purpose.” Dana kept her hands steady. “I am doing my job.”
“You are weaponizing legal marriage,” Robby said.
Dana fitted the strap carefully behind your neck. “I am supporting patient cooperation.”
You sighed happily. “It is working.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Clearly.”
Dana adjusted the sling around your injured arm. “This may pull a little.” Your smile vanished.
Jack saw it instantly. “Hey.”
“Nope,” you said.
His hand found your good one again. “Look at me.”
You frowned. “I already did that.”
“Do it again.”
You looked at him.
His eyes stayed steady on yours while Dana adjusted the last strap. There was a brief tug, a hot little spark of discomfort, and then your arm was held against you, supported and still.
You exhaled shakily. Jack’s thumb brushed once over your hand. “There you go.”
You swallowed. “I swore a lot.”
Jack’s mouth softened. “You were allowed.”
You leaned and whispered poorly. “In front of Dana.”
Dana stepped back from the sling. “I’ve heard worse, Mrs. Abbot.” Your smile came back immediately.
Jack glanced at Dana. “Therapeutic.”
Dana picked up the chart. “Accurate.”
Robby checked the sling with a quick glance, then nodded to Dana. “Looks good.”
Dana stepped back. “It’ll do until ortho tells her the same thing in a more expensive voice.”
Princess laughed under her breath. Santos rocked back on her heels.
“So she’s going home?” Santos asked.
Jack looked at Robby before Robby could answer, the same question reflected in his eyes
Robby lifted his brows. “You asking as her husband or as the night attending who has forgotten he is not on shift?”
Jack stared at him. “Husband.”
Robby smiled. “Good choice.”
Jack’s jaw flexed. “Robby.”
“We’ll watch her a bit after the follow-up films, make sure pain is controlled, then yes,” Robby said. “Home. Ice. Sling. Ortho follow-up. No lifting. No heroic catching of children for a while.”
You frowned at him. “That feels targeted.”
“It is,” Robby confirmed.
Your frown deepened. “Eli was falling.”
“And you caught him,” Robby said. “And now your shoulder is in a sling.”
You looked away. Jack’s voice softened. “You did good.”
You looked back up at him. “I broke myself.”
Jack shook his head. “You protected him.”
You pressed your lips together. “That sounds like something you say when I broke myself.”
Jack held your gaze. “It can be both.”
You considered him through the medication. “You’re very pretty when you’re reasonable.”
Robby made a wounded sound. “Not this again.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Thank you.”
Your smile went soft. “Sexy doctor husband.”
Jack lowered his head for half a second like he was gathering strength.
Dana picked up the chart. “Do not repeat Mrs. Abbot.”
Santos closed her mouth so fast her teeth clicked.
Princess turned toward the computer, shoulders shaking. Robby looked between Dana and the monitor.
“Therapeutic and preventative.”
Dana’s eyes flicked to him. “Exactly.”
Jack gave her a long look. “I don’t know whether to thank you or be concerned.”
“Both is usually safest,” Dana said.
A little while later, after the films confirmed what Robby already knew, after Princess brought discharge paperwork, after Santos was banished from asking any more questions about the wedding, the room finally thinned out.
Dana left with one last check of your sling and one more calm, devastating, “Take it easy, Mrs. Abbot.”
You smiled so hard your eyes closed.
Jack watched Dana go, then looked down at you. “She did that on purpose.”
You leaned into the pillow. “She likes me.”
“She likes making me suffer,” Jack said.
You nodded solemnly. “People contain multitudes.” Jack huffed a quiet laugh.
Robby came back with the discharge papers and a pen. “Okay,” he said. “Because apparently I am the only person in this room still committed to medicine.”
Jack was sitting beside your bed now, his sweatshirt back on but unzipped, one hand wrapped around yours. “You loved every second of this.”
Robby held up the paperwork. “I loved several medically relevant seconds of this.”
“You called me Magic Mike,” Jack said.
Robby nodded. “In a medically relevant context.”
“You threatened to chart targeted husband exposure,” Jack added.
“I still might,” Robby said.
Jack stared at him. Robby smiled. “I won’t.”
“You better not,” Jack warned.
“I’ll save it for the group chat,” Robby said with a shrug.
Jack’s expression went blank. “There is no group chat.”
Robby looked at you. “He thinks there’s no group chat.”
You turned to Jack, horrified. “You think there’s no group chat?”
Jack looked between you and Robby. “I hate this family.”
Your smile went dreamy. “You said family.”
Robby’s expression softened before he covered it with a cough.
Jack looked down at your joined hands. “I did.”
The air warmed around that. For one second, nobody ruined it.
Then Robby clicked the pen. “Anyway,” he said. “Sling stays on. Ice twenty minutes at a time. Pain meds as prescribed, not as creatively interpreted by the patient. Ortho follow-up within the week. No work until cleared.”
You opened your eyes. “No work?” Jack’s hand tightened.
Robby looked at you. “No work.”
“But peds is short,” you replied.
“Peds will survive,” Robby said.
You frowned. “You don’t know that.”
Robby leaned closer, his sarcasm gone soft around the edges. “I know you cannot care for children with a freshly reduced shoulder.”
You looked at Jack for backup. Jack shook his head. “No.”
“You didn’t even let me ask,” you said, brows furrowed.
Jack just gave you a look. “I know where you were going.”
“You always know where I’m going,” you sighed.
Jack shrugged. “Usually because it’s somewhere you shouldn’t.” Robby nodded. “Marriage.”
You sighed again and let your head fall back against the pillow. “This is oppressive.”
“This is discharge planning,” Robby said.
“Oppressive discharge planning,” you mumbled.
Jack stood slowly, keeping hold of your hand. You looked up at him. “We’re leaving?”
He nodded. “Soon.”
“Are you taking me home?” you asked, hopefully.
His expression softened. “Yeah, baby.”
Your whole face relaxed. “Good. I want that one.”
Robby pressed the paperwork to his chest. “She’s still doing it.”
Jack took the papers from him. “She’s on medication.”
He folded the paperwork and tucked it into his jacket pocket.
Robby watched him for a moment, the humor easing out of his face. “You good to get her home?”
Jack looked at you. You were blinking slowly, exhausted now, the adrenaline finally draining out of your body.
His voice gentled. “Yeah.”
Robby nodded. “Call me if anything changes.”
Jack met his eyes. “I will.”
The two men looked at each other for half a second longer than the words required.
You noticed even through the fog. “You two are having feelings.”
Robby looked down at you. “We are absolutely not.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “No feelings.”
“Lies,” you murmured.
Robby pointed at you. “Pain meds have made her too powerful.”
Jack helped you sit up carefully. The room tilted as soon as you moved. You made a small sound and grabbed for him with your good hand.
He was already there. One arm came around your waist, careful not to jostle the sling, his body solid beside yours. “I’ve got you.”
You leaned into him. “I know.”
That seemed to hit him somewhere. His hand spread warm at your side. Robby stepped closer, but Jack had you steady.
“Slow,” Jack said.
“I am slow,” you grumbled.
The room tilted. You caught Jack’s shirt with your good hand, and his arm came around your waist before you could wobble any farther.
His mouth twitched. “That’s why I said go slow.”
You rolled your eyes. “Smartass.”
Robby nodded from beside the bed. “Fair assessment.” Jack shot him a look.
“Supportive environment,” Robby said.
Jack eased you carefully off the bed. Your knees felt uncertain, and the room stayed too bright, but his arm held you steady.
Dana reappeared at the curtain like she had sensed movement. “You good?”
Jack nodded. “I’ve got her.”
Dana looked at you. “Mrs. Abbot?”
Your smile came back, sleepy and immediate.
“I’m good.”
Dana’s mouth barely moved. “Clearly.”
Robby narrowed his eyes at her. “You did it again.”
Dana checked the hallway. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You absolutely do.”
Jack adjusted his hold at your waist. “Can we leave before anyone learns anything else about my wedding?”
Princess, still at the computer, lifted one finger. “I have follow-up questions.”
“No,” Jack said.
Santos leaned against the counter. “I have several.”
Jack shook his head. “Absolutely not.”
Robby grinned. “I have photos.”
Jack went still. You gasped softly. “You have photos?”
Robby’s grin widened. “And videos.”
Jack pointed at him. “Delete them.”
“Never,” Robby responded immediately.
“You have videos of the dance?” you asked, unable to contain your excitement.
Robby gave you a look. “You think I would witness neurological history and not document it?”
Your eyes went glassy again. “Can you send them to me?”
Jack looked down at you. “Baby.”
“What? I was there. I should have them,” you defended yourself.
Robby tapped his phone. “Already sent.”
Jack closed his eyes. “Good Lord.”
Your phone buzzed somewhere in the plastic belongings bag.
You looked up at Jack, delighted. “Brain chemistry.”
Dana held up one hand before Santos could speak. “Do not repeat Mrs. Abbot.”
Santos sighed. “I didn’t even say it.”
Dana looked at her. “You thought loudly.”
Jack shook his head and started guiding you toward the hallway. “We’re going home.”
You leaned into him, warm and sore and still floating enough that the ED lights looked like stars smeared across glass. “Home with you?”
Jack glanced down. His face softened. “Yeah.”
You smiled. “I picked good.”
This time, there were no monitors beeping too loud, no hands at your shoulder, no room full of witnesses waiting for the next outrageous thing you might say.
Just Jack’s hand at your waist, his body steady beside yours, his voice low near your ear.
Summary: Jack Abbot gets drunk. This is rare. This is unexpected. This is apparently also how you end up standing at your bedroom window in Pittsburgh, staring down at your husband while he recites Shakespeare on the lawn like a very handsome, very intoxicated theater kid with excellent lung capacity. He is romantic. He is committed. He is loud. You are in pajamas. The neighbors may never recover. Eventually, you get him inside, get him sitting on the edge of the bed, and attempt to help him into sweatpants while he becomes deeply concerned about your honor, your reputation, and the fact that his legs “don’t match.” Jack Abbot is steady under pressure. Drunk Jack Abbot is apparently one balcony away from a community noise complaint.
Warnings: married Jack Abbot x Reader, drunk Jack, alcohol use, established relationship, romantic comedy chaos, Shakespeare recitation, public embarrassment, Pittsburgh setting, responsible spouse caretaking, suggestive humor, changing clothes while drunk, prosthetic leg removal handled casually and respectfully, soft domestic intimacy, dramatic husband behavior.
Author's Note:
This one is for everyone who has ever wondered what would happen if Jack Abbot got drunk enough to become both romantic and theatrical. The answer is Shakespeare. Outside your window. At night. You have to retrieve your husband before the neighbors start calling in noise complaints, then get him upstairs, undressed, into sweatpants, prosthetic off, and safely into bed while he behaves like a scandalized Victorian man being compromised by his own legal wife.
He is dramatic.
He is devoted.
He is very lucky he is cute.
Xoxo, Del
You were asleep when the first little tap woke you up.
At least, you were pretty sure you had been asleep. It was the heavy kind of sleep you earned after two back-to-back shifts, a shower hot enough to steam the whole mirror, and half an episode of a show you absolutely could not remember choosing.
The bedroom was dark. The house was quiet. The sheets smelled like laundry detergent and Jack’s shampoo because he had a habit of showering, crawling into bed with damp hair, and pretending he was not actively ruining your pillowcases.
Another tap near the glass.
Tiny.
Sharp.
Distinct.
You opened one eye.
For a second, you thought it was weather. Pittsburgh did weird things at night sometimes. Wind. Branches. Rain pattering sideways against the glass.
Then a third sound.
Tap.
A pause.
Tap tap.
You stared at the ceiling.
“What the fuck.” you whispered to no one.
From outside, faint but unmistakable, came a man’s voice.
“But soft.”
Your eyes widened.
Oh my god.
“But soft,” the voice repeated, louder this time. “What light through yonder—yonder—fuck.”
You sat up so fast the comforter slipped to your waist.
There was a muffled shout from outside, followed by laughter. Loud, wheezing, helpless laughter.
Robby.
You threw the covers back, crossed the room, and shoved the curtain aside.
Your husband was standing in the front yard.
Jack Abbot, attending physician, homeowner, allegedly grown man, was in the grass beneath your bedroom window with his jacket half-zipped, his hair a disaster, one shoulder slightly lower than the other, as if balance were a concept he respected but did not currently possess.
One hand was braced against his chest.
The other held what looked like a fistful of gravel from the edge of the driveway.
On the sidewalk behind him stood Robby, bent almost in half, one hand planted on his own knee while he laughed hard enough to shake. He looked drunk in the reckless, sparkly-eyed way that meant he was going to make every bad decision worse on purpose.
Shen leaned against the mailbox with the loose, happy posture of a man who was buzzed enough to be philosophical and rapidly approaching drunk enough to consider himself useful.
Crus stood near the curb beside his car, arms folded, completely sober and spiritually exhausted.
Jack saw your face appear behind the glass.
Everything in him lit up.
“Lady,” he said.
You blinked down at him.
Robby made a noise like a balloon losing air.
“Lady?” you repeated, mostly to yourself.
Jack lifted his chin with tremendous dignity. “Lady in the window.”
Crus looked up at you and mouthed, “I am so sorry.”
You unlocked the window. “Jack—”
Outside, Jack was already winding up again.
You pushed the window open.
A tiny piece of driveway gravel sailed through the gap and hit you softly in the chest.
For one perfect second, no one moved.
You looked down at the pebble where it bounced off your sweatshirt and landed on the floor.
Then you looked back out the window.
Jack stood in the yard with his hand still raised, his face draining of every ounce of drunken triumph. “Oh no.”
Robby slapped both hands over his mouth.
Shen went very still against the mailbox.
Crus closed his eyes like he had expected disaster, but was still disappointed by its form.
Jack took one horrified step backward. “I struck my lady.”
“You threw a pebble,” you said.
“I struck her.” Jack turned on Robby, devastated. “Why did you let me throw rocks at her?”
Robby’s eyes widened. “I did not authorize the courtship rocks.”
Jack looked at Robby, confused, “They weren’t your idea?”
“No!” Robby exclaimed as if he had been accused of first-degree murder.
Crus pointed at Jack. “They were your idea.”
Jack looked back up at you, appalled by himself. “I would never harm you.”
You press your lips together in an attempt to stop your smile, “I know, Jack.”
His gaze dropped to your sweatshirt.
Then his expression changed.
Just slightly. Concern stayed there. Guilt stayed there. But something else arrived.
Something drunker. Stupider.
Very much your husband.
Jack squinted. “Did that go down your shirt?”
You stared at him.
Robby inhaled sharply.
Crus shook his head.
Jack lifted one hand, very serious and very helpful. “I can get it for you.”
The sidewalk exploded.
“Absolutely not,” Crus said.
Robby bent fully at the waist, laughing so hard he nearly folded himself in half. “Chaperone! They need a chaperone! This is improper!”
Shen lifted one finger, swaying with grave importance. “A matter of decorum has presented itself.”
Jack’s face snapped from hopeful to offended. “I was being medically helpful.”
“You were offering to put your hand up her shirt,” Crus said.
Jack looked deeply wounded. “I am a doctor.”
“You are drunk,” Crus replied, rolling his eyes.
Jack frowned, as if this were technically accurate but spiritually irrelevant.
You picked the tiny pebble up from the floor and held it between two fingers. “It’s the size of a Tic Tac.”
Jack’s eyes locked onto it. His shoulders dropped in relief. Then he winced all over again.
“No more rocks!” he announced.
Robby straightened just enough to salute. “End of an era.”
Jack looked back up at you, still guilty, still giddy, still completely obsessed. “Are you sure it didn’t go down your shirt?”
“Jack.” You're warned, fighting a smile.
Jack’s brow furrowed, “Respectfully.”
“No.” You told him.
He nodded immediately, solemn as a vow. “Right. Boundaries.”
Crus pointed at him. “Hands where I can see them, Romeo.”
Jack lifted both hands. One was still full of gravel.
You raised your eyebrows.
He looked at the gravel, horrified all over again, and opened his hand. The tiny rocks were scattered into the grass.
“The rocks are retired,” Jack announces.
Shen nodded. “A noble sacrifice.”
You should have closed the window then. You should have told him to come inside. You should have reminded him that neighbors existed and that Crus looked one stern glance away from calling time of death on the evening.
Instead, your eyes drifted toward the porch.
The tiny blue light above the doorbell camera blinked steadily in the dark.
Recording.
Oh.
Oh, this was a gift.
You glanced toward the corner of the garage, where the driveway camera sat angled toward the front yard. Also recording. You folded your arms on the windowsill and tried very hard to make your face neutral.
“Go on, Romeo,” you called down.
Crus’s head snapped toward you. “Do not encourage him.”
Too late.
Jack’s face opened like you had handed him a sword and a reason.
Robby pointed up at you, delighted. “She’s making him worse.”
“She appreciates theater,” Jack said.
“You don’t know theater,” Crus said.
Jack gave him a wounded look. “I know my lady.”
Robby made a strangled sound. “Your lady?”
Jack turned on him. “Yes.”
Crus stared at him. “Your wife.”
Jack froze.
Then, very slowly, he looked back up at your window. “We’re married?”
Your smile started before you could stop it. “We are.”
His whole face lit. Not soft, exactly. Not sad. Not even sentimental.
Just pure, stunned delight.
Like someone had woken him in the middle of the night and told him he had won the best thing in the world, then pointed to you as proof.
“Fuck yeah,” Jack murmured.
Robby doubled over. “Oh, he’s happy about it.”
Shen nodded, solemn and wobbly. “As he should be.”
Crus rubbed a hand over his face. “He has been happy about it for years.”
Jack ignored all of them.
He was looking up at you again, bright-eyed and entirely too pleased with himself.
“My wife,” he said, testing it out.
You nodded, “Yes.”
His grin widened. “Fuck yeah.”
“Jack,” Crus said, “you cannot just keep rediscovering your marriage.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Watch me.”
Then he lifted one hand toward your window again, suddenly possessed by the urgent need to continue.
“But soft.”
Robby wheezed. “He’s going back in.”
Jack cleared his throat with the unearned confidence of a man about to ruin literature.
“But soft,” he repeated. “What light through yonder…”
He frowned.
The line had apparently vanished.
“What light through yonder…” Jack tried again, squinting at your window like the answer might be written on the glass. “Through yonder… house hole.”
Robby howled.
Crus leaned towards Jack, “Window.”
“I know,” Jack snapped, then looked back up at you and immediately softened. “Window.”
You leaned your chin into your hand, trying so hard not to smile too wide because every tiny bit of encouragement made him more powerful.
Jack saw anyway. Of course he did.
His grin went crooked and giddy. “She likes this.”
“No, she doesn’t,” Crus said.
“I do,” you called down.
Crus looked up at you. “You are creating a monster.”
You shrugged, “He’s already my monster.”
Jack’s mouth fell open.
Robby slapped Shen’s arm. “Oh, that got him.”
Jack stared up at you, dazzled. “I’m yours?”
“You’re mine.” You confirmed.
He turned toward the guys, almost vibrating with joy. “I’m hers.”
“We know, you’re married to her. ” Crus said.
Jack looked back up at you, needing it from the only source that mattered. “I am?”
You were laughing now. “You are.”
Jack grinned, “Fuck yeah.”
Then he remembered his mission.
His expression shifted back into concentration, but it was different now. Less performance for performance’s sake and more desperate translation. Like his drunk brain had decided regular words were not enough for what you looked like in that window, wearing his sweatshirt, smiling down at him with sleep-warm eyes and messy hair.
He did not know Shakespeare.
You were sure of that.
Jack had once referred to a sonnet as “one of those fancy rectangles.” He had complained about mandatory high school English with the same tone he used for hospital printer jams. He did not casually quote old plays.
But apparently, somewhere inside him, beneath the whiskey and whatever terrible thing Robby had talked him into ordering, a few broken pieces of Romeo and Juliet had survived.
And tonight, because he was drunk and in love and staring up at you, his brain had decided those pieces were the only tools worthy of the job.
“What light through yonder window…” Jack paused, fought for the word, and then looked offended by his own mouth. “Fucks.”
Crus sighed. “Breaks.”
Jack’s brow furrowed deeply, “That’s what I said.”
“You said fucks.” Crus corrected.
Jack glared at him with a frown, “Emotionally, I said breaks.”
Shen nodded. “I understood him.”
“You are not helping,” Crus said.
Jack ignored them, his gaze locked on you.
“What light through yonder window breaks,” he said again, mangled but determined. “It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.”
He stopped. His brow furrowed. “No.”
You tilted your head. “No?”
Jack shook his head with deep seriousness. “Not Juliet.”
Robby made a tiny dying sound.
Jack pointed up at you, eyes bright and unfocused and absolutely full of you. “My lady is the sun.”
Your breath caught around your laugh.
Jack looked frustrated now. Not with you. Never with you. With the words. With the fact that he had this whole impossible feeling in his chest and only scraps of half-remembered Shakespeare, curse words, and driveway gravel to work with.
“You are,” he insisted. “You’re the sun. And the moon is—”
He looked up, squinting into the dark sky. “The moon is fucked.”
Crus exhaled through his nose. “That is not Shakespeare.”
“It is now,” Shen said.
Jack kept looking at you.
“You’re more beautiful than the fucking moon,” he said, rough and certain. “And I don’t know if the stupid moon knows that, but I do.”
You pressed your lips together.
There he was.
Your ridiculous husband. Your drunk, swaying, gravel-holding husband, publicly destroying Shakespeare on your lawn because he loved you so much he needed bigger words than his own and kept breaking the bigger words in half.
Robby cupped both hands around his mouth. “Say more about the moon!”
Jack whipped around. “Do not tell me how to court my lady.”
Robby gasped. “Your lady?”
Jack narrowed his eyes. “Yes.”
Crus sighed. “Your wife.”
Jack immediately turned back toward the window. “We’re married?”
You nodded. “We are.”
That joy hit him all over again. “Fuck yeah.”
Shen sighed dreamily. “Every time, it lands.”
“It has happened four times,” Crus muttered.
Jack was not listening. He had apparently reloaded the romance. He took one dramatic step closer to the house and nearly tripped over the landscaping.
Crus moved automatically, one hand half-raised.
Jack caught himself and pointed down, “Sabotage.”
“That is a shrub,” Crus said.
“A treacherous shrub.” Jack glared down at the shrub.
Robby staggered a step and caught himself on Shen’s shoulder. “This is the best night of my life.”
“You threw up behind the bar,” Shen reminded him.
“Second-best night of my life.” Robby amended.
Jack cleared his throat.
The yard went quiet.
He looked up at you, full of giddy purpose.
“Tell them to leave,” Jack said, without looking away from you. “I’m courting you.”
You leaned against the window frame. “You live here.”
Jack visibly brightened. “Then let me in.”
“Use your key.” You replied.
Jack patted one pocket. Then the other. Then his jacket. Then his jeans again, with increasing distress.
His face fell. “I left it in the carriage.”
Shen lifted one hand. “He means the car.”
“The Honda,” Robby added.
Crus pointed toward the curb. “The car he escaped from at a red light.”
“It was stopped,” Robby said.
Crus turned to him, “At a red light.”
“That’s stopped,” Robby argued.
Jack ignored them. He was still staring up at you, wounded. “I don’t have my key.”
You looked down at him, “I can see that.”
“I would like to come inside.” He said, lower lip pressing out.
You gestured down at the lawn. “You were courting me.”
“I can court you indoors,” Jack replied instantly.
Robby’s head snapped up. “Oh,” he said.
Crus immediately said, “No.”
Robby pointed at Jack, drunk and thrilled with his own incoming damage. “Wait. If you’re courting a lady, you need a chaperone.”
Jack froze.
You covered your mouth.
Robby nodded, warming to the bit. “Historically. Otherwise, it’s improper.”
Shen pushed off the mailbox, eyes bright with buzzed seriousness. “There would be whispers. Her honor would be ruined amongst high society.”
Jack went completely still. Then his face changed.
Horror.
Betrayal.
Moral outrage.
“No.” He breathed.
Shen blinked. “No?”
Jack pointed at him. “You take that back.”
Shen looked genuinely confused. “The whispers?”
“The honor,” Jack answered.
Robby whispered, delighted, “Oh my god.”
Jack lifted his chin. “I will duel Shen for inferring an insult to her honor.”
Crus’s mouth tightened. “Implying.” He stepped forward. “No one is dueling anyone.”
Jack whipped around and pointed to him, “Don’t correct my vows of violence.”
“I was defending her honor,” Shen said, pressing a hand to his chest.
“You said it could be ruined,” Jack argued.
Shen looked over to Robby, “By Robby’s fake chaperone rules.”
Robby held up both hands. “I stand by the rules.”
Crus pointed at him. “You are not helping.”
Jack looked back up at you, devastation written all over his drunk, beloved face. “He spoke of your honor.”
You were laughing so hard that you had to grip the window frame. “He was being dramatic.”
“I’m being dramatic.” Jack gestured to himself. “He was being defamatory.”
Shen turned to Crus. “Is he using legal words correctly?”
“No,” Crus answered.
Robby nodded. “I think he’s doing great.”
Jack took one unsteady step toward Shen.
Crus moved fast, catching the back of Jack’s jacket in one fist. “Absolutely not.”
Jack kept pointing. “Pistols. At dawn.”
Shen straightened, solemn and swaying. “I accept.”
Crus rounded on him. “You do not.”
“For the lady’s honor,” Shen said.
Jack gasped. “Do not speak of the lady.”
Shen looked up at you, then back to Jack. “You challenged me on behalf of the lady.”
“She is my—”
Jack stopped.
His eyes widened like he had almost said something important and lost it.
Robby saw the opening.
“Wife,” he supplied.
Jack turned immediately toward your window. “She is?”
You nodded, grinning helplessly. “I am.”
The joy detonated across his face. “Fuck yeah.”
Then, without missing a beat, he pointed at Shen again. “But I’ll still duel him.”
“No, you won’t,” Crus said.
Jack turns back to the window, “For her.”
“Jack,” you said, fighting laughter, “baby, I don’t need you to duel Shen.”
Jack looked up at you with enormous sincerity. “You deserve to be defended.”
“I am very defended.” You assure him.
Jack beamed, “By me?”
“Yes.” You answer.
That settled him.
Some of the outrage eased from his shoulders. He looked pleased, softened by the idea that he had done something right. Then he turned back to Shen with one final warning finger. “You’re lucky she is merciful.”
Shen bowed toward your window. “Her mercy is noted.”
Robby tried to bow too, immediately lost his balance, and grabbed Crus’s shoulder. “Long live the lady of the window.”
Crus shoved him upright. “Everybody shut up before the neighbors call the police.”
Jack looked back up at you.
“My lady,” he said softly, then brightened again. “My wife?”
You nodded. “Your wife.”
Jack smiled, “Fuck yeah.”
You were going to save the security footage forever.
Jack’s face shifted suddenly. He had a new thought. That was never good.
He looked back up at you, deeply serious. “Wait.”
“Oh no,” Crus said.
Jack ignored him.
“If I’m courting you,” he said carefully, “does that mean we can’t have sex?”
The entire sidewalk exploded.
Robby made a sound like he had been shot.
Shen turned away, shoulders shaking.
Crus stared up at the sky like he was asking God why he had been assigned this shift.
You pressed your lips together. “Jack.”
“What?” Jack demanded, offended by everyone’s reaction. “I’m asking respectfully.”
You stared at him, “You are yelling in the yard.”
“I need to know the rules.” Jack frowned.
You shook your head, “We’re married.”
Jack’s head snapped up. “We are?”
You stared at him for one beat.
Then you softened, because God help you, it was still so funny. Every single time.
“We are.”
His grin came back, immediate and brilliant. “Fuck yeah.”
Robby crouched on the sidewalk, laughing so hard he had one hand braced against the concrete.
Shen nodded with great emotion. “The sacrament remains intact.”
“Do not help,” Crus said.
Jack looked back up at you, still concerned. “So?”
“So what?” You asked, tilting your head.
Jack frowned deeply, “So what about the chaperone rules?”
You leaned farther out the window. “No chaperone rules.”
Jack looked relieved. Then pleased.
Then a little too pleased.
“But no sex tonight,” you added. “You’re drunk.”
Jack’s expression sobered instantly. Well. As much as it could.
“Right,” he said, nodding hard. “Boundaries.”
“Exactly.” You agreed.
“I respect my lady,” Jack added.
You nodded, “I know.”
“My wife?” He asks, so hopeful.
You smiled. “Your wife.”
“Fuck yeah.” He grinned.
Robby booed from the sidewalk.
Jack spun so fast he almost lost his balance. Crus tightened his grip on the back of Jack’s jacket.
“Do not boo my wife’s boundaries.”
Robby pointed at him. “You just checked if she was your wife!”
Jack pointed right back. “And she said yes.”
Shen lifted one finger. “A valid argument.”
Crus muttered, “I hate all of you.”
Jack tilted his head suddenly, studying the side of the house.
Your smile faded a little. You knew that look. It was the look he got when he decided a patient was lying about taking all their antibiotics. The look he got when a vending machine stole his money. The look he got when Robby said something so stupid that Jack had to pause before answering because violence had become a real possibility.
Determination.
“Oh no,” Crus said again.
Jack pointed up at you. “I’m coming up.”
You straightened immediately. “No, you are not.”
Jack nodded enthusiastically, “I am.”
“Jack.” You warned.
He pointed at you, “Romeo climbed.”
Robby, delighted, whispered, “Did he?”
Shen squinted at the house. “I don’t think that’s structurally sound.”
Jack ignored them. “I will climb to you.”
“No,” you said, louder this time.
He looked wounded. “You don’t believe in me?”
“I believe you are drunk.” You replied.
He raised a fist in the air, “For love.”
“For whiskey.” You corrected.
Robby lifted one finger. “And tequila.”
“And tequila,” you add.
Jack nodded solemnly, accepting the record. Then he took a step toward the house.
Crus tightened his grip on the back of Jack’s jacket. “Absolutely not.”
Jack tried to keep walking and got nowhere.
For one ridiculous second, your husband simply leaned forward, legs moving slightly, while Crus held him in place like a misbehaving golden retriever.
Robby lost what little remained of his composure.
Shen put both hands over his mouth.
You slapped a palm against the window frame. “Jack Abbot, stop trying to climb the house.”
Jack looked up at you, betrayed. “I’m courting you.”
You pointed at the lawn, “You can court me from the ground.”
“I’m too far away,” Jack said with a frown.
You sighed, “You are twelve feet away.”
“Exactly,” he said, with heartbreaking seriousness, “it is unbearable.”
And there it was.
The stupid, sweet thing under all the chaos.
You looked down at him.
At your husband, drunk and swaying and ridiculous, held in place by the back of his jacket, still staring up at you like the whole world had narrowed to your face in the window.
You sighed, mostly for show. “Stay there. I am coming down to open the door.”
Jack went very still. Then his whole face lit up. “You’re coming down?”
“Yes.” You confirmed.
His eyes widened, “To me?”
You nodded, “Yes, Jack.”
He turned toward the guys, triumphant. “She’s coming down.”
Robby wiped tears from his eyes. “Yeah, Romeo. Because you tried to scale the house.”
Jack shrugged, “Love requires risk.”
Crus tightened his grip. “Love requires you not making me go into the ER on my night off.”
Shen nodded. “A noble point.”
Jack looked back up at you. “Don’t rush. I’ll wait forever.”
Crus said, “You could not wait through a red light.”
Jack did not miss a beat. “That was different. My lady was in the house.”
Robby opened his mouth.
Jack immediately looked up at you. “Wife?”
You laughed. “Wife.”
Jack nodded, “Fuck yeah.”
You closed the window before he could see what that did to your face. By the time you got downstairs, the front yard had only gotten louder.
You opened the front door just as Robby said, “I still think chaperone rules apply.”
Jack, standing at the bottom of the steps with Crus’s hand still fisted in the back of his jacket, gasped like he had been stabbed. “My wife said no chaperone.”
“I did say that,” you confirmed.
Jack turned.
The second he saw you in the doorway, everything else disappeared from his face.
He looked at you like he had forgotten the house, the street, the guys, the gravel, the moon, the duel, and every failed line of Shakespeare.
“There she is,” he said.
It was quiet.
Too quiet for the amount of chaos that had come before it.
Your smile softened. “Hi, Romeo.”
Jack took one careful step toward you. Crus released his jacket but stayed close, ready.
Jack made it up the first porch step. Then the second.
He stopped in front of you, swaying slightly, eyes warm and unfocused and giddy all over again.
“I was wooing you.”
“I noticed.” You replied.
He leaned in, “Did it work?”
You looked past him at the yard.
Robby was giggling now. Shen was leaning against the mailbox again, smiling like he had witnessed something sacred. Crus stood on the walkway with the dead-eyed patience of a man who had kept three drunk medical professionals alive and received no thanks for it.
Then you looked back at your husband.
At his messy hair. His flushed cheeks. The tiny piece of gravel was still stuck to his palm. The stupid, pleased hope in his face.
“Yes,” you said. “It worked.”
Jack’s smile went bright. “Fuck yeah.”
Robby groaned. “God, marriage is disgusting.”
Jack turned just enough to glare at him. Then he paused.
Slowly, he looked back at you. “We’re married?”
You laughed, unable to help it. “Yes.”
His delight was immediate. “Fuck yeah.”
Robby pointed at him. “See? Disgusting.”
Jack turned back. “You’re alone.”
Robby clutched his chest. “Low blow, Romeo.”
“Go home,” Jack said. “I have been received.”
Crus looked at you. “Please take him.”
You smiled, “I’ve got him. Thank you, Crus.”
Jack immediately leaned toward you, pleased by the words.
You caught him with both hands against his chest. “Shoes off inside. Water. Bed. No climbing anything.”
He nodded seriously. “Boundaries.”
“Exactly.” You agreed.
Robby booed from the sidewalk again.
Jack spun so fast he had to grab the doorframe. “Do not boo my wife’s boundaries.”
Then he glanced down at you. “My wife?”
You patted his chest. “Still me.”
“Fuck yeah.”
Shen lifted both hands. “I would never boo boundaries.”
“I still might duel you,” Jack said.
“For defending her honor?” Shen asked.
Jack glared, “For bringing it up.”
Crus hooked a hand around Robby’s arm and started dragging him toward the car. “We’re done.”
Robby waved at you. “Send the security footage!”
Jack froze. Slowly, he turned toward the doorbell camera.
The little blue light blinked back at him.
Then he looked at you. You smiled.
Jack narrowed his eyes. “How long has that been recording?”
“The whole time.” You answered.
His mouth opened. Nothing came out.
Robby screamed from the curb, “Director’s cut!”
Crus shoved him toward the car. “Get in.”
Shen bowed one more time toward you. “Goodnight, lady of the window.”
“Goodnight, Shen.” You called back.
Jack pointed at him. “Respectfully.”
“Respectfully,” Shen agreed.
You slipped your hand around Jack’s wrist and tugged gently. “Inside.”
Jack followed immediately.
The second the door closed behind him, the night noise muffled. The laughter outside faded toward the street. Crus’s car doors opened and shut. Robby shouted something unintelligible. Shen answered with something that sounded like philosophy but was probably nonsense.
Inside, the house was warm and dim.
Jack stood in the entryway, blinking like he had crossed into another realm.
You took the last piece of gravel from his palm.
He looked down at it. “My rock.”
“You’re done with that.” You replied.
His eyes found yours, “It worked.”
“It hit me.” You said.
His face fell all over again. “I know.”
“Very gently.” You added with a smile.
Jack frowned, shaking his head. “I wounded my lady.”
“You booped my sweatshirt with gravel.” You corrected him.
His frown deepened. “Still bad.”
You softened despite yourself and held up the pebble between you. “I’m keeping it.”
Jack stared at it. Then at you. “You are?”
“Yes.” You answered.
His entire expression brightened. “The courtship rock.”
“The courtship rock,” you agreed.
He looked very pleased with himself for about half a second.
Then he looked toward your chest again. “Are we sure it didn’t—”
“Jack.”
He nodded, “Right. Boundaries.”
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself, and dropped the pebble into the small ceramic bowl where you usually kept keys.
Jack watched you do it. Then he looked at the bowl. Then at you.
“Do I live here?”
You stepped closer, unzipping his jacket. “Yes, Jack.”
“With you?” He asked.
You pulled the zipper free. “Yes.”
His face lit again, tired and pleased and still so delighted by the answer. “Fuck yeah.”
You laughed under your breath and pushed the jacket off his shoulders. “Arms.”
He obeyed, but only barely. His balance was not great, and he kept watching you like he was afraid you might vanish if he looked away.
You hung his jacket over the railing.
“Shoes,” you said.
Jack looked down at his feet. Then back up at you. “I have shoes on.”
“You do.” You confirmed.
Jack nodded gravely, “Good.”
You guided him to sit on the bottom step.
He dropped heavily, then immediately reached for your hand. His fingers wrapped around yours, warm and clumsy. “Are you mad?”
“You threw rocks at our window.” You replied.
Jack tilted his head, “Courtship rocks.”
“You hit me with one.” You countered.
His face crumpled. “My greatest shame.”
“You tried to climb the house.” You added.
Jack looked at you, “For romance.”
“You threatened to duel Shen.” You replied.
Jack sighed deeply, “For your honor.”
You huffed a laugh, “You forgot we were married at least six times.”
His thumb moved over your knuckles. “But I asked you,” he said.
You looked down at him.
He was smiling up at you, drunk and tired and so pleased with himself for that one piece of logic.
“You did,” you said quietly.
“You know the true things.” He murrmed.
“I do?” You asked.
He nodded gravely. “Wife things.”
You smiled and bent to untie his shoes. “Wife things.”
He brightened. “My wife?”
You looked up at him. “Yes.”
His grin came back, softer now but still giddy. “Fuck yeah.”
And that was the problem with Jack.
Even when he was a public menace with gravel.
Even when he mangled Shakespeare in the front yard.
Even when he almost started an honor duel with Shen, he tried to scale the siding like the house was a castle wall.
He always managed to say one thing that slipped under your ribs and stayed there.
You bent and kissed his forehead.
His eyes closed immediately. “There,” he murmured.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. “There?”
He nodded, eyes still closed. “My lady.”
You softened.
Then he opened one eye. “Wife?”
You nodded, “Yes, Romeo. Wife.”
“Fuck yeah.” He grinned.
You got him up the stairs with significant effort. Mostly because Jack was determined to be helpful in ways that were not helpful. He tried to remove his shoes while standing, even though you had already removed them. You stopped him. He tried to take off his shirt halfway up the stairs. You stopped that, too. He paused on the landing to tell you, very sincerely, that the moon had deserved what he said.
By the time you got him into the bedroom, Jack was mostly upright through sheer stubbornness and your hand at his waist.
“Sit,” you said, guiding him toward the edge of the bed.
Jack dropped onto the mattress with a heavy sigh, then looked up at you with enormous sincerity. “Wife voice.”
You paused. “What?”
He pointed at you, swaying slightly even while seated. “You used the voice.”
“I used wife voice.” You confirmed.
His face softened immediately. “Wife?”
You smiled. “Wife.”
His whole expression lit. “Fuck yeah.”
You knelt in front of him and reached for his belt buckle.
Jack looked down, scandalized. “My lady.”
“I’m taking your belt off.” You replied, pulling the leather through the loops.
“My love,” he said, lowering his voice like the room might be bugged by high society, “we are alone.”
“We live together.” You told him.
He gasped softly. “Scandal.”
“Marriage,” you corrected, loosening one shoe.
Jack blinked. Then he looked at you, hopeful. “We’re married?”
You nodded, “Yes, baby.”
“Fuck yeah.” He murmured.
You slipped the belt free, then set it beside the bed. Jack watched the whole process with the solemn focus of a man witnessing a ceremony.
Then his gaze dropped to his legs.
He stared for a second. His brow furrowed. “My legs don’t match.”
You pressed your lips together so you would not laugh directly in his face.
“No,” you said gently. “They don’t.”
Jack looked up at you, eyes wide with drunk discovery. “Did you know?”
“I had noticed.” You answered.
He absorbed that with grave importance. Then nodded once. “Good.”
“Good?”
“You’re observant.” His hand landed clumsily over his heart. “Good wife.”
You pointed at him. “Don’t make good wife sound cute right now.”
Jack smiled, pleased and unrepentant. “My wife.”
“Yes.” You touched his prosthetic side lightly. “Leg?”
He nodded at once, all trust. “Leg.”
That was the thing that always got you.
Not the jokes. Not the ridiculous courtship act. Not even the way he kept rediscovering your marriage like it was the best news anyone had ever given him.
It was the trust.
The way he let you close without bracing for it. The way he let your hands move through a routine that had become as ordinary as turning down the sheets or setting water on the nightstand.
You knew what to do.
You had done it a hundred times.
You eased the fabric out of the way, found the release with practiced fingers, and carefully helped him out of the prosthetic, setting it where he could reach it in the morning.
Jack watched you, quieter now.
For one second, the drunk performance softened at the edges.
“There,” you said.
He looked from the prosthetic to you. “You take good care.”
Your chest warmed. “So do you.”
Jack considered that. Then frowned. “I threw rocks at you.”
“Tiny rocks.” You corrected him.
Jack nodded, “Courtship rocks.”
“One courtship rock.” You replied.
He winced. “My shame.”
You smiled, “You survived it.”
“You were merciful.” He said.
You nodded once, “I was.”
He reached for your hand, warm and clumsy, and squeezed your fingers. “My lady is merciful.”
You smiled. “Your wife is tired.”
His eyes lit again. “Wife?”
You lifted your left hand.
He stared at your rings, then lifted his own hand so you could see his wedding band.
“We’re married,” you said.
Jack’s grin came back, bright and helpless. “Fuck yeah.”
You stood and reached for the button of his jeans.
Jack’s hand flew to his waistband. “My lady!”
You looked up at him.
His eyes were wide and deeply, drunkenly solemn. “My love, you must restrain yourself.”
You inhaled, “Jack.”
“We must consider your honor.” He glanced toward the closed bedroom door, as if Robby might burst in with a chaperone contract. “Your reputation.”
“Jack, baby, we are married.” You reminded him.
He froze. Then slowly turned back to you. “We are?”
You lifted your left hand again and wiggled your fingers.
His eyes locked on your rings. Then you took his left hand and held up his. His wedding band gleamed in the bedside lamplight.
Jack stared at it. Then at yours. Then at you.
His grin spread, slow and delighted. “Fuck yeah.”
“Exactly.” You patted his knee. “So let me help you change before you fall asleep in jeans.”
He considered this. Then nodded gravely. “For comfort.”
“For comfort.” You agreed.
“And marriage.” He added.
You nodded, “And marriage.”
“And not dishonor.” Jack continued.
“No dishonor.” You agreed.
Jack relaxed his hand from his waistband with great dignity. “Proceed.”
Once you had gotten Jack successfully into his sweatpants, you got him water from the bathroom. He drank half of it, made a face like water had personally wronged him, then drank the other half because you raised your eyebrows.
Then you helped him under the covers.
He rolled onto his side and reached for you before you were even in bed.
“No sex,” you said, climbing in beside him. “You’re drunk.”
Jack’s eyes opened with sudden seriousness. “Right. Boundaries.”
“Right.”
Jack nodded gravely, “I respect my lady.”
You nodded, “I know.”
“My wife?” He asked, bright and hopeful.
You smiled into the dark. “Your wife.”
“Fuck yeah.” His arm settled around your waist, heavy and warm. He tucked himself closer, his face pressing into your shoulder, all that theatrical devotion quieting into simple contact.
Outside, Crus’s car finally pulled away.
The house settled again.
You stared into the dark, one hand resting over Jack’s forearm.
His breathing slowed.
Just when you thought he had fallen asleep, he mumbled, barely audible, “Still the sun.”
Your throat tightened. You covered his hand with yours. “Go to sleep, Romeo.”
A pause.
Then, soft and satisfied against your shoulder: “Fuck yeah.”
The Next Day...
Jack woke up to consequences.
The first consequence was pain. His head was splitting. His mouth tasted like old tequila and poor judgment. One of his eyes did not want to open all the way. The room was too bright despite the curtains being mostly closed, and someone had apparently replaced his bones with sandbags.
The second consequence was you.
You were sitting beside him in bed, already showered, wearing leggings and one of his old sweatshirts, sipping coffee with the kind of suspicious cheerfulness that made every instinct in his body go cold.
Jack stared at you through one open eye. “Why are you smiling like that?”
You took a slow sip of coffee. “No reason.”
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Then buzzed again. Then again.
Jack closed his eye. “No.”
Your smile widened. “Jack.”
“No.” He said instantly.
You raised a brow, “You should check the group chat.”
“I’m resigning from the group chat,” Jack said.
You shook your head, “You can’t resign from a group chat.”
“I can resign from medicine,” Jack replied.
The phone buzzed again.
Jack groaned and reached for it with the despair of a man approaching his own autopsy report.
The first message was from Robby.
ROMEO ABBOT: THE DIRECTOR’S CUT
Below it was a video.
The thumbnail showed Jack in the front yard, one hand raised toward the bedroom window, mouth open mid-sentence, body angled with what appeared to be tragic nobility.
Jack stared. His stomach dropped. “What,” he said slowly, “is that?”
You leaned closer, bright-eyed. “Art.”
He pressed play.
On the screen, his own drunk voice rang out. “But soft—what light through yonder house hole—”
Crus’s voice corrected, “Window.”
Jack stopped the video. Silence.
You sipped your coffee.
Jack set the phone very carefully on the blanket. “I’m deleting Robby from my life.”
You smiled into your mug, “You also tried to duel Shen.”
His eyes closed. “I need to be buried.”
“You called them courtship rocks.” You added,
He opened one eye. “What?”
You pointed toward the dresser. Sitting atop it, in a tiny ceramic dish, were three pieces of driveway gravel.
Jack stared at them. “You kept them?”
You smiled, “Of course I kept them.”
His face changed, just slightly.
Even hungover, even mortified, he softened.
Then he noticed one pebble sitting separately in the center.
His brow furrowed. “Why is that one in the middle?”
“That’s the one that hit me.” You answered.
Jack stared at you. Then at the pebble. Then back at you. “It hit you?”
“Gently.”
His face went pale. “Where?”
You smiled over the rim of your coffee. “My sweatshirt.”
A memory seemed to crawl through the hangover.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. Then closed. “Oh god.”
“You asked if it went down my shirt.” You said, enjoying the memory.
He did not move.
You pressed your lips together. “You offered to get it.”
He pulled the blanket over his face.
From underneath it, muffled and ruined, came, “I was trying to be helpful.”
“You were very respectful when I said no.” You told him.
The blanket lowered just enough for one eye to appear. “I was?”
“You were.” You assured him.
That seemed to make him feel marginally better.
Then his phone buzzed again.
You picked it up before he could stop you. “Oh, good. Robby sent another angle.”
Jack went still. “Another angle?”
“We have the doorbell camera too.” You explained.
His head turned very slowly toward you. “No.”
You nodded, “Oh, yes.”
“You have security footage?” He asks.
“From two angles.” You replied happily.
“Two?”
You nodded again, “Doorbell and driveway. I sent them to Robby.”
Jack lowered himself back onto the pillow and covered his face with both hands.
A long silence. Then, muffled, “I’m leaving.”
“You live here.” You told him.
He peeked at you through his fingers. “With you?”
“Yes.”
He watched you for a beat, hungover and miserable and somehow still hopeful. “We’re married?”
You smiled. “We’re married.”
A slow grin pulled at his mouth. “Fuck yeah.”
You laughed and leaned down to kiss his temple.
He accepted it with a little hum.
Then he muttered, “Did I at least do okay?”
You looked at your husband.
At the man who had jumped out of a car at a red light because he could not stand being two blocks away from you. The man who had thrown rocks at your window, accidentally hit your sweatshirt, threatened an honor duel, tried to climb the house, and rediscovered your marriage with fresh joy every single time.
You brushed your fingers through his hair. “You wooed me.”
Dr Brendon Park x Police Officer!Reader, Dr Robby x Sister!Reader
Find My Pitt Masterlist here
As requested here by @barnes70stark hope you enjoy! ♥️
A broken arm.
An overprotective brother. Who simply wants to make sure everything’s in order. Who demands the best of care for you.
Happens to lead you to a very handsome orthopaedic specialist…
Who on any other occasion would have been annoyed with such a minor case.…but just perhaps.
His annoyance dims when he meets you.
The trouble is.
Neither of you know how to tell Robby…
Notes: some strong language, injuries, medical innacuracies, overprotective Robby as your brother, and well Brendon Park being too handsome for a quick consult. slight secret relationship 💗
Word Count: ~5.1k
When you woke up today.
Everything seemed to play out just as usual.
The day had started with a cup of coffee to jolt your senses awake. To melt the sleep from your muscles and dissipate the fatigue in your eyes.
Driving through the streets in the early morning, just before the rush, before the office workers and school kids, before the traffic could slow into a crawl.
You went into work, like usual.
Got kitted up. Had a morning debrief, enjoying the brief chatter of the morning, the highlights from the night crew.
And just before you set out for patrol.
A small message pinged upon your phone.
Mikey: [ be safe ]
It was a habit. It was a ritual.
Whenever you were working, you could always count on a message at the start of each shift.
And as usual your fingers move deftly across the screen as you reply.
You: [ always am ;) ]
You: [ hope it’s quiet for you ]
You send the message with a teasing grin, noting the small bubble appearing as he texts.
Mikey: [ fuck off ]
You snort before slipping your phone away – you knew full well what it meant to mention the quiet word in an ER.
It was like saying Macbeth in a theatre.
Simply baiting for trouble.
Time to head out for patrols.
Too bad that trouble was headed your way. And not Michael’s.
…
Fucking hell.
Your head throbbed, blinking as the bright lights are harsh above you, making your eyes squint from the rude awakening.
“Hey stay awake for us”
The words sound fuzzy as you reluctantly try to focus your attention.
The snapping of fingers ring from above, while your partner’s footsteps echo beside you, with the squeaking of gurney wheels. The rough cotton scratchy beneath your fingers.
Groaning slightly as you shift, a pain shooting up from your arm.
“Just stay still, you’re going to be fine”
Going into the ER was not something you thought was going to happen today.
“She’s going to be fine right?”
“That’s what we’re here for”
Especially to be wheeled into the place your brother affectionately called…The Pitt.
“Oh shit–” A familiar voice breaks your fog, “Someone get Robby!”
A hand clasps yours, a slight squeeze, “You’re going to be okay, Y/N”
“I know Jack–it’s just a hell of a headache,” you lightly laugh, before shifting into groan. A sense of relief enters Jack’s system at your humour.
He nods towards your partner dismissing them, insisting they go get some coffee or something.
You were a little roughed up, a little worse for wear – but so far. You seemed okay.
Soon the moving stops.
You’re shifted over to a bed.
Trying to steady your breathing, as your eyes readjust to the brightness. To the sounds. The constance of the beeping, the murmurs of voices, the clatter and movement of steps. All flooding your senses.
Doing nothing to help your headache.
And then you hear him.
Your brother.
“What the–”
Jack does his best to quell Robby, “Now before you freak out brother, just relax. She’s okay–”
“If she were okay she wouldn’t be in the emergency room,” Michael retorted.
Jack shrugged in mild agreement, “Sorry kid, I tried”
You rolled your eyes, before wincing again.
Michael’s quick to move by your side. Slipping into habit, as he goes through the checks. Behaving as a doctor and as your overly concerned brother all at once.
A light flashing across your eyes.
“Pupils equal”
You stifled the groan, nose scrunching, “Oh come on”
“Follow my finger”
“You’re the worst,” you complained. No malice behind your words, simply annoyance. One often foundered between a lifetime of teasing remarks and playful jabs.
“Follow the finger,” he repeats.
And so you did. With a small roll of your eyes before complying.
“Any loss of consciousness?”
“Maybe”
He looked at you expectantly, “Maybe isn’t an answer”
“Then yes–for a few seconds…”
He sighed. The sigh of a man who had spent decades with the stubbornness of patients…And decades dealing with you.
While adding notes to your chart, he put in a request for a CT. Making sure to mark it urgent.
Jack had slipped in for just a moment handing a cup of water to you and some pills, “Tylenol, for the headache,” you nodded towards him before he ducked out once more.
“What happened?” Michael crossed his arms.
He knew you had a risky job. He knew what you put on the line each time you put on your uniform.
He knew that you were lucky.
That today you were ok.
But that didn’t make him worry any less.
You chewed the inside of your cheek before replying, “Domestic disturbance–”
You watched as his jaw tightened. Lips pulled into a thin line. You knew that look in his eyes. It appeared every time you recounted a story like this.
He hated when you were called into violent scenes.
He never said.
He never asked you to quit.
But you knew he hated it.
It was just something he couldn’t shake. And as he was your older brother…there was nothing you could do to make his worries stop.
“Guy came at my partner with a pipe–and so I got between them,” you explained, trying to be brief. The less he knew the better.
“With your head?” he retorted dryly. The slightest tone of reprimand seeping in.
You snorted, making light of your situation, “Apparently”
Whilst Michael pinches the bridge of his nose.
The exhaustion finally showed. In the midst of shift change as it dragged on. Already drowning in patients. And now this.
You watched him carefully.
The tylenol kicks in, helping to quell the ache in your head.
“You’re looking tired”
“Look who’s talking,” he replied. Before it shifts into something softer, “You scared me”
You murmured back, “I know. I’m sorry”
Reaching out to grasp his hand, with a slight squeeze. Whilst Michael shook his head. Not angry. Never angry. Just worried.
“You don’t have to apologise”
It hangs in the air, a quiet understanding.
Before he breaks the silence once more.
“We’re getting a CT”
“I figured”
“Probably just a simple fracture,” he said in regards to your arm.
“Good”
“No arguments,” he said with raised brows as he looked at you.
“I literally haven’t argued”
He sent you a pointed look.
Both of you knew that it was a complete lie, but he simply sighed. A small quirk of his lip, “I’m glad you’re ok”
“Me too–Was worried I wasn’t going to be able to annoy you for the rest of your life,” you grinned cheekily.
He lightly shoves your arm, with a small scoff, “Maybe I should find a pipe of my own”
“You wouldn’t dare,” you smiled, “You’d miss me too much”
“Sure”
A nurse enters the room, “We’re ready for your CT now”
Michael nods, before looking back at you, “I’ll see you once you’re back”
…
On your way back from the CT, you had caught Jack’s attention
“You gotta talk sense into him, he needs to calm down,” you pleaded. Half jokingly and half serious.
Jack looked at you, leaning against the hub, “You do it.”
“He listens to you,” you retort.
“Fuck off, he doesn’t listen to anybody”
Dana lifts her eyes from the computer looking up at you both, before asking, “Who doesn’t listen?”
“Robby,” you replied in sync. To which she snorted with a nod of her head.
Jack relents with a sigh, patting your shoulder, “I’ll do my best”
“Thanks,” you said, gratefully before being wheeled away.
The CT had come back clean.
Mild concussion.
With a side of a nasty headache. Nothing that a little rest and recovery couldn’t heal.
Which meant that Michael was now focused on the injury that made your arm throb and sent a shooting pain up your arm with each movement or jostle.
X-rays taken.
You watched as Michael fretted over reviewing the scans.
Fortunately.
The fracture wasn't terrible. Just a simple clean break through the radius.
No surgery likely needed.
But it would need immobilization.
And Michael clearly wasn't interested in letting just anybody touch it. While you heard him speaking quietly at the desk outside your bay.
A few moments later just outside the curtain separating you from the chaos, you hear a low, annoyed voice, "Seriously?” before sighing, “Robby, it's a fracture."
"I know," Michael responds.
"It's not even displaced" Park looks at Michael blankly. It was the end of his shift, he had just come out of his last surgery of the day when he had been paged down to the ER.
And now this.
"I know"
"So why are you looking at me like somebody's dying?"
"Because it's my sister"
A pause.
Then–
"Oh," Park offers a curt nod. “Fine”
The curtain slid open, as you finally associate the voice with a face. A strong jawline, dark hair slicked back. The furrow of his brows, and those deep eyes that resembled the waves of the ocean as it sent a chill down your spine–
Fucking hell those drugs are definitely messing with me.
“Hi,” you said.
While Michael appears behind him, you groan out, “Come on Michael, I’m a big girl, I’m sure you’ve still got plenty to do out there–”
“But–” he goes to argue.
While you jut your head, you said pointedly, “Go”
He relents before muttering to Park, “Find me when you’re done”
Park simply nods.
While Michael disappears once more, leaving you both in peace.
You sigh, eyes watching Park as he works on your arm, “Thanks for coming but I’m sure its not that serious, my brother’s just being dramatic”
“Just means he cares,” he says, the words clipped.
You nod in thought.
Eyes simply watching him as he assesses your arm, how his eyes flick to scan over the imaging.
“So–Ortho surgeon right?”
“How’d you know I’m not an ER doc?” he asked without looking up at you.
You grin with a sarcastic remark, “Might have something to do with your excellent bedside manner”
At your words, his lips lift at the corners. Small. But it was there.
And it made your chest bubble with warmth.
It was hard to deny that he was handsome.
“So tell me doc, am I gonna live?” you questioned, feigning seriousness.
“I think you’ll make it,” he plays along.
“In all seriousness, how long do you think it’ll take?”
He leans back, eyes lifting to meet yours.
Taken aback for just a second.
Before clearing his throat, “Maybe 6 to 8 weeks, once the swelling goes down, you’ll be put in a cast”
You huff lightly in annoyance, “Just means I’ll be desk jockeying for a bit”
He raises a brow at you in silent question.
“I’m a cop–It’s how I got into this mess in the first place”
“Well let’s get you fixed up Officer,” he nodded.
Soft and gentle as he handled your arm, working to splint it – stabilising it in place.
Leaving the room once finished. Caught by the bay as Robby intercepts him. Asking enough questions to give him a headache.
It wasn’t often that Park would see Robby lose his composure.
“How is she?”
“Robby you know as well as I do, that she’s going to be fine,” he responded, with an arched brow.
“Just wanted the best person for the job”
Now those words had made Brendon soften just a little. He nodded in understanding, “She’s fine. Just needs to rest her arm over the next few weeks”
Park’s eyes fixate on the door up ahead, as he notices you slip out of your room, before turning a corner.
“I’ve got to get going–”
“Of course, thanks again Park”
“Anytime”
Robby chuckled, “Now I know you don’t mean that”
Park simply waves him off.
Robby the least bit aware of the fact that Park went off to trail after you.
But this wasn’t missed by Jack who raised a brow as he watched him disappear after you. A small smirk forming on his lips.
Park rounds the corner, only to find you at the vending machine.
“Fucking shit box,” you mutter staring angrily at the machine.
Staring at the snack dangle, caught by the wires.
“Here, let me–” he offered. Before whacking the side, bumping out two of the snacks. He crouches down to fish them out from the machine.
“Pretty sure that’s illegal,” you state with a small amused smile.
“I won’t tell, if you won’t”
Letting out a small laugh, “Deal”
He passes the chocolate bar to you, “Kit kat?”
“What can I say, I’m a woman of refined taste,” you joked to which he softly chuckled, before you added, “I just realised I never got your name”
“Brendon Park”
Nodding at his words, “Nice to meet you Park”
“Call me Brendon,” he followed up. Unsure as to where this boldness was coming from.
You were Robby’s sister…He shouldn’t be doing this…and yet. He couldn’t stop himself but be intrigued by you…
“And you can call me–”Your fingers pluck the pen from his scrub pocket, tugging his hand into your grasp, whilst you write out your number upon his arm, “Y/N”
Nodding in satisfaction from your handiwork, you place the pen back into his pocket with a small tap to his chest, “Just in case you ever wanna check up on me”
He raises a brow, the small lift of his lip, “Might take you up on that”
“I hope you do,” Your eyes flick back to where you came from, “I should get going otherwise Mikey’s going to flip the fuck out if I’m not there.”
His eyes follow your figure as you disappear back into the ER. Once out of sight, his eyes trace the numbers on his arm.
A smile formed on his lips.
You can bet that he was definitely going to check up on you.
It had started out with a few messages.
Which led to a phone call.
Which turned into a coffee, a meet up.
Brendon was kidding himself by thinking it wasn’t anything more than just a friendship.
And you weren’t any better, each time his name popped up on your screen it sent a jolt to your heart.
That coffee had developed into catching up over dinner.
Until soon, weeks had passed, your arm had healed, and neither of you could pinpoint just exactly when the excuse ‘checking up on a patient’ stopped applying.
You both knew that this could get messy if taken further.
If things didn’t work out–
Worse. If things did work out. It would only be a matter of time until your secret would be up.
Until your brother would know.
And neither of you quite knew how he might take the news.
But Brendon was called to you, he drifted towards your presence, your company. He cherished his time with you.
And so he took a leap.
After a dinner that you both tried to deny was a date.
Standing in the evening air, stood outside your doorstep while he dropped you off. Brendon’s hand, warm against your skin, steady as he cups your cheek.
Your breath caught in your chest. Skin burning beneath.
Eyes flickering from his eyes to his mouth.
Until.
They crashed and melded against each other. Weeks of longing poured into the kiss. Of unspoken desires whispered across your lips.
You had expected him to be rougher.
But he wasn’t. His lips were firm, moving with purpose against yours, but never taking more than you offered, as your arms curled around his neck. Fingers dancing across the back of his neck.
Sighing into one another.
Knowing that this. This was where you both wanted to be. Intertwined within each other's arms.
Being together was the easy part.
In the relaxed evenings spent at yours or his, with the playful conversations.
“Are you even listening?” Brendon stops talking about his surgery today, while you simply gazed at him.
“Hm?”
“We can talk about something else–” He goes on to say. Noticing your drifting attention.
You wave a hand, “I’ll be honest, I stopped listening five minutes ago”
He raises a brow at you in question, “You asked”
“I know,” you nodded.
“Then why ask?”
You tilted your head as you gazed at him, shrugging lightly, “I like hearing you talk”
Your hands reached across to lace with his.
Soon your lives melded together. His home became dotted with your things, as your own started harbouring his clothes.
Your favourite nights involved the simplicity of being held by him, as his arms wrapped around you, grounding you in the moment, the tensions of the day melting away.
The way he’d remember your coffee order.
Or was thoughtful enough to know the things you enjoyed.
Simple and small.
But it made your heart swell at his consideration.
Once back on patrol there were times you had to drop off patients to the hospital, and if ever that hospital happened to be PTMC.
Well…
Lets just say you always found a reason to go find your boyfriend.
The only problem with this of course.
Was that your brother worked there too.
You and Brendon were mindful to keep your relationship under wraps, to be aware of whoever was passing.
The closest you had been to getting caught happened six months since you had first met Brendon, five months since you started dating him.
And here you were, standing far too close to Brendon.
Closer than what could be considered platonic.
Smiling as you feel a heat rise up to your cheeks as Brendon murmurs how good you look in uniform.
The slight quirk of his lip.
“Y/N?”
The two of you nearly jumped out of your skin. Whilst you stepped back quickly, eyes lifting to see Michael headed towards you.
A chill shooting up your spine as though dumped on by a bucket of water.
“Hey Mikey,” you grinned. Knowing that the nickname irked him.
His eyes narrowed as they flickered between you both, “Hi…What are you doing here?”
“Vending machine”
“Vending machine”
You both answered at the same time, gesturing to said machine, with a sheepish smile upon your face.
“Uh, I was dropping someone off here, and well I was a bit snackish. Bumped into Bre–Park on the way here”
Michael nodded, “Right,” not quite believing you, “We’re still on for this Friday?”
You nod, “So long as your shift doesn’t run over time”
He smiles at you, before turning away.
Your tense shoulders relax as soon as he disappears from view.
“Friday?” Brendon asks, stepping closer to you once more, arms curling around your waist.
You lean up pressing a chaste kiss to his lips, “I’m having dinner with Robby”
He shifts to glides his lips against yours once more, murmuring softly, lowly with a small nip to your lips, “Well then I’ll be at yours afterwards with dessert”
He feels your lips curl into a smile as he kisses you.
…
It seems while your brother may not have realised the recent development in your personal life…
The same could not be said for a few others.
You had walked into the ER, sharing quick hellos to those you passed, before stopping by the hub. Fingers gently tapping against the desk.
Friday night had rolled around and you had insisted on meeting Michael at work – if only you could make sure he left at a decent time for dinner.
While Michael was who knows where, saving lives.
Jack had taken the opportunity to lean against the bench beside you.
“What’s new with you?” he asked, cocking his head to face you. A knowing look brewing behind his eyes.
“Nothing much–finally got off desk duty a few weeks ago which has been good”
He nods, “Right–anything else you want to share?”
You think for a moment.
“Do you promise not to tell?” your voice lowered.
Once he agrees you say quietly, “So I’ve been seeing someone lately–it’s been going for a while. And…”
“And?”
“And I’m just not sure how to tell Mike,” you explained. Feeling the weight on your chest alleviate just a little.
“How do you think he’s going to react?” he lifts a brow in question.
“Oh. Mike– Well I think he’ll take it well,” you reply. Trying to convince yourself. Even if you knew it was a lie.
“Really?”
“No…” You sigh, with a small groan as you plop your head in your hands. “This is why I was never going to tell him–”
Jack looks at you sympathetically, “My advice. You should tell him before he figures it out himself”
You immediately grimaced.
Because that...
That was the nightmare scenario.
Not Michael finding out you were dating.
But Michael finding out you were dating Brendon Park, the very doctor he had told you stories about – how his cold demeanour had earned him the nickname Shark.
The worst case scenario was Michael finding out about this, without either of you telling him.
And unfortunately…
Judging by the increasingly suspicious looks your brother had been giving both of you lately.
That clock was ticking.
But then your attention is captured as Ellis leans against the bench on the other side of you with a wide grin, “I knew Emery wasn’t lying–”
Your eyes widened, hands shifting to clasp her mouth shut, your head darting around to double check no one else heard, before your eyes land back on Ellis.
“What’d Emery say?” Jack probed with a glint in his eyes.
Shit.
Emery and her big mouth.
Ok maybe there were a few people who already knew about you and Brendon…
Most of your colleagues were in the know…
A few scrub nurses that had worked through enough surgeries with Brendon to know that he was in love…
And a few of the other surgeons…Such as Emery and Garcia.
At least Garcia knew when to keep her mouth shut. Unlike Emery…
Ellis peeled your hand away from her mouth, as a smirk stretched across her lips. Her tone hushed as she answered.
“Just that a little shark might be feeling a little love for a certain officer”
Jack grins at the information.
He already had a pretty good idea that it was Brendon you were referring to earlier. But it was nice to hear it confirmed, tucking away that information to share with Dana when he saw her later.
You say panicked, “Shhh–Mike might hear you”
“So what’d you do to make him go all soft for you, hmm? How’d you lure him in?” She asked teasingly.
You furrow your brows, “I don’t know what you’re implying”
She shrugs, jokingly retorting, “Just thought you’d have to be a siren to make Shark fall for you”
You stifle a laugh from her words.
“So long as he makes you happy,” Jack adds.
You smiles softly, “Very”
He nods, “Good.”
“What’s good?” Michael’s voice cuts through.
While both Jack and Ellis send you a grin while they walk away.
You turn around to meet Michael’s gaze, “Just the place I picked for dinner, you good to go?”
Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to tell Michael…as you thought over how to bring it up over dinner.
“Get me out of here before I get pulled into another trauma,” he says, tiredness seeping into his tone.
“Sounds good to me,” you agree.
But he stops short as he notices something.
Brows furrowing as he takes in your jacket. A little unusual, and out of place on you.
He hadn’t seen it before – so it was new and yet it seemed a little worn. It was oversized as it draped over your figure, and strangely, what caught him off guard was the light fresh scent emanating from it.
“Is that new?” he asked.
“Oh, uh, yeah. Kind of. Just trying something out,” you answered vaguely…
Shit. In a hurry you had plucked Brendon’s jacket on your way out.
You catch a glimpse of Jack and Dana sending you knowing looks. With teasing glints in their eyes.
And then.
The facade begins to crumble.
“Hey N/N,” Emery spots you with a small nod.
Michael looks at you in confusion, why would you know Emery…and why would she be calling you N/N…like she knew you?...
And before you could stop her, she sent you a shit eating grin, with a wink as she complimented, “–Shark’s jacket looks good on you”
Your breath hitches.
Whilst Michael’s eyes snap back to you.
Sharp and quick.
Shock flooding his features.
Everyone watching, bites their tongue as they wait to see what would unfold. Santos had tugged Whitaker to a stand still. Lena peered over with Dana and Jack by her side. Even Shen had stopped his slurping as he watched.
“Shark?”
A nervous laugh escapes you. “Uh. Yeah. About that–”
As if the timing couldn’t be any worse. The lift doors open. Brendon steps out, bag slung over his shoulder, for once choosing to exit the hospital through the ER exit…
He catches sight of you, and walks over.
Posture relaxed, trying to act casually. Nodding towards everyone, whilst med students and interns scatter, making way for him.
Even out of his scrubs, his intimidating reputation rolled off of him in waves.
You tug him to your side lightly, while he looks down at you with a furrow of his brows.
You whisper, “He knows”
“He knows?” he echoes.
You hum in acknowledgment.
“Hey Robby,” he says with a slight cough, clearing his throat. Despite it all, he was remaining remarkably calm for someone who had just been exposed to how coworkers and the brother of the woman he had been secretly dating for months.
Michael looked between the two of you once more.
One question on his mind.
“How long?”
The question hangs in the air.
While your eyes flick between them both.
Mind racing with how to explain this. Wondering how this happened. Shooting Emery a light glare. Before your eyes land back onto Michael.
Damn it. You were so close to telling him over dinner…over a nice calm dinner…
“Uh–well,” your voice drags on. Unsure. Voice pitching higher for a moment, under nervousness.
“How long?”
Standing straighter, you regain a little courage, “Since I came in with my fractured arm…”
You watch him.
“Since–” he starts before cutting himself off, mouth left agape.
You watch as Michael takes in the news.
You watch as his eyes shift between you and Brendon. To the jacket, to the way Brendon instinctively places a hand on your back in support.
Before Michael’s eyes soften.
“So this is why you’ve been so happy lately”
You nod, turning to look up at Brendon. At the familiar face. One that brought with it an onslaught of fond memories.
The stubbornness.
The dry humor.
The way he'd checked on you every day after your injury.
The way he'd quietly become one of your favorite people.
Your smile came easily, “Might have something to do with it”
Michael’s irritation fades. Replaced by something more familiar.
Protectiveness.
Not anger.
Just the simple concern an older brother would hold for his sister.
Then Michael looked at Brendon.
Really looked at him.
While they wouldn’t consider each other friends, they had respect for one another. Simply trying to figure out where the other stood in this moment now.
The dynamics had shifted.
Brendon stood tall beneath his gaze.
Unwavering.
Steady.
Michael clicks his tongue, satisfied by what he could gather - it was obvious that Brendon cared for you.
That this was more than a passing fascination. There was a look of softness in Brendon’s eyes, fondness as he looked at you.
"Don't screw it up"
Brendon nodded once.
Simple.
Serious.
As he responded, "I won't,” And somehow that seemed to satisfy Michael more than any long speech could have.
"Wait,” Michael narrowed his eyes.
Uh oh.
"What?" you asked, feigning ignorance. Your arm slinking around Brendon for support.
"When exactly were you planning on telling me?"
You bit your lip, with a nervous laugh. Glancing up at Brendon, while he met your gaze.
Your silence, however.
Was answer enough.
Michael's eyes widened, "You weren’t–"
You winced, "It wasn't–It wasn't never–" you tried to ramble out. While Michael blinked in surprise.
"You were literally never going to tell me."
"We were getting there," you argued.
He crossed his arms as he looked at you with a deadpanned look, "When?"
You thought about it,"...Eventually?"
Michael looked horrified.
While those watching broke down into laughs. Finding your embarrassment amusing.
Even Brendon chuckled, while you elbowed him with a small chiding mutter, "You are not helping."
"It sounded better in my head," you tried to justify.
Michael only sighed before a tired smile stretched across his face, shaking his head,"You know what?"
"What?"
"I'm too tired for this."
Relief flooded through you.
Michael grabbed his bag, "I worked fourteen hours."
He takes a step closer to you both, waving off the others, trying to dissipate the crowd, "I'm hungry."
His eyes flick between you both, before landing on Brendon with a raised brow, "And apparently my sister's been dating my orthopedic attending behind my back."
Brendon grimaced, replying, "That sounds bad when you say it like that."
"It sounds exactly as bad as it is," Michael teased, before adding, "Ok, let’s get going to Dinner."
Before pointing at Brendon, "You too."
Both of you froze.
"What?" The question falls from both of your lips.
Michael started walking toward the exit. Not even looking back, calling back, "If I'm finding this out today then I'm getting a free meal out of it."
You stared after him.
Brendon stared after him.
Then Michael stopped.
Turned around.
And added, "Oh, and Park?"
Brendon immediately straightened. You felt his body grow tense beneath your grasp, "Yeah?"
"If she gets hurt..." Michael's expression remained completely serious. "...You’ve got me to answer too."
“And me!” Jack added, eyes hardening as he met Brendon’s gaze.
You groaned at their antics, leaning into Brendon who only rubbed his hand along your back in comfort. He nods, heeding their words.
And for the first time.
The department saw a softer side to Brendon Park.
As his lips curled up into a gentle smile. Before leaning down to press a tenderness kiss to the top of your head.
And as you walk out side by side, catching up to Michael.
The two most important men in your life.
Laughing as they recount stories from the day, while you trump them with tales of your own.
Arguing lightly over where to eat. Grinning as Brendon sides with you.
While Michael reluctantly agrees with your choice.
A happiness so simple and life settles in the confines of your heart.
If this was where your life was headed.
Then you could get used to this…
Hopefully with a few less broken bones in your future.
Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed! This was a really fun request to explore, loved exploring this dynamic!! Especially the idea of Brendon being such a softy for you (just know that he finds you very hot when you’re in uniform 😉) Let me know what you think! ✨
Feel free to check out the reverse idea Dr Robby x Reader, Brendon Park x sister!Reader: Natural Habitat
Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕
Feel free to find my overall Pitt Masterlist here!
