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[chaosinstigator]

his big doe eyes and scruffy beard has bewitched me

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Somewhere Between Hate And Whatever This Is — Jack Abbot

(Chapter 17/?)

pairing : jack abbot / f!reader

words count : 9.6k

previous chapters : Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16

summary : The night shift at the Pitt teaches you two things very quickly: how to keep people alive, and how to survive the ones you can’t.

You are a newly assigned intern doctor who is brilliant, stubborn, and entirely incapable of backing down — which becomes a serious problem when your supervising attending, Jack Abbot, seems to make a sport out of challenging you at every possible opportunity. Between impossible trauma cases, sleepless nights, and arguments sharp enough to cut through the entire ER, the rivalry between them slowly turns into something far more dangerous.

contain : enemies to lovers, rivals, slow burn, sarcasm, mentions of medical trauma, injuries, trauma, loneliness, insecurities, ANGST.

a/n : maybe I put a bit too much of myself inside this chapter… 🥲 but there you go some angst just for you <33

archiveofourown link Spotify playlist link

Chapter 17 : Someone Who Stayed

Recovery turned out to be a lot less dramatic than almost dying. Nobody really talks about that part. They talk about surgeries, about waking up, about surviving. But they do not talk about the endless hours afterward.

The waiting. The weakness. The frustration of realizing that your body suddenly belonged to someone else. You stayed at the hospital for another eleven days after waking up. Eleven days of nurses checking vitals every few hours. Eleven days of medications. Eleven days of people telling you to rest when resting was slowly becoming its own kind of torture.

At first, simply sitting up had exhausted you. Then standing. Then walking five steps to the bathroom with someone hovering nearby like you were made of glass.

You hated it. Absolutely hated it. And somehow everyone knew it too. People came constantly during those eleven days. More than you would have expected, more than you thought they would.

Dana practically treated your room like her second office, walking in and out whenever she had free time, carrying coffee cups and stories and acting like she had not cried the moment you opened your eyes. Robby came by too, always pretending he was “just checking on one of his doctors,” before staying thirty minutes longer than necessary. Santos, Javadi, Princess, Perlah, McKay — they all came whenever shifts allowed it.

And somehow, none of them ever arrived empty-handed. Chocolate started accumulating on the little table beside your bed. Flowers too. So many flowers. Enough that Dana eventually joked that your room looked less like recovery and more like a funeral where people had accidentally shown up too early.

Jack came too, always. But never alone, not once. If Dana came, he would appear ten minutes later. If Robby stopped by, Jack somehow happened to be nearby too. If everyone gathered in your room after a shift, he would quietly walk in with them. And then he would stay back, always just slightly behind everyone else. Leaning against the wall near the window, sitting in the chair furthest from your bed. Listening more than speaking, smiling at conversations without really joining them.

You noticed it immediately. Because before, Jack would have sat beside you without thinking about it. He would have teased you, argued with you, stolen your pudding cup just to annoy you. Now he kept a careful distance. Not cold, never cold. Just…careful.

As if he was making sure nobody looked too closely. As if he already knew you would hate becoming the center of whispered conversations and knowing glances around the ER. As if he was protecting something. Protecting you, protecting whatever this was.

Sometimes, while Dana was talking or Robby was telling some ridiculous story, your eyes would drift toward him. And every single time, somehow, you would find him already looking at you. Not staring, just checking. Making sure you looked okay, making sure you were smiling, making sure you were still there. Then the second he realized you had caught him, he would look away and say something completely normal to whoever was speaking, like nothing had happened at all. Like he had not been watching you the entire time.

Eleven days later, you were finally allowed to go home. You had imagined that moment differently more times than you could count.

You thought it would feel freeing, like finally crossing a finish line. Like breathing properly again after being trapped somewhere for too long. Instead, it felt strangely unreal. Dana had driven you home herself, refusing to even entertain the idea of letting you take a cab.

“You nearly died two weeks ago,” she had said while carrying one of your bags under her arm. “You’ve officially lost all rights to independence for at least another month.”

You had rolled your eyes weakly because even that still took energy. The walk from the parking lot to your apartment building had felt longer than you remembered. Your body still wasn’t yours completely yet. There was still soreness pulling at your side every time you moved too fast, every time you twisted wrong, every time you forgot for half a second that you were healing.

Dana stayed longer than necessary after getting inside. She put your medications on the kitchen counter, checked your fridge, complained that you had absolutely nothing healthy to eat. Adjusted pillows on your couch, adjusted them again five minutes later.

Then stood in the middle of your apartment with her hands on her hips, looking around suspiciously like she expected hidden dangers to suddenly reveal themselves.

“You have your phone?”

You stared at her. “Yes.”

“Charged?”

“Yes.”

“Pain medication?”

“Yes.”

“Emergency contacts?”

“Dana.”

“Good.”

You stared at each other. Then she sighed, then you sighed. Then she walked over and hugged you again, this one tighter than before, longer too.

“You call me if you need anything,” she said against your hair.

“Dana—”

“No, seriously.”

You closed your eyes slightly.

“I mean anything.”

You smiled softly. “I know.”

Eventually, she left.

Not because she wanted to. Mostly because you practically pushed her out while promising for the fifth time that you were okay. She pointed at you dramatically before stepping into the hallway.

“I’m calling later.” Then she disappeared. And the apartment door closed. Silence, immediate silence. You stood there for a few seconds without moving. No monitors, no footsteps outside your room, no nurses walking past, no voices, nothing. Just your apartment, just you.

Slowly, your eyes moved around the room, everything looked exactly the same. The couch, the kitchen, the blankets, the city outside the windows. Everything was exactly where you had left it. But somehow it didn’t feel the same anymore. Because for the first time in a while…you were alone.

The first day alone felt peaceful. The second felt quiet. By the third, the silence had started feeling heavier.

You had always thought of yourself as someone who was fine on her own. More than fine, actually. You liked your space, you liked coming back to an empty apartment after long shifts, throwing your shoes somewhere near the entrance and enjoying the simple comfort of not having to talk to anyone for a few hours. You had always believed you were good at being alone, happy alone.

But this felt different. Because this was not choosing solitude, this was being left with it. For the past few days, your apartment had started feeling too big somehow, too still, too silent. The television had become background noise more than anything else, playing for hours without you really watching it. Episodes followed one another while your eyes stayed fixed on the screen without processing any of it.

Sometimes you slept, sometimes you just stayed there with your eyes closed. Sometimes you stared out of the window for long periods of time, watching strangers walk below, watching people continue living their lives while yours felt strangely paused.

You hated admitting it, even to yourself, but you felt lonely. Really lonely. And it surprised you, because loneliness had always been something that belonged to other people, not you.

You had coworkers, Dana, the hospital, the constant noise of the ER. You had always been surrounded by movement, by voices, by life. You had never realized how much space those people occupied inside your days until suddenly they were gone.

Until suddenly nobody was knocking on your door, nobody was calling your name down a hallway, nobody was arguing with you over stupid things, nobody was stealing fries from your plate, nobody was sitting beside you.

Your eyes slowly moved toward the empty spot on the couch beside you, and without wanting to, without even realizing it at first…you thought about Jack. About him sitting quietly in your hospital room, about him checking your vitals, about him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking, about his chair beside your bed. Your chest tightened slightly because somehow the apartment wasn’t the thing that felt empty…you were.

And at first, everyone kept checking in. Texts came throughout the day, scattered between shifts and busy schedules.

Dana: Are you alive?

Princess: I’m bringing food and I’m not asking.

Robby: How’s recovery going?

Perlah: Need anything?

Little things, simple things. Proof that people were thinking about you, proof that you weren’t actually alone. But somehow, every time your phone lit up, your chest tightened instead of warming. And every time, your fingers found excuses automatically.

I’m sleeping.

I’m really tired today.

I have a follow-up appointment.

Maybe tomorrow.

I’m okay. Always I’m okay.

You stared at those words more than once after sending them. Because you had become very good at writing them. Even when they weren’t true, especially when they weren’t true. Days passed like that.

The truth was, it was never because you did not want to see them, and it was not because you did not miss them either. It was because every message felt like something you had to take from them.

Their time, their energy, their day. Dana had shifts to work, Robby had an entire ER sitting on his shoulders. Everyone had their own lives, their own routines, their own problems waiting for them outside your apartment walls.

And now there was you. Broken, healing, needing things. And you hated needing things. You hated the feeling of becoming someone people had to worry about, because worrying turned into changing plans, changing plans turned into sacrifices.

And somewhere inside your head, without even realizing it, you had started convincing yourself that every visit, every call, every offer to help was something you were taking from them. So you kept saying no because you thought you were protecting them from carrying you too. You kept telling yourself that if you just waited a little longer, got a little stronger, healed a little more, then things could go back to normal. Then nobody would have to rearrange pieces of their lives around you.

You spent most of them wrapped in blankets on your couch or back in bed, television running somewhere in the background while sunlight slowly moved across the walls of your apartment. Hours disappeared without you noticing where they went.

And eventually people stopped insisting so much. Not because they didn’t care, but because they thought you needed space, because they respected you. Because everyone knew you had a habit of disappearing into yourself when things became too heavy.

Even Jack. He had called a few times, not many but just enough. The first time had been two days after you got home. You remembered staring at his name on your screen for several seconds before answering. His voice had been calm, careful.

“Hey.”

Just that, simple. Like he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, like he didn’t want to push too hard. He had asked how you were feeling, if the pain was manageable, if you needed anything. Then after a small pause—

“I can bring groceries if you’re running low.”

“Or food.”

“Or… I don’t know. Whatever.”

You could almost picture him rubbing the back of his neck while saying it, trying to sound casual, trying not to sound like he cared too much. You remembered smiling slightly, weakly. Because even then, alone in your apartment, you had heard it anyway. And you had rejected him…again. But this time politely, softly.

“I already have everything I need.”

Silence.

“Okay.”

Then he had asked if you needed anything else, you had said no, and after that the conversation had ended. But afterward, you had stayed staring at your phone for a long time. Because the problem was…you had lied. You didn’t have everything you needed, not even close.

——————————

Days quietly slipped into weeks, without you really noticing when one ended and another began. The calendar on your kitchen wall changed almost by accident, crossed-off dates slowly filling the page while your routine stayed exactly the same.

Sleep. Television. Pain medication. A short walk around the apartment. Back to bed.

One evening, just before seven, a knock echoed softly through the apartment. You looked up from the couch automatically. The visiting nurse. She was supposed to come around seven-thirty to change your dressing, check the incision, make sure everything was healing properly. She was probably just a little early.

With a quiet sigh, you pushed the blanket off your legs and carefully stood up.

Your body was stronger than it had been two weeks ago, but it still reminded you every single day that you weren’t fully recovered. The muscles along your left side protested immediately as you straightened, a dull ache pulling beneath the healing wound. You waited for the dizziness to settle before taking your first step. Slowly, you crossed the apartment toward the front door.

Your hand rested briefly against the wall for balance before reaching the handle. Without really thinking about it, you unlocked the door and pulled it open.

“…Oh.”

The word escaped before you could stop it. Because it wasn’t the nurse standing on the other side.

Jack. For a second, your brain simply refused to catch up with what your eyes were seeing. He stood quietly in the hallway, one hand holding a medical bag that looked remarkably similar to the ones used during home visits, the other balancing two pizza boxes against his hip. He wore jeans instead of scrubs, a dark jacket left unzipped, and the faintest smile rested on his face. Not the teasing grin you knew so well, just a small, almost hesitant one. Like he wasn’t entirely sure how this was going to go.

You blinked. “…Jack?”

He gave a small nod. “Hi.”

Silence settled between you for a moment. You looked from him…to the medical bag…to the pizzas…then back to him.

Your brows pulled together in confusion. “What are you doing here?”

The corner of his mouth lifted just a little. “I came to replace the nurse.”

Your confusion only deepened. “…What?”

He lifted the medical bag slightly. “I may have… convinced her to switch with me.”

“You convinced my nurse?”

“I asked very nicely.”

You stared at him as he shrugged, looking almost sheepish. “I also might’ve mentioned that I’m an emergency physician who’s perfectly capable of changing a dressing.”

A beat passed. “And?”

“And…” another tiny shrug, “…she seemed happy to finish work half an hour early.”

Despite yourself, you felt the smallest smile tug at your lips. Jack noticed, of course he noticed. Satisfied with that tiny victory, he lifted the pizza boxes this time.

“And after that,” he continued, “I thought we could eat.” You looked at the pizzas, then back at him.

“You invited yourself.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t even ask.”

“I tried asking.” He tilted his head slightly. “You kept saying no.”

That made your smile disappear again, because he wasn’t wrong. You had kept saying no. To him, to Dana, to everyone. Jack’s expression softened almost immediately, as though he regretted sounding so direct.

“I’m not here because I think you can’t take care of yourself,” he said quietly. “And I’m not here because I think you need someone looking after you every second.” He paused. “I’m here because I figured…” His eyes met yours. “…maybe you’ve spent enough time being alone.”

The hallway fell silent again. Neither of you moved. The apartment behind you was as quiet as it had been every evening for the past few weeks. Jack simply stood there, medical bag in one hand, pizza in the other, waiting. Not trying to force his way inside, not trying to convince you. Just… waiting for your answer.

For a moment, you hesitated, it was barely noticeable. Just a small pause where your hand remained on the door, where your eyes stayed on him, trying to decide whether letting him in was a good idea or just another thing you would eventually overthink later.

Because this was Jack. And somehow, Jack had always been the person who made things more complicated. Not because he did anything wrong. But because with him, you couldn’t pretend you didn’t feel anything.

Eventually, you stepped aside, a small quiet gesture, but enough. Jack looked at you for a second, making sure he understood correctly, then his smile grew slightly.

“Wow.”

You looked at him. “What?”

He stepped inside carefully, balancing the pizza boxes. “I was starting to think I was going to have to perform an entire emotional intervention in the hallway.”

You rolled your eyes weakly. “You were not.”

“No?”

“No.”

He looked back at the door as he walked past. “I had a whole speech prepared.”

“You did not.”

“I did.”

You closed the door behind him. “What was it?”

He thought for a second. “Something very moving. Probably involving dramatic music.”

A small breath escaped you. Not quite a laugh, but close. And Jack noticed. He didn’t point it out, he didn’t make a big deal out of it. He just looked quietly pleased that he had managed to bring even a tiny bit of normality back into the apartment.

He placed the pizzas on the kitchen counter before turning back toward you. The familiar medical focus returned almost immediately. “Okay.”

You already knew that tone. “Jack—”

“No.”

You frowned slightly. “I didn’t even say anything.”

“You were about to.”

You sighed softly. “I was going to say that you don’t actually need to check my wound. I can do it later.”

Jack stared at you, then slowly raised his eyebrows. “Interesting.”

“What?”

“You let me come all the way here, but you’re still trying to get out of the one reason I’m actually here.”

You opened your mouth to answer, but nothing came. Because he was right, again. Jack picked up the medical bag and opened it. “No.”

You looked at him. “No?”

“No, I did not take over the nurse’s job for nothing.” A small smile appeared on his face. “I’m here to check your wound.” He pointed slightly toward the bed. “Now, lay down.”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t trust him, that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that letting him take care of you still felt strangely uncomfortable. Not bad just…unfamiliar. You had spent so long refusing help that accepting it almost felt like admitting defeat.

Jack seemed to understand, his voice softened. “Hey.”

Your eyes met his.

“This isn’t you being weak.” The words hit a little harder than you expected. “It’s just me making sure you’re healing properly.”

A few seconds passed. Then, quietly, you nodded. You walked toward the bed, and Jack followed, carrying the medical supplies with him. For the first time in weeks, someone stepped into your apartment and the silence didn’t feel quite as heavy.

You hated how easily Jack could read you, or at least, that was what you kept telling yourself. He always seemed to know what you were thinking before you said a word. He caught the smallest hesitation, the tiniest shift in your expression, the way your shoulders tensed whenever you were about to retreat behind another excuse.

It should have been irritating, it probably was. And yet…you weren’t entirely sure you actually hated it. Because there was something strangely comforting about not having to explain yourself all the time. About someone seeing straight through the walls you spent so much energy building.

You let out a quiet breath, then, without arguing anymore, you listened. You walked to your bed and carefully lowered yourself onto the bed, moving slower than you used to. Even after weeks, the wound still reminded you it was there every time you twisted the wrong way.

Jack set the medical kit down on the mattress beside you before kneeling next to the bed. Neither of you spoke, the familiar metallic click of the case opening filled the room, as he laid everything out with practiced precision.

Fresh gauze. Saline. Tape. Gloves.

You watched him in silence, there was something oddly calming about it. Watching his hands move with quiet confidence, every gesture deliberate, every movement careful. You had seen those same hands work through chaos, through trauma bays filled with blood and alarms and impossible decisions. Now they moved just as steadily in the quiet of your apartment.

You slowly lifted the hem of your shirt, exposing the white dressing that still covered your left side.

Jack’s eyes flickered briefly to your face. “Comfortable?”

You nodded. “As comfortable as I’m going to be.”

A faint smile crossed his face. “I’ll take that.”

He pulled on a pair of gloves before resting one hand lightly against your side, warm even through the latex.

“Tell me if anything hurts.”

“I will.”

Very gently, he caught the edge of the dressing and began peeling it away, slowly, patiently, making sure not to pull too hard against the healing skin beneath.

Your eyes never left him. Not because of the wound, but because of him. His brow had furrowed slightly in concentration, his entire attention fixed on making sure he didn’t cause you unnecessary pain. Every now and then he glanced back up at your face, checking your expression before continuing.

You realized then that he had probably done this dozens of times over the past few weeks but somehow, this felt different.

Not because his technique had changed, but because his eyes had. There was a gentleness in them that hadn’t come from medical training, only from caring.

Jack worked in silence for another minute. He finished removing the old dressing, his movements as careful as ever before cleaning the incision with slow, practiced precision. Every so often, he glanced up at you, not long enough to make you self-conscious, just enough to make sure you weren’t in pain.

“You doing okay?”

You nodded. “It stings a little.”

“It’ll pass.”

Another comfortable silence settled between you. It was strange, you had always imagined silence as something awkward between two people. With Jack, it rarely was.

He reached for a fresh piece of gauze, pausing for just a second before speaking again. “So…” You looked at him. “Can I ask you something?”

“You just did.”

A quiet chuckle escaped him. “I suppose I did.”

You almost smiled, almost. He focused on securing one side of the new dressing before continuing. “Why aren’t you letting anyone come see you?”

The question landed gently. No accusation, no judgment, just…curiosity. Your body, however, reacted before your mind did. Your eyes immediately drifted away from him, settling somewhere on the blank wall across the room as though the answer might be written there.

Your throat tightened. “I…” You swallowed. “It’s just…” The words refused to come together as you shook your head slightly. “I don’t know.”

Except you did, you just didn’t know how to explain it without sounding ridiculous. Jack noticed. He smoothed another strip of tape over the fresh dressing before speaking again, his eyes still on his work.

“I don’t think that’s true.” You stayed quiet. “I think…” he said carefully, “…you know exactly why.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around the blanket beneath them.

“I’ve been thinking about it.” A small pause. “And I don’t think you’re avoiding everyone because you want to be alone.”

You didn’t answer.

“I think you’re avoiding everyone because you don’t want anyone taking care of you.”

Your breathing caught almost imperceptibly, Jack saw it, but his voice stayed calm. “You keep telling everybody you’re fine.”

Another piece of tape.

“You tell Dana you’re sleeping.”

Another glance toward you.

“You tell Robby you have appointments.”

He smiled faintly.

“You told me your fridge was full.”

You looked back at him, guilty, because it hadn’t been. He held your gaze for a moment. Then, quietly, almost as though he were saying something he’d only just figured out himself, he added, “I don’t think you’re pushing us away…” He gently pressed the last edge of the dressing into place. “…I think you’re trying not to become someone we have to carry.”

For a moment, you simply looked at him. Then, despite everything, despite the conversation, despite the uncomfortable truth he had just placed so gently between the two of you, the corner of your mouth lifted into a faint smile. It was tired, almost invisible but it was there.

“You know…” you murmured quietly, “you could really stop reading my mind.”

Jack looked up from the dressing he had just finished securing, a small smile appeared on his own face.

“So I was right.”

You let out a quiet breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “I didn’t say that.”

“No.” He peeled off one glove slowly. “You just implied it.”

You rolled your eyes weakly. “That’s different.”

“It isn’t.”

For a second, the room felt lighter, almost normal. Then your smile faded again. Your eyes dropped toward your hands. “I just…” you began quietly.

The words came easier this time, not because they hurt less but because you were too tired to keep holding them back. “I don’t want everyone putting their lives on hold because of me.”

Jack stayed silent. He removed the second glove carefully, folding both together before setting them aside.

You continued speaking anyway. “I know everyone means well.” You swallowed. “I know Dana would come here every single day if I let her.” A sad smile crossed your face. “So would Robby.” Another pause. “And you.”

Jack didn’t interrupt, didn’t try to reassure you. He simply listened.

“I don’t want that,” you whispered. “I don’t want people changing their routines because I can’t get groceries. Or because I need someone to change a dressing. Or because…” You looked away again. “…because I almost died.”

Your voice had become so quiet that the last words barely filled the room. “I don’t want to become another responsibility.”

Silence settled between you. Jack rested his forearms lightly on his knees, watching you without saying a word, giving you the space to finish.

“I can do it alone,” you said finally. “I’ve always done things alone.”

Neither of you spoke for several seconds after that. Then, slowly, you pushed yourself upright. The movement was still careful, instinctively protective of your left side. Jack watched you stand but didn’t stop you. You made your way toward the kitchen at an unhurried pace, opening the refrigerator and staring inside for a moment before reaching for two bottles of beer, the glass clinked softly against itself as you closed the door.

Behind you, Jack remained exactly where he was, watching, thinking. Finally, he stood and followed you into the kitchen. He leaned one shoulder lightly against the wall, his arms folding across his chest.

“You know…” he said quietly, “that’s not how this works.” You looked over at him, he held your gaze. “You keep saying you don’t want to be a burden.” His voice remained calm. “But you never stopped to ask us whether helping you actually feels like one.” He tilted his head slightly. “You decided that for everybody.” The kitchen fell quiet again. “And that’s not a decision you get to make.”

You didn’t answer him. Not right away. You simply stood there with your back to him, one hand resting lightly against the kitchen counter, the two beers still sitting unopened in front of you. His words lingered in the air.

You decided that for everybody.

You knew he was right. That was probably the hardest part. After a few long seconds, you slowly turned around to face him. There was no defensiveness in your expression, no irritation. Just a quiet kind of resignation. A small, almost apologetic smile appeared on your lips.

“I know,” you said softly. Your shoulders lifted in the smallest shrug. “I just…”

You searched for the words before letting out a tiny breath through your nose. “I can’t help it.”

You looked at him for another second before lowering your eyes briefly. “It’s just… how I am.”

Jack watched you in silence. His first instinct was to tell you that it didn’t have to stay that way. That people who cared about you wanted to help because they chose to, not because they felt obligated. That you deserved the same kindness you gave everyone else. But he could see it on your face. You weren’t ready for that conversation, not tonight. So instead, he smiled. Softly.

“Fair enough.” He walked over, took one of the beers from the counter, and held it up slightly. “But I’m still stealing this.”

That earned him another small smile. “Amazing.”

“I know.”

“You invite yourself into my apartment…”

“Mhmm.”

“…lecture me…”

“Also true.”

“…and now you’re stealing my beer.”

Jack nodded thoughtfully. “When you say it like that, I sound terrible.”

“You really do.”

For the first time in days, you laughed. It was quiet and brief but real. And somehow, that alone made the evening feel lighter. The rest of the night passed more easily than either of you had expected.

The pizza boxes sat open between you on the coffee table and at some point, you looked over at him with genuine curiosity. “So…”

Jack glanced up.

“Any hospital gossip?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been gone three weeks and that’s your first question?”

“Absolutely.”

“No ‘How’s everyone doing?’”

“That is how everyone’s doing.”

He laughed softly.

“You’ve definitely been spending too much time with Princess and Perlah.”

“I learned from the best.”

“I wouldn’t admit that out loud.”

You leaned back against the couch. “Come on.” Your eyes brightened just a little. “What did I miss?”

Jack gave in with an exaggerated sigh. “Fine.”

He reached for another slice of pizza. “Santos somehow managed to glue two pairs of surgical gloves together while trying to prove she could catch an IV cap with her elbow.”

You blinked. “…How?”

“No one knows.”

You laughed quietly.

“And Princess laughed so hard she snorted in front of an entire trauma team.”

“No…”

“Yes.”

Your laughter grew a little louder. Jack couldn’t help smiling. So he kept going.

He told you about Mohan accidentally wearing two different shoes through half a shift before anyone noticed.

About Perlah and Dana arguing for fifteen minutes over who had stolen whose pen, only for Robby to quietly pull it out of his own pocket at the end of the conversation.

About Javadi trying so hard to look confident during a procedure that she walked straight into a supply cabinet immediately afterward.

One story became another, then another. And for the first time since leaving the hospital, your apartment didn’t feel quite so empty. For a little while, it almost felt like you had never left the ER at all.

Your laughter slowly faded, leaving behind a comfortable silence. The empty pizza boxes sat forgotten on the coffee table between you, two half-finished beers beside them. Outside, the evening had slipped quietly into night, the city lights glowing through the apartment windows. You looked down at the bottle in your hands, turning it slowly between your fingers.

“I miss it.”

The words came out so quietly that Jack almost thought he had imagined them. He looked over at you.

“The hospital,” you clarified with a small smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “The ER.” Your gaze drifted toward the window. “I miss everyone.” A pause. “I even miss the stupid alarms.”

Jack smiled faintly. “That’s concerning.”

“It is.”

“I was hoping you’d say you missed me first.” That earned him an amused look.

“Don’t push your luck.”

He chuckled, but let the joke settle without adding anything else. Because beneath it, he could hear what you weren’t saying. You missed your life, the chaos, the noise, the purpose. The version of yourself that had existed before everything fell apart.

He waited a moment before asking gently, “So…” You looked back at him. “What do you actually do all day?”

You let out a long sigh. The kind that seemed to come from somewhere much deeper than your lungs. “Nothing.”

Jack stayed quiet.

“I sleep.” You shrugged. “I watch television.” Another shrug. “I walk around the apartment for five minutes pretending I’m being productive.” A small, self-deprecating smile crossed your face. “And then I sit back down again.” Your fingers tightened slightly around the bottle. “The boredom is…” You searched for the right word. “…it’s exhausting.”

Jack listened without interrupting.

“I always thought I liked being alone.” Your eyes stayed fixed on the label peeling slightly beneath your thumb. “I genuinely believed I was one of those people who could disappear for weeks and be perfectly happy.” You laughed softly to yourself. “Turns out…” You shook your head. “I don’t think I am.”

The realization seemed to surprise you even as you said it aloud. “I thought I was.” Your voice softened. “But this…” You looked around the apartment. “This isn’t peaceful.” A long silence followed. “It just feels…” You hesitated. “…empty.”

Only after the word had left your mouth did you realize how much you had just admitted. You looked toward Jack, almost embarrassed by your own honesty.

He didn’t look surprised. He just nodded slowly. “We’re social animals,” he said quietly. His voice carried the same calm certainty it always did when he explained something to a patient. “We’re built to need each other.” He leaned back slightly into the couch. “It doesn’t matter how independent you are.”

His eyes found yours. “Everyone needs contact.” He smiled gently. “Conversation. A reason to leave the house.A reason to laugh.” He paused. “And people who make ordinary days feel a little less ordinary.”

The apartment fell quiet again. “But somewhere along the way,” he continued, “you convinced yourself that needing people was the same thing as depending on them.”

You lowered your eyes.

“I don’t think those are the same thing.” His words settled over the room with surprising gentleness. “You can be strong, you can be independent, you can spend time alone.” He smiled softly. “And still miss the people who make your life feel like yours.”

For a few seconds, you stayed silent. The words were still hanging between you. Your own words, and especially his. And somehow, that made them feel even heavier. You looked down at the almost empty beer bottle in your hand, watching the last drops move slowly against the glass before setting it down on the coffee table.

“Sorry.”

Jack’s eyes lifted toward you immediately.

You shook your head slightly. “I didn’t mean to…”

You stopped yourself. Didn’t mean to what? Open up? Need someone? Be honest? You hated that you didn’t even know.

“I didn’t mean to make this about me.” Your voice became quieter. “I hate that.”

Jack watched you carefully.

You let out a small breath, frustrated more with yourself than anything else. “I don’t want to sit here and make everyone listen to me complain.”

The words came faster now, almost like you were trying to take them back by explaining them away. “I don’t want to be the person everyone has to worry about.”

You lifted both hands and covered your face for a moment. Just for a few seconds, trying to hide, trying to collect yourself. Because you didn’t understand why you had said all of that. Why, after weeks of keeping everyone at a distance, you had suddenly let the walls slip. And especially why it had happened with him, with Jack.

You lowered your hands and looked away. “I don’t even know why I said all that.”

The honesty of the sentence almost annoyed you. You stood up before he could answer. Your body still reminded you to be gentle, even with something as simple as standing from the couch. You started collecting the empty pizza boxes from the table.

Jack remained seated, quiet. He watched you move around the apartment, picking up the small pieces of the evening as if cleaning up the evidence of a moment you wished you could take back.

The cardboard folded in your hands. The empty bottles moved to the kitchen counter. You were already trying to put yourself back together. Back into the version of yourself that didn’t need anything, that didn’t admit things, that didn’t let people see too much.

Jack didn’t stop you immediately. Because he knew this, he knew the instinct. The moment where you realized you had been vulnerable and immediately wanted to retreat. So he stayed silent for a little while. He just watched you, not judging, not pitying, just understanding. Because maybe, for once, you didn’t need someone to fix what you had said. Maybe you just needed someone who wouldn’t make you regret saying it.

Jack stayed quiet for a little while longer. Long enough for you to finish throwing away the last piece of the pizza box. Long enough for you to start believing the conversation was over. Then his voice broke through the silence. “You don’t usually open up to people, do you?”

You froze slightly. Not because the question was surprising, because it was too accurate. You turned your head toward him. A small, almost embarrassed laugh escaped you. “No.” You leaned against the kitchen counter, looking away. “No, I don’t.” There was no shame in your voice. Just honesty. “I really don’t.”

Jack’s lips curved into a small smile. Something soft, almost compassionate. Because he knew. He had known for a while. You were the person who stayed after shifts to help everyone else. The person who listened. The person who remembered details about everyone’s lives. But the second someone tried to do the same for you, you disappeared. You changed the subject. You made jokes. You insisted you were fine.

Jack pushed himself up from the couch slowly. You watched him from the corner of your eye, expecting him to say something, to make a comment, to give you some kind of advice. Instead, he simply walked a few steps away. Then he laid down on the floor, completely casually on top of the rug in the middle of your living room.

You stared at him. For a second, you wondered if you had somehow missed something. You turned around fully. “Jack?” He looked up at you. “What are you doing?”

He looked perfectly comfortable, almost too comfortable. “Getting comfortable.”

You blinked. “On my floor?”

“Yes.”

A small laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “You are strange.”

“I’ve been told.”

You shook your head, still smiling slightly.

Then he looked at you and simply said, “Come here.”

You frowned. “What?”

He patted the space beside him on the rug. “Come lay down.”

You stared at him. “Jack, I’m not five.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you asking me to lie on the floor?”

“Because sometimes people need to stop sitting upright and pretending they’re okay.”

The answer was so unexpectedly simple that you didn’t know what to say. He didn’t say it like a doctor. He didn’t say it like someone trying to analyze you. Just like someone who knew you had spent too much time alone inside your own head.

You looked at him for a few seconds. Then you sighed. You slowly walked over lowered yourself carefully onto the rug beside him, still trying to understand what exactly was happening. The floor was not exactly the most comfortable place in your apartment. And yet, somehow, lying there felt easier than sitting on the couch. Maybe because the couch belonged to the version of you that had spent weeks hiding under blankets. Maybe because the floor felt like a reset.

You turned your head slightly toward Jack. He was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling like this was the most normal thing in the world. You watched him for a few seconds because there was no way Jack had suddenly decided that lying on your living room floor was a normal evening activity. There was always a reason with him, a purpose.

Finally, you turned your head slightly. “So…”

Jack glanced over. “So?”

You raised an eyebrow. “What are we doing?”

A small smile appeared on his lips. “You’ll see.”

You immediately narrowed your eyes. “I don’t like that answer.”

“I know.”

“Jack.”

“Trust me.”

That made you pause. Because he said it so simply. You looked at him for a moment longer before letting out a small sigh. “Fine.”

Jack looked back toward the ceiling. “Close your eyes.”

You hesitated, again.

He noticed. “You don’t have to do anything weird.”

You almost smiled. “That’s exactly what someone would say before doing something weird.”

A quiet laugh escaped him. “Fair point.”

But after a moment, you listened. Slowly, you closed your eyes. The room changed immediately. Without the distraction of looking around, you became more aware of everything else. The warmth of the apartment, the quiet sound of the city outside, your own breathing.

“Okay,” he said softly. You stayed still. “Now relax your body.”

You almost laughed, because that was easier said than done. Your shoulders were tense without you even realizing it, your hands were slightly curled, your jaw tightened. Like your body had forgotten what it felt like not to be ready for something.

“I am relaxed.”

Jack hummed. “No, you’re not.”

Your eyes remained closed. “You really do have an annoying habit of knowing everything.”

You shook your head slightly.

“Just try.” His voice became quieter. “Don’t fight it.”

You took a slow breath, then another. Your head rested back against the rug as you looked toward the ceiling behind your closed eyelids.

For a few more seconds, Jack said nothing. You almost thought that was it. That maybe this was the whole exercise, just lying there, breathing. Trying to remember how to exist without constantly being on alert.

Then his voice came quietly beside you. “Now…”

You opened your eyes slightly.

“Tell me everything.”

You frowned. “What?”

Jack kept looking at the ceiling. “Everything.”

The simplicity of it almost made you laugh. Because it sounded impossible. Like he had just asked you to explain something simple. Like he had asked you what you wanted for dinner.

You stared at him. “Jack…”

He turned his head slightly toward you. “Close your eyes again.”

You hesitated. But after a second, you did.

“Pretend I’m not here.”

You stayed still.

“Pretend you’re alone.” His voice remained calm. “You don’t have to look at me. You don’t have to worry about my reaction. You don’t have to make sure I’m okay with what you’re saying.”

A pause. “Just say it.”

Your throat tightened.

“Say everything you need to say.”

You immediately opened your eyes. “No.”

The answer came too fast. Too instinctively. Jack looked at you. You shook your head slightly, almost embarrassed that your reaction had been so immediate.

“I told you.” Your voice softened. “I don’t do that.” You looked away. “I can’t.”

For a moment, Jack didn’t say anything. Then he turned his head fully toward you. Not with disappointment or frustration, just understanding.

“You’re right.” That surprised you and he continued quietly. “You’re not someone who does that.” You looked back at him. “And I’m not going to force you.” The words were immediate, certain. “You know that, right?”

You stayed silent. Jack shifted slightly on the rug, keeping his eyes on you. “I don’t want you to do this because I asked you to.”

A small pause.

“I don’t want you to feel like this is another thing you have to do for someone else.” His voice softened. “But…” He looked back toward the ceiling. “I do think it would help.”

You swallowed.

“Not because it changes anything. Not because suddenly saying things out loud fixes everything.” He took a slow breath. “But because you’ve been carrying all of it by yourself for a long time.”

The words settled quietly between you both as you looked down. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Jack nodded. “That’s okay, you don’t have to start at the beginning.” A small pause. “You don’t have to make it make sense.”

His eyes found yours again. “You can ramble, you can be angry, you can say things that don’t sound nice, you can say nothing for five minutes and then suddenly talk.”

A faint smile appeared. “I promise I won’t grade your emotional organization.”

Despite yourself, you almost smiled. Then his expression became gentle again. “But I want you to try.”

You looked at him.

“Just try.” A patient silence followed. “And if you can’t…” He shrugged slightly. “That’s okay too.” His voice dropped. “But I think you might surprise yourself.”

You stared at him for a long moment, because the hardest part wasn’t talking. It was the idea of letting someone hear you, really hear you. And Jack seemed to know that. So he didn’t push, he just stayed there beside you, waiting.

You looked back up at the ceiling and for a long moment, you simply stared at it. Your chest rose slowly before you drew in one long, unsteady breath. You held it for a second, then let it escape through parted lips, the exhale loud enough to fill the quiet apartment. Almost like you were trying to breathe out every excuse, every instinct telling you to stop before you had even begun.

Your eyes closed again. Immediately, your heart started beating a little faster. It felt ridiculous. Talking, just…talking. You had faced dying patients without hesitating, you had pronounced deaths, held strangers while they cried, made impossible decisions in seconds. Yet somehow, lying on your own living room floor with your eyes closed frightened you far more than any trauma bay ever had.

Because this wasn’t about saving someone else. It was about letting yourself be seen. You stayed silent. One minute passed, then another. The apartment remained perfectly still. Jack didn’t move, he didn’t clear his throat, he didn’t ask if you were okay, he didn’t remind you that you didn’t have to do this. He simply stayed exactly where he was. Present and patient.

Without realizing it, your breathing slowly began matching the quiet rhythm of the room around you. The distant hum of traffic outside. The refrigerator running somewhere behind you. The faint ticking of the clock in the kitchen. Nothing else.

By the time the third minute slipped by, something had changed. Not around you, but inside you. The awareness of Jack lying beside you had slowly faded into the background, you no longer found yourself wondering whether he was looking at you. Whether he was judging you, whether he was waiting for you to finally speak. It almost felt as though he wasn’t there at all. Just as he had asked, just you, your thoughts and a silence that no longer felt quite so frightening.

“I hate myself.” Another pause. “I really do.”

Your voice was calm, almost detached, as if admitting something you had spent years refusing to acknowledge.

“I hate the way I am. I hate the way my brain works. I hate the way I think, the way I react to things, the way I always seem to make everything harder than it has to be.”

You swallowed, your eyes still closed as the confession came easier now.

“I don’t trust people. I always think they’re going to leave eventually. Or disappoint me. Or use me. Or realize that I’m not worth staying for.”

Your breathing remained steady, but your chest felt tighter with every sentence. Your fingers curled slightly against the rug beneath you.

“So I don’t let them get close. I keep everyone just far enough away that, if they leave, it won’t destroy me.”

A quiet, bitter laugh escaped you.

“At least… that’s what I tell myself. But the truth is…The truth is that I push people away long before they ever have the chance to hurt me. I make the decision for them.”

Your voice cracked for the first time.

“I decide they probably won’t stay. So I leave first. I shut down. I disappear.”

Silence lingered for only a heartbeat before the words continued pouring out, faster now, as though years of restraint had finally cracked.

“I don’t talk about myself. I don’t tell people how I’m feeling. I don’t ask for help. Because if I do…”

Your throat tightened.

“…they’ll see me. They’ll see every part of me that I spend so much energy trying to hide. They’ll see that I’m scared all the time. They’ll see that I’m not nearly as strong as everyone thinks I am. They’ll see every flaw, very insecurity, every weakness.”

Your voice became almost a whisper.

“And once people see those things…I’m terrified they’ll decide I’m too much. Too broken. Too complicated. So I never let them see. I smile. I joke. I tell everyone I’m okay. I take care of everybody else. And I keep every ugly part of me locked away where nobody can touch it.”

A tear escaped from beneath your closed eyelids, rolling silently across your temple into your hair.

“Because if nobody ever sees how vulnerable I really am…then maybe nobody will ever have the chance to use it against me.”

The words came more easily now, as though a door had finally opened inside you.

“I spend my life taking care of other people. Everyone. Anyone who needs something.”

A small, broken smile appeared on your lips, though your eyes remained closed.

“I always volunteer. I stay late. I cover shifts. I listen. I fix things. I make sure everyone else is okay. And everyone always says it’s because I’m kind.”

A quiet laugh escaped you.

“But I don’t think that’s the whole truth.”

Another tear slipped down your cheek.

“I think…I think I do it because it makes me feel useful. And if I’m useful…then maybe people will keep me around.”

You swallowed against the lump growing in your throat.

“Because without that…What am I? I genuinely don’t know. How could anyone like me…if I wasn’t doing something for them?”

Your chest tightened painfully.

“What is there to like? If I’m not helping. If I’m not fixing something. If I’m not making someone else’s day easier. So I keep giving. I keep doing. I keep making myself available. I make sure everyone else is taken care of before I even think about myself. Not because anyone asked me to. Not because anyone expected it. Because somewhere, a long time ago, i had started believing that love had to be earned. That affection came with conditions. That staying in someone’s life required constant payment. So everything I do…”

Your voice cracked again.

“…is for somebody else. Every extra shift. Every favor. Every time I put someone else’s needs before mine.”

Another tear rolled silently toward your ear.

“I think… I think I’m just hoping…that if I do enough…someone will love me enough to stay. So maybe that’s why I don’t know how to let people take care of me. Because if I’m not the one giving…I’m terrified there won’t be any reason left for anyone to choose me.”

The words came almost immediately, as if they had been waiting their turn.

“And I overthink everything. I mean… everything. Every conversation. Every text. Every silence. I analyze people’s faces all the time. The smallest change in their expression. The way they look at me. The way they stop looking at me.”

Your voice remained steady, but there was an exhaustion behind it that hadn’t been there before.

“I listen to every change in their voice. If they sound a little shorter than usual. If they answer a little too quickly. If they don’t laugh at a joke they would’ve laughed at yesterday.”

A bitter smile crossed your face.

“I notice everything. Probably things that aren’t even there.And then my brain fills in the rest. I convince myself they’re annoyed, or disappointed, or tired of me. That I’ve said too much, or not enough. That I was awkward, that I stayed too long, that I bothered them.”

Another tear slipped down.

“And once I have that idea…I can’t get rid of it. It just keeps growing. So I leave. I disappear before they have to ask me to.”

You took another slow breath.

“If I think someone is upset with me…even a little…I’m gone. I stop texting, I stop calling, I avoid them, I convince myself I’m doing them a favor.”

A quiet laugh escaped you, though there was nothing humorous about it.

“I don’t even give them the chance to tell me I was wrong. I just assume I already know.”

The silence stretched for a heartbeat before you whispered,

“I’ve walked away from so many people…not because they wanted me to leave…but because I was convinced they eventually would.”

A long silence followed. You almost thought you were finished.Your breathing had become uneven now, your chest rising and falling a little faster than before. Every confession seemed to leave something behind, as though each sentence had carried a piece of weight out of you. Then, quietly, almost in a whisper, you spoke again.

“And do you know what I hate the most?”

You didn’t wait for an answer.

“I don’t push people away when I don’t care about them.”

A tear slipped silently into your hair.

“I push away the people I care about the most. The second someone starts meaning something to me…the second I realize I actually like them…or…”

You swallowed hard.

“…love them…”

The last word almost disappeared before it reached the room.

“That’s when I leave. Because that’s when it becomes dangerous. That’s when they have the power to hurt me. So I start looking for reasons. Reasons to convince myself it won’t work. Reasons to believe they’ll leave. Reasons to walk away before they get the chance. I tell myself I’m protecting myself.”

A small, broken laugh escaped you.

“But it never works. I still get hurt. Every. single. time.”

Your voice cracked completely now.

“The only difference is…I’m usually the one who caused it. I create the distance, I close the door, I push people away. And then…I sit alone and wonder why nobody stayed.”

Your face tightened as another wave of emotion rose unexpectedly.

“I keep doing the very thing I’m terrified other people will do to me.”

The realization hung heavily in the quiet apartment.

“I abandon them first. And I think…I think I’m getting tired. Tired of running. Tired of hiding. Tired of being so scared of losing people…that I never really let myself have them in the first place.”

That was where you stopped. Not because there was nothing left to say. But because there was finally nothing left inside you that you could force yourself to keep holding. The words disappeared first. Then the strength to pretend you were okay. You stayed there silently, your eyes still closed, your breathing uneven as tears slipped down the sides of your face and disappeared into your hair.

You didn’t wipe them away, you didn’t try to stop them. For once, you didn’t try to regain control. You simply let them fall. The ceiling above you slowly came back into focus when you finally opened your eyes. Everything felt strangely quiet. Like the entire world had paused to give you this one moment.

You turned your head slightly. And that was when you looked at Jack. He was already looking at you. Not with pity or sadness, not with that worried expression people usually had when they saw you break. Just…there.

His eyes were soft, carrying everything he hadn’t said, and somehow, that almost made it harder. Because he wasn’t looking at you like you were fragile. He wasn’t looking at you like you were a problem to solve. He was just looking at you, seeing you.

Neither of you spoke. You couldn’t. The words were gone. Your throat felt too tight, your chest too heavy. So you just looked at him, tears continuing to fall silently.

Jack didn’t move, he didn’t rush to fill the silence, he didn’t tell you it was okay. He didn’t try to make the pain disappear with a few comforting words, he knew better. Some things needed to be felt before they could start healing.

So he stayed. He gave you the time to understand what had just happened. The time to realize that you had actually said all of it, out loud, to someone. And that person was still there. After a while, when the silence had stretched long enough, your lips finally parted.

“I’m sorry.”

The words were barely a whisper, but they carried everything. The guilt, the embarrassment, the fear that you had just shown too much. You looked at him with the same hurt expression you had been carrying for years. Like you were already expecting him to regret hearing all of it.

Jack’s expression changed immediately. Not because he was upset, but because he understood. And this time, he didn’t let you retreat. He moved, slowly, carefully, he shifted closer on the rug and turned toward you. Then his arms wrapped around you. Enough for you to know you could let yourself fall.

You didn’t resist, you couldn’t. The moment you felt his arms around you, everything you had been holding back for years finally broke. You buried yourself against him, your face hidden against his chest as the tears came harder. Jack held you tightly, one hand moved to the back of your head, gently keeping you close, while the other slowly moved along your back in steady, soothing motions.

His chin rested lightly against the top of your head, and he don’t say anything. Because there was nothing he could say that would mean more than staying. So he stayed, he let you cry. He let you release every fear, every insecurity, every piece of pain you had spent years hiding from everyone else.

And for the first time in a very long time…you let someone hold the weight with you.

Taglist ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

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[deliciousangelfestival]

Keep Up - 6 | Jack Abbot

Character: Jack Abbot x doctor female!reader

Summary: They spent years saving lives in a war zone and driving each other insane. Now they’re coworkers again.

Words Count : 7,549

Genre : enemy to lovers, slow burn, age-gap

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 , Chapter 6 , -

More Jack Abbot stories : 2nd Masterlist

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a Comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

FLASHBACK

It was hot. Not the kind of heat people complained about. The kind that simply existed, heavy and relentless, pressing down on him until breathing felt like its own small effort. The fans overhead rattled, pushing the same hot air back and forth without doing much of anything that he could feel.

No one spoke much. Not today.

Jack sat against the canvas wall, knees drawn up, his body aching with the kind of exhaustion that came from too many hours awake. His eyes burned. He hadn't slept. Every time he closed them he saw Gabriel laughing at something stupid, making fun of somebody across the mess tent, completely alive.

Then not.

Across the tent a soldier stepped out from behind the partition and wiped a hand across his face. Jack looked up.

"Is it done?"

The soldier glanced back the way he'd come. "She needs a minute."

Of course she did.

Jack already knew without being told that you'd been in there nearly an hour. Long after everything that needed doing had been done. Long after Gabriel had been cleaned and prepared, long after the paperwork, long after everyone else had said what they needed to say and stepped back out into the heat. He knew because he'd been watching the curtain the whole time, waiting for it to move, and it hadn't.

He stood and crossed the tent slowly. When he stepped through he found you beside the transfer case, gloves off, hands clean but trembling, your eyes red in a way that had nothing to do with dust. He'd seen you exhausted before. This was different. This was the kind sleep couldn't touch.

Clark stands quietly beside you. "Kid."

"His collar wasn't straight." Your voice cracked on the last word. "I fixed it."

Jack didn't say anything. He understood exactly what you meant and exactly what you didn't. The collar had never been the problem. You weren't ready to let him go, and there was nothing in his training, nothing in any of his years out here, that told him what to do with that.

He stepped closer anyway. It hurt him to watch you standing there, frozen, unable to move toward the door. He kept his voice low, the only thing he knew to offer. "His family's waiting for him."

Your body flinched. "Right. Yes." You took a breath and finally stepped back. "I'm sorry."

Jack gave Clark a small nod. The signal that it was clear.

A few minutes later the transfer case was brought out into the heat, and the tent went completely silent around it. Six soldiers stepped forward to carry it. Jack was one of them. Clark too. He focused on his hands, on the weight, on keeping his steps even, because if he thought about anything else right now he wasn't going to make it across the compound.

Outside the sunlight was blinding after the dim canvas interior. The helicopter pad sat in the distance, the transport aircraft waiting beyond it. The camp had gathered along the path without anyone telling them to. Nobody spoke. Jack didn't expect them to.

When the case reached the vehicle, the soldiers stopped and stepped back into formation. Jack moved to one side. Clark stood beside him. Across from them you stood with your spine straight and your chin level, holding a stillness that Jack recognized immediately, because it was costing you everything you had left and he knew exactly what that looked like from the inside.

For a moment nobody moved.

Then Clark raised his hand in salute.

Jack's came up with it, automatic, trained, and it was returned down the line by every soldier present, the only sound the wind and somewhere distant the low building hum of the aircraft's engines. His throat tightened as he held the position. Across from him you were still standing at attention, perfect posture, perfect form, and he understood that you were holding it together through nothing but sheer will, because that was the only thing keeping you upright at all.

The vehicle began to move.

Only then did your hand lower. Only then did Gabriel actually start to leave, the case disappearing slowly up the ramp while the camp watched a piece of itself go with it.

That was when you broke.

Jack saw your shoulders drop first. Then your knees seemed to lose whatever certainty had been holding them, and the sound that came out of you was quiet and raw, the sound of someone who had held the wall up for exactly as long as duty required and not one second longer.

He was already moving before he'd decided to. He reached you in two steps and pulled you in, wrapping both arms around you, one hand coming up to rest against the back of your head without him thinking about it at all.

You didn't pull away. You pressed your face into his shoulder and let it come.

Jack didn't say anything. There was nothing true enough to say, and he'd learned a long time ago not to insult grief with empty words. He just held on, steady, while the engines spun up behind you both and somewhere over your shoulder Clark stood with his hand still raised, watching the two people he had left from that tent try to hold each other together in the middle of everything that had just been taken from them.

******

After Gabriel's transfer ceremony, the aircraft disappeared into the horizon. Yet somehow his presence stayed everywhere. In the empty chair near the mess tent. In the half-finished deck of cards still sitting on a crate. In the silence that followed every conversation now, the particular gap where his voice used to fill the space. In the jokes nobody told anymore.

War kept moving. It always did. Orders still came down, patrols still happened, the camp still woke up the next morning whether anyone was ready for it or not.

Jack hated that. Part of him wanted the world to stop, just for a day, just long enough for everyone to fully acknowledge that Gabriel was gone. Instead soldiers reported for duty, vehicles rolled out, radios crackled with the same routine traffic, and life continued like one man hadn't left a hole in the middle of all of them.

So Jack did what everyone else did. He kept moving. Checking equipment, checking ammunition, checking routes that didn't need checking. Volunteering for patrols, for sweeps, for anything that kept his hands and his attention occupied. Because the second he stopped moving, he started thinking, and every thought led back to Gabriel. Every single one.

Across camp you weren't much different. You worked every shift available, took every patient, stayed longer than necessary, found reasons to be useful long after the necessary work was done. The two of you were doing the exact same thing. Just in different uniforms.

A few days later Jack was checking his gear when your voice cut through the quiet.

"You volunteered."

Not a question.

Jack didn't look up. "Yeah."

"You don't have to go."

"I'm going."

"You just got back."

He kept adjusting a strap that didn't need adjusting, checking a weapon he had already checked twice.

"Jack."

Nothing.

"Look at me."

Slowly he lifted his head, and the second he did he knew you could see straight through him. You always could. Not physically exhausted, not really. Something colder than that. Like part of him had shut down after Gabriel died and simply never bothered switching back on.

"Don't go," you said.

His jaw tightened. "It's a sweep."

"You volunteered." You stepped closer. "And you haven't rested properly in days."

He almost laughed. The irony would have been funny if it weren't so depressing. "You too."

A tired breath escaped you. "True." You folded your arms. "But if I pass out, at least there's a hospital bed waiting for me."

A small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, the first one in days. Then it disappeared, because the truth came out before he could stop it.

"To make sure nobody else ends up like Gabriel."

Silence settled between you. There it was. The thing he hadn't said out loud yet. The thing everybody already knew without needing it confirmed.

You stared at him. Then slowly closed the distance. "But what about soldiers like Jack Abbot?"

The question hit harder than he expected. For a second he couldn't answer, because the truth was ugly. The truth was that he hadn't thought about himself at all. Not since the explosion. Not since watching Gabriel die. Not since watching you cry.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. His eyes dropped away. "The day I signed up," he said, voice rough, "the day I got on that plane." A pause. "I stopped putting myself first."

You shook your head immediately. "No."

"Yeah."

"No." The anger in your voice surprised him. "You think Gabriel would've wanted this?"

Jack barked out a laugh with no humor in it at all. "Gabriel would've volunteered before me."

That hurt because it was true. Gabriel would have been first through the door, first on the helicopter, first running toward danger without a second thought. Which was exactly why he wasn't here anymore. The thought settled heavily between you.

"Jack."

He looked at you. Really looked. And suddenly you didn't seem angry anymore. Just tired. Heartbroken. Scared.

Your voice dropped, quiet and small and entirely honest. "I don't want you to go."

Something cracked inside his chest. The silence that followed felt endless.

Then you whispered, "Please stay."

Your eyes glistened. And for the first time since Gabriel died, Jack wanted to. God, he wanted to. If it had been anyone else asking he would have walked away without hesitation. But it wasn't anyone else. It was you.

For one terrible second he imagined dropping the bag. Telling command no. Staying. Choosing himself. Choosing you.

Instead he stepped forward, wrapped his arms around you, and pulled you close. The hug was brief and tight, the kind soldiers gave before deployment, the kind neither of you actually wanted but both needed anyway. His voice came low against your hair.

"I'll come back."

You closed your eyes. "This is weird."

He huffed softly. "What is?"

"The first time we haven't argued."

That finally earned a real chuckle, small and tired. "That means hell froze over."

You didn't laugh. Somehow that felt worse.

When you pulled back your eyes searched his face. "Promise me you'll come back in one piece."

Jack froze. Because he should have promised. He should have lied. He should have given you something, anything, to hold onto. Instead, "I won't promise that."

The hurt that flashed across your face followed him for weeks afterward.

He squeezed your shoulder once. Then picked up his gear and walked away. He didn't look back. Because he knew if he did, he wasn't leaving.

******

The location looked abandoned. A cluster of damaged buildings sat beneath the afternoon sun, broken walls, collapsed roofs, too quiet. Jack hated quiet. Quiet usually meant somebody was waiting.

The team moved carefully through the compound, weapons raised, eyes scanning every doorway, every window, every shadow. Jack's instincts were screaming. Something was wrong.

Then gunfire erupted. The first shots shattered the silence and soldiers dove for cover, more shots following in rapid succession until the entire compound dissolved into chaos.

"Contact left!"

"Move!"

Jack returned fire, called positions, directed movement as the team pushed forward. Then someone screamed.

He turned. One of the younger soldiers was down, hit, bleeding out fast. Without thinking he moved, exactly the way Gabriel would have, exactly the way Gabriel always had. He sprinted toward the soldier, dropped beside him, grabbed his vest, and started dragging him toward cover while bullets cracked overhead and concrete exploded somewhere close. Somebody was yelling. Jack barely heard them, because all he could think was not again, not another one, not today.

Then somebody shouted a warning.

Too late.

The world turned white.

The explosion hit with enough force to lift him off the ground entirely. Pain erupted everywhere at once. His ears rang, his vision blurred, the sky spun above him in a way that made no sense. For a second there was no sound at all. No gunfire, no shouting. Nothing. Just darkness.

And then a voice. Familiar. Terrified.

"Jack!"

The darkness shifted.

"Jack! Don't you dare leave me!"

Again. Closer. Louder.

"Jack!"

*********

PRESENT TIME

Jack woke up with a sharp inhale.

For a second he didn't know where he was. The darkness of his bedroom slowly replaced the battlefield, the walls and ceiling and silence settling into place where dust and gunfire had been a moment ago. Pittsburgh. His chest rose and fell heavily, sweat clinging to his skin, his heart hammering against his ribs while the phantom ringing from the explosion still echoed somewhere behind his ears.

He dragged a hand across his face. "Jesus Christ."

His head hurt. The familiar ache behind his eyes that only ever showed up after nightmares. Nightmares he hadn't had in years. He thought he'd buried that day, buried Gabriel, buried the explosion, buried your scream along with everything else.

Apparently not.

A sudden stab of pain shot through his prosthetic side and he tensed immediately. "Ugh." The ache spread upward, deep and persistent. His residual limb always acted up when the weather changed, or when stress got bad, or when old memories decided to crawl out of the grave uninvited. Today, apparently, checked every box at once.

"Fuck."

He sat on the edge of the bed for a minute, waiting it out. The pain didn't leave. He groaned and dropped backward onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling like it owed him an explanation.

He grabbed his phone from the nightstand.

Jack: Gonna take sick leave.

The reply came faster than expected.

Robby: You?

Jack snorted.

Jack: My leg hurts.

The three dots appeared immediately.

Robby: Say no more, brother.

Honestly, that was more than enough explanation. Jack tossed the phone onto his chest and closed his eyes again. Sleep wasn't happening. Neither was work.

At the Pitt, Robby took off his reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Abbot can't come in today."

Dana looked up from her chart. "That sudden?"

"His leg's acting up."

Her expression softened immediately. "Oh." A pause. "He should come here instead."

Robby raised an eyebrow.

Dana shrugged. "We literally have all the medicine."

Robby laughed. "I'll tell him."

"You should." She pointed toward the floor. "We're not letting him win Employee of the Month while sick at home."

"He has never once cared about Employee of the Month."

"Exactly my point."

Princess, who happened to be passing the desk at precisely the wrong moment, heard the entire exchange. Which was unfortunate for everyone involved. Her eyes widened and her phone appeared in her hand before either of them had finished the sentence.

Thirty seconds later, the Pitt group chat lit up.

Princess: 🚨 BREAKING NEWS 🚨

Princess: Dr. Abbot called in sick.

The three dots appeared instantly. Then another set. Then five more in quick succession.

Shen: impossible

Ellis: impossible

Javadi: impossible

Garcia: impossible

Princess: apparently his leg hurts

Shen: old man disease

Ellis: did he finally discover he's fifty

Garcia: he's not fifty

Shen: spiritually he is

Princess: should we send flowers

Ellis: send him a walker

Javadi: send him a retirement brochure

Across the hospital phones buzzed one after another in a chain reaction that spread faster than most actual trauma alerts. And just like that, the entire Pitt knew Jack Abbot had taken a sick day, which was somehow bigger news than anything that had happened in the trauma bay all week.

A few floors above the ER, you were in the middle of surgery.

The operating room was quiet except for the steady beep of monitors and the occasional request for instruments. Your focus was absolute. Scalpel. Suction. Clamp. Every movement precise, every decision deliberate.

Garcia stood across from you, assisting. For several minutes neither of you spoke. Then, casually, as if discussing the weather, "Abbot called in sick."

You didn't look up. Your eyes stayed on the surgical field. "Okay."

Garcia narrowed her eyes behind her mask. "He never calls in sick."

"Sounds like a personal achievement."

The scrub nurse bit back a smile. Garcia wasn't discouraged.

"His leg's acting up," she said.

Your hands kept moving, steady and controlled, exactly the same as before. Not a single hesitation. Nothing in your posture shifted at all.

Garcia glanced toward the anesthesiologist. The anesthesiologist looked at the circulating nurse. The circulating nurse shrugged. Nobody in that room could read you when you were operating, which was one of the many reasons you were good at this.

The surgery continued. Sutures, final checks, closure. A little while later you stepped away from the table.

"Good work, everyone."

The team began their post-op routine. You stripped off your gloves, then your gown. A few minutes later you stood at the scrub sink washing your hands. Garcia moved beside you and did the same. For a moment neither of you spoke. Water ran over your hands. You dried them carefully.

Then, finally, "I'll go out for a while."

Garcia didn't even try to hide her grin. "Yes, boss."

You shot her a look. It only made the grin wider.

She tilted her head. "You know his address?"

You looked at her slowly. A smirk pulled at the corner of your mouth. "I'm not that ignorant."

Garcia burst out laughing. "Oh my God."

You tossed the paper towel into the bin. "Don't start."

"Too late." She pointed at you. "You pretended not to care for an entire surgery."

"I didn't pretend anything."

"You absolutely did."

You started walking toward the door. Garcia called after you, "Tell him the Pitt survived without him."

Without turning around, you lifted a hand. "I'll let him know."

The second the door closed behind you, Garcia turned to the rest of the staff. "Told you."

The anesthesiologist sighed. "We all knew she was going."

The scrub nurse nodded. "Honestly, it would've been weirder if she didn't."

"By the way," the circulating nurse said, peeling off her own gloves, "did the Pitt make a bet on whether she'd go visit him?"

Garcia froze for a second. "Damn it. We're too late to join."

*******

Later, you showed up at his apartment.

Jack opened the door and went completely still. He hadn't been expecting anyone. Especially not you.

"You're supposed to be resting."

"I am."

"You look terrible."

"Thank you."

"You should moisturize."

"Get out."

He let you in anyway, and eventually he sat down on the couch with the particular care of someone managing pain he wasn't admitting to. You noticed him rubbing the stump absentmindedly, his thumb pressing into the same spot over and over.

"Still hurts?" you asked.

He shrugged. "Sometimes."

It was a lie. It hurt a lot, and you both knew it, but you didn't push. You sat down beside him without saying anything else and reached for his leg.

He let you.

You looked down at his leg. Hesitated. Then slowly reached for it.

Jack raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

"Checking."

"Checking?"

"Do you want my help or not?"

That shut him up.

Carefully you rested your hands against his leg. You weren't entirely sure what you were doing, not because you didn't understand the injury, you knew exactly what you were looking for and where the tension would be sitting. It was harder because this was Jack, and somehow that made every step of it feel different than it should.

Your fingers pressed lightly against the tight muscle along the residual limb, working slow circles into the spots where the strain had built up.

"Still hurts?" you asked.

"Sometimes," he admitted. "If I have the nightmares."

You didn't answer immediately.

Your fingers kept moving, carefully working through the tension gathered in the muscles.

"I should've bought you that bike the day we met."

You rolled your eyes. "I would've said no."

"No, you wouldn't have."

"I absolutely would have."

"You accepted one now."

"Because you're annoying."

"And persistent."

"Mostly annoying."

"And handsome."

You shook your head and kept massaging his leg, your fingers steady and methodical. Then, quieter, "I'm sorry I couldn't save it."

Jack looked at you for a long moment. The thought sat in his chest before he said it out loud. "Hey. I never blamed you. It wasn't your fault."

"I know. Still." You didn't look up from his leg. "In my head, every time I see you, there's a million different ways I run it back. Trying to make it work out differently."

He reached down and covered your hand with his, stopping the motion gently. "Hey," he said again, softer this time. "Look at me."

You did.

"You did everything right," he said. "I'm still here. I'm still standing. That's because of you, not in spite of you."

You held his gaze for a moment, and something in your chest loosened slightly, the old guilt shifting just enough to breathe around.

"You're still annoying," you said finally.

"I know." The corner of his mouth curved upward. "Mostly annoying. Handsome, too."

You scoffed.

"Didn't deny it, huh?"

Jack looked entirely too pleased with himself.

Like he'd just won an argument nobody else knew was happening.

****

FLASHBACK

The medic tent was chaos. Blood, dust, shouting. Stretchers coming in one after another faster than anyone could process them.

Then they brought in Jack.

For a second your heart stopped. His uniform was soaked through, dark and wet in a way that told you everything before you'd even looked at the wound. His face had gone pale, that particular gray that meant his body was already starting to shut down peripheral systems to protect the core. The lower half of his leg was barely recognizable.

You moved before you'd finished registering what you were looking at. Airway. Pulse. Blood pressure. You ran the checks the way your hands had been trained to, on autopilot, because the part of your brain that wanted to stand still and stare was not allowed in the room right now.

"You can't panic." Clark's voice cut through the noise beside you. "We need to save him."

"Yes, sir." Your voice came out steadier than you felt.

The next few minutes blurred into a single continuous motion. Assessment, medication, blood transfusion, everything moving faster than you could fully track. You worked the line, you called for supplies, you watched the monitor with one part of your brain while the other part screamed at you to look at his face, to confirm he was still in there.

Then came the leg.

You stared at the wound and then at the imaging once it came back, and you felt something in your chest go very still. The damage to the blood supply. The crush injury extending higher than you'd hoped. Tissue that had already started dying from lack of perfusion, the kind that didn't come back no matter how skilled the hands trying to save it were.

"No," you said.

Clark looked at you. "The leg lost the golden hour."

"There has to be another way." You said it too fast, the words tumbling out ahead of the part of you that already knew the answer.

"There isn't."

"There is." You pointed at the scan, at the section of tissue that was still pink, still arguably viable if you moved fast enough, if you were good enough, if the universe gave you one single break today. "We can try."

Clark's expression didn't change. "Kid."

"We can try." Your voice cracked slightly on the second word and you hated that it did.

"We're out of time." His voice hardened, not unkind, just final. "You know what this looks like as well as I do."

You looked down at Jack. Unconscious, pale, alive, the rise and fall of his chest the only thing in the room that mattered right now. Then back at the scan. Then back at him again, and your chest tightened so hard it was difficult to draw a full breath.

"There has to be something," you said, quieter now, the fight starting to drain out of the sentence even as you said it.

Clark was silent for a moment. Then, "Amputate."

You shook your head immediately. "No."

"Amputate."

"No." You said it again like saying it louder would change the anatomy in front of you. Like refusing hard enough could rebuild a blood supply that no longer existed.

For the first time Clark's voice hardened completely. "With or without you, this surgery happens. The only question is whether you're the one doing it."

The words landed harder than anything else in the room. Because suddenly it wasn't your decision to make at all. It never had been, not really, not once the tissue had died the way it had died. You had been arguing with biology and biology did not negotiate.

You looked at Jack again. Unconscious. Bleeding. Alive. You hated this. You hated the choice in front of you, hated that there even was a choice, hated that every version of this ended with you taking something from him that he hadn't agreed to lose. You hated, more than anything, that saving him meant losing part of him, and that you were the one who was going to have to be the hands that did it.

You closed your eyes. Took a breath. Then another, slower this time, the kind you used to talk yourself back into the work when your body wanted to fall apart and didn't have the time for it.

When you opened your eyes again the surgeon had come back online behind them, pushing the rest of you down where it couldn't interfere.

"Get him to surgery ," you said. What mattered right now is to keep his heart beating through the next hour.

If Jack Abbot was going to survive, you were going to be the one standing there when he did. Even if it meant being the one who had to take the leg to do it.

******

PRESENT TIME

Jack leaned back against the couch and let out a slow breath.

"The next thing I remember." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I woke up in the States."

You nodded. "You needed further treatment. That's why Clark sent you back."

Jack snorted. "Could've at least warned me." His gaze drifted toward the window, somewhere past it. "I wake up, look around, and suddenly I'm surrounded by strangers." A pause. "Didn't even know where the hell I was."

Then his eyes came back to you. Softer this time.

"At least—" He stopped.

You already knew where the sentence was going. At least there had been you. At least one familiar face. At least someone.

Your expression shifted before he could finish it. The teasing dropped away.

"I didn't know you were transferred," you said.

Jack frowned. "What?"

You looked down at your hands. The memory still sat uncomfortably even after all these years, a part of the story you hadn't told him because it had never felt necessary until right now.

"I found out afterward."

"What do you mean afterward?" His voice had gone careful.

You hesitated, then sighed. "I fainted."

Jack blinked. "You what?"

*******

FLASHBACK 

After Jack's surgery, something inside you broke.

You had saved his life. Everyone kept telling you that. But every time you looked at the empty space where his leg used to be, it didn't feel like a victory. It felt like a debt you'd paid with someone else's currency.

So you worked. One shift became two. Two became three. Patients came and went and you barely remembered their names, just the blood, the sutures, the next emergency, the next life. Because if you stopped moving, you'd think what you could’ve done to save Jack.

People started noticing. A medic quietly handed you water you forgot to drink. Someone told you to sit down and you didn't.

Then Clark found you.

You were halfway through another chart when his shadow fell over your shoulder.

"Get out."

You didn't look up. "I can still work."

"Get out."

"I'm fine."

"Get out before I ban you from this tent."

That made you look at him, because you knew he meant it. You stood, your body heavier than it should have been, and the moment you stepped outside the heat hit you like a wall. Two steps. Three. Then the world tilted sideways and the last thing you heard was someone shouting for a doctor.

When you woke up everything hurt. Your head, your neck, your pride. A canvas ceiling. An IV in your arm. The cot creaked when you shifted.

"Good. You're awake."

Clark sat nearby, arms crossed.

"How long was I out?"

"Two days."

"What?"

"Congratulations. You finally beat everyone else's record."

You stared at him. "Two days?"

"You collapsed. Your body decided to remind you that you're human, not a machine that runs on coffee and stubbornness."

You groaned, which made your headache worse. "How is he?"

Clark's expression shifted, just slightly. Enough that you sat up straighter.

"How is Jack?"

He rubbed his thumb against his palm, thinking before he answered. "You can't see him. I transferred him back to the States. He needs treatment we don't have here."

The words landed harder than you expected. "I didn't even get to say goodbye."

“It’s better this way.” Clark was quiet for a moment. Then, "Because I've seen soldiers like him before. He's drowning right now. No mission, no team, no leg. He doesn't know what his life looks like anymore."

"I could help him."

Clark studied you for a long moment, and something about it made you feel eighteen again, sitting in front of a commanding officer who saw straight through you.

"That," he said quietly, "is exactly what scares me."

"What does that mean?"

He leaned back. "Kid. You have a habit of trying to save everyone. You spend every day fighting death in that tent." His voice was gentle. "You don't need to turn a man into another project."

That hurt more than it should have. "I care about him."

"I know you do."

A beat passed. Then you muttered, "Did you separate us, because he's older than me?"

Clark sighed dramatically. "No." A pause. "Maybe a little."

You laughed despite yourself. "My parents have an age gap."

"Your parents met during peacetime." That shut you up, because he wasn't wrong. War changed people. Sometimes permanently. He looked out toward the camp. "And Abbot. War already took too much from him."

You thought about the nightmares, the exhaustion, the silence you'd already seen settle into him. "I could still help."

"And what happens if he leans too hard on you?" Clark asked. "What happens if you lose yourself trying to hold him together?"

You didn't have an answer.

Clark sighed, and for the first time he looked less like your commanding officer and more like family. "I already see you as my own kid," he said. "You're talented. Far too selfless for your own good. You fight the angel of death every day." A faint smile. "And somehow you keep making it wait."

"I don't know about that."

"I do. We all do." He leaned forward. "When this contract ends, what are you going to do?"

You shrugged. "Vacation. Therapy."

"Both good answers." He pointed at you. "I want you back in school. Another specialty."

"Me?"

"I'll write the kind of recommendation letter universities fight over."

"Why?"

He looked genuinely confused by the question. "Because someone with your talent shouldn't stop here. And because you saved my soldiers."

"It wasn't just me." You smiled faintly. "Abbot taught me a lot."

"He did." A grin. "He's the anchor of this unit. I'm still the leader though."

That earned a real laugh, the first one in days.

Months later, your contract ended. Your bags sat beside you on the tarmac, the transport plane waiting in the distance. The future felt wide open and uncertain in a way that made your chest tight.

Clark walked up beside you while you stared at the runway.

"Go out there," he said. "Travel. See the world." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Meet someone."

Your chest tightened immediately, because you already knew exactly who he meant.

He studied you for a moment. "If after all of that, you still think about him." A pause. "Then go see him."

The words hurt, but not because he was dismissing what you felt. The opposite. He was treating it like it mattered, like it might survive time, like it might survive everything you'd both been through.

Then he snapped his fingers. "Oh."

A soldier appeared behind him carrying a very familiar puppy. Your eyes went wide. "Riot?"

The puppy squirmed immediately, trying to reach you.

"Can I?"

Clark looked offended. "Of course."

The moment Riot landed in your arms he started licking your face, and you laughed for the first time in days. Clark watched with quiet satisfaction.

"Kid's already attached to you anyway," he said.

Riot barked happily, like he completely agreed.

***********

PRESENT TIME 

Jack stared at you for a second. Then groaned. "I'm gonna kill Clark."

You laughed. "He'll beat you first."

He looked genuinely offended. "You underestimate me?"

"He's eighty."

"Exactly."

You raised an eyebrow. "That's not helping your argument."

"It helps mine."

"You realize he could still throw you across a room?"

Jack thought about it for a second. Then sighed. "Yeah. Probably."

That earned another laugh from you, and the sound settled something warm in his chest. For a moment neither of you spoke. Then he leaned back against the couch and the amusement faded from his face.

"I blame him sometimes," he said.

You glanced over. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "But he had more experience than both of us." A pause. "And he was right."

You stayed quiet, letting him take his time with it.

Jack stared at the ceiling. "I pushed people away." His voice was calm. Too calm, the kind that only came from years of sitting with the same thought until it stopped hurting and started just being true. "I couldn't accept it." His hand rested unconsciously on his thigh, or where his thigh used to end. "I couldn't accept that I lost part of myself."

Your chest tightened. You remembered. The angry version of him. The distant one. The one everyone warned you about later, the one who shut doors before anyone could walk through them, who refused help, who disappeared into rehabilitation and therapy and silence and didn't come back out for a long time.

Jack let out a quiet huff of a laugh. "I was an asshole."

You smiled slightly. "A little."

"A little?"

"A lot."

"That's fair." The corner of his mouth twitched. Then his gaze drifted toward the coffee table, toward a frame sitting beside it.

You followed his eyes and froze.

The photograph. Old, slightly faded, taken with your Polaroid camera years ago. Gabriel in the middle, grinning like he owned the frame. Clark pretending to look annoyed. Riot small enough to fit under one arm. Jack looking irritated because he'd complained about pictures five seconds before it was taken. And you, laughing behind the camera, caught mid-motion in the background reflection of the tent's metal trunk.

"You still have that?" you asked.

Jack glanced at it and nodded. "Of course." His voice softened. "It was sent to me during therapy."

That made you look at him directly. He was already watching you, carefully, too carefully.

"Was it you?" he asked.

"What?"

"The nurse." His gaze didn't move from yours. "The one who gave it to her."

Your stomach dropped. "Oh."

He tilted his head. "I noticed things changed after that."

You looked away, suddenly very interested in absolutely nothing on the wall.

He kept going anyway. "My pain medication changed." Silence. "The grape juice disappeared." More silence. "They started giving me apple juice."

You pressed your lips together.

Jack almost smiled. "I hate grape juice."

"I know." The words escaped before you could stop them.

The room went quiet. His smile widened immediately. "Exactly."

You closed your eyes. Damn it. He had you.

"There were only a few people who knew that," he said, his voice gentle now, not teasing, not pushing, just warm. "You were one of them."

You bit the inside of your cheek and twisted your fingers together in your lap, because the apartment suddenly felt smaller, quieter, more intimate than it had five minutes ago.

Jack kept looking at you, patient, like he already knew the answer and was simply waiting for you to be ready to give it to him. Which, honestly, he probably did.

You finally sighed. "I left instructions."

His expression softened immediately. "You did."

********

FLASHBACK 

After you got back to the States, you secretly visited. Not once. Not twice. More times than you were willing to admit, even to yourself.

The rehabilitation center was almost an hour away from your apartment. You learned the route by memory. The receptionist eventually stopped asking questions. The nurses started recognizing you. But you never signed in as a visitor. Never walked into his room. Never knocked on the door.

You stayed where he couldn't see you. The hallway. The observation window. The corner near the physical therapy room. Close enough to know he was alive. Far enough to leave when it hurt too much.

And it always hurt.

The first time you saw him standing on the prosthetic, he fell. Hard. The therapist tried to help him up and Jack shoved the hand away immediately. You almost walked into the room. Almost. Instead you gripped the edge of the observation window until your knuckles went white.

The second time, he threw the prosthetic across the room. The metallic crash echoed down the hallway and several patients looked over. Jack didn't care. He sat there breathing hard, angry, humiliated, broken in a way you hadn't seen on him before. You left before he could see the tears in your eyes.

Another time you heard him yelling at a therapist through the door.

"Just leave me alone."

The therapist stayed calm. Jack got louder.

"I said leave me alone."

You froze outside the door, listening. Not because you wanted to. Because you couldn't make yourself walk away.

The therapist said something too quiet to hear. Jack laughed, a bitter, ugly sound that didn't sound like him at all.

"My friend's dead." Silence. "My leg's gone." Another silence. "So tell me exactly what I'm supposed to be positive about."

Your chest tightened, because suddenly it wasn't about the leg. Maybe it never had been. He wasn't fighting rehabilitation. He was fighting everything. Gabriel. The explosion. The future. The guilt. 

The realization followed you home that night, and every night after.

One afternoon you were standing in your usual spot outside the therapy room when a familiar voice appeared beside you.

"How long have you been standing here?"

You didn't need to look. Clark. Of course. That man noticed everything.

You kept your eyes on the glass. Said nothing.

Clark followed your gaze. Inside, Jack was practicing walking again. One step. Another. Another. The therapist beside him, ready to catch him if he fell.

"You come every week."

Still no answer.

Clark sighed. Not annoyed. Just tired, the kind that came from watching too many people hurt for too long.

"You're waiting for him to become himself again," he said quietly.

Your throat tightened, because he was right. That was exactly what you were doing. Waiting for the old Jack. The one before the explosion, before the funeral, before the nightmares. The Jack who laughed easier. The Jack who believed he could save everyone. The Jack who had two legs.

Silence stretched between you.

Then Clark said the thing you would remember for years.

"He won't."

Your breath caught. You finally looked at him. His expression wasn't cruel or cold. It was sad, because he understood exactly what he was taking from you by saying it.

"The old Jack is gone." He let that sit for a second. Then looked back toward the therapy room. "So is the old you."

That hurt even more, because he wasn't wrong. War had taken pieces from all of you. Gabriel was gone. Jack came back different. And somewhere along the way, without quite noticing it happening, you had changed too.

Clark folded his arms. "Staying here won't save him. He has to want to get better."

Inside the room Jack took another step. Then another. His jaw was clenched, his face pale with the effort of it, still fighting, still refusing to quit even when every part of him wanted to.

Clark watched him for a moment. Then looked back at you.

"And right now," he said, his voice softening, "that's a fight he has to win himself."

For the first time since the war ended, you didn't argue. Because deep down you already knew. You just weren't ready to let go yet.

"Leave," Clark said finally. "While he's fixing himself and fighting his own demons, you go fix yourself. Improve your skills. Become better than the version of you that's standing in this hallway right now."

You looked at him. "And just leave him?"

"Not forever." He held your gaze steadily. "One day, perhaps, the two of you could work together again. But not like this. Not you hiding in hallways and him throwing prosthetics across rooms. That's not a reunion. That's two people drowning next to each other and calling it support."

Something in that landed. You felt it settle, slow and certain, the way truth did when it finally arrived after you'd spent weeks circling it.

"I will," you said.

You stood, and before you could think too hard about it you leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to Clark's cheek. "I'll see you again, sir."

He crossed his arms, but something in his expression had gone soft around the edges. "Make me proud, kid."

************

PRESENT TIME

"You were there," Jack said, staring at you. "You were there, and I pushed everyone away so hard I didn't even realize it."

You looked down. "There wasn't much to realize."

He laughed quietly. "I thought I was alone."

"You were never alone."

His eyes lifted to yours. "Then why didn't I see you?"

You swallowed. "Because I was dealing with my own grief too."

The answer seemed to hit him harder than he expected. "Huh." A small smile appeared. "You were close." His voice softened. "I didn't know."

Then he rested his head against your shoulder. For once neither of you joked. Neither of you moved away. The silence felt comfortable, the kind that didn't need filling.

"You know," Jack said quietly, "Clark was right."

You raised an eyebrow. "That's a dangerous sentence."

"He'd love hearing that."

"He absolutely would."

Jack chuckled. Then his gaze lifted toward you at the same moment you looked down, and the conversation stopped without either of you deciding it should. Your faces were closer than either of you had realized, close enough to notice the tiredness still sitting in his eyes, close enough to notice where his gaze kept drifting.

The moment settled between you. Neither of you looked away. Neither of you moved.

Just a little closer. Just enough.

Then your phone rang.

Both of you blinked. Reality crashed back in at full volume. You looked at the screen. Emergency.

Jack sighed dramatically and dropped his head backward against the couch. "I hate this hospital."

You laughed, already standing. "I need to go."

For one brief second he wanted to ask you not to. Just stay. Five more minutes. Ten. An hour. Anything. But he knew better, because this was you, and you would never ignore a patient for anything, least of all him.

So instead he nodded. "Go."

You stood and reached for your bag. Then Jack suddenly held out a key.

You frowned. "What's that?"

"My house key."

You stared at him. "Your house key?"

He shrugged, trying very hard to look casual about it. "My leg still hurts."

"Uh-huh."

"I need someone to check on me."

"Uh-huh."

"In case I fall asleep and can't open the door."

You narrowed your eyes. "That is the worst excuse I have ever heard."

"It got you to take the key."

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then pointed at him. "You are impossible."

"And yet you're taking it."

With a sigh you slipped the key into your pocket. "I'll give it back."

"No rush." The corner of his mouth lifted.

Your pager buzzed again. You headed for the door.

"Try not to die," you said.

Jack scoffed. "Pretty sure that's your job."

You shook your head and left.

The apartment fell quiet. Jack stared at the closed door for a moment, then at the empty spot beside him on the couch where you'd been sitting a minute ago.

A slow smile appeared.

Because for the first time in a very long time, when you left, he knew you were coming back.

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[noah-wyles]

some of my favourite photos for noah wyle's 55th birthday

[langdonwelldone]

He literally took magazine in The Pitt

Model Papa Robby

source

[paigepie213]

A Triangle - Dr. Robby x Female Reader x John Carter

Request - i love your writings and maybe it's weird but i would like to read a a love triangle about robby, john carter and the reader. i need passion, lust, strongs emotions like jelousy

here we go lol… 🫶

Masterlist

*******************************************************

By the time noon rolled around, you had already been awake for nearly twenty-eight hours. Three traumas, two codes, one drunk with a screwdriver sticking out of his shoulder, and an endless parade of chest pain had left the emergency department running on caffeine and spite. Which was precisely why, when you finally escaped to the cafeteria with your food tray balanced on one hand, seeing John Carter waving you over felt like finding an oasis in the middle of a desert.

“Surgery’s finest,” he announced grandly, standing from his chair and offering an exaggerated bow. “Doctor Carter humbly requests the presence of the prettiest resident in Pittsburgh.”

You laughed immediately. Not because the line was particularly smooth. It wasn’t. John Carter had all the grace of an overgrown Labrador retriever. But he was cute. Younger than you by a year, handsome in that unfair movie-star sort of way, and so endlessly enthusiastic about life that being around him felt like standing in sunshine.

“You’ve been spending too much time with plastics,” you informed him.

“Untrue. Plastics are nowhere near this charming.”

“John.”

“You wound me.” His grin widened when you sat down opposite him. “You know, I had money on you murdering one of your interns today.”

“They survived.”

“Barely.”

“They touched my coffee.”

He gasped dramatically.

“Animals.”

You burst out laughing. Real laughter. Not the polite kind. Not the tired, burned-out chuckle you’d mastered over the years. No. This was head-back, snorting, nearly choking on your sandwich laughter. John practically beamed.

“That’s a nice sound.”

“What is?”

“The girl who laughs. You spend too much time with Robinavich.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“The man is all brooding eyes and emotional repression. I swear, every time I see him, I want to hand him a puppy.”

You laughed again.

“Robby doesn’t need a puppy.”

“Everyone needs a puppy.”

“He’d lecture the puppy.”

“He’d scare the puppy.”

“He’d make the puppy fill out discharge paperwork.”

John’s smile brightened.

“And then he’d secretly love the puppy.”

That stopped you. Because somehow, absurdly, he was right. Dr. Michael Robinavich was impossible. Fifty -ish years old and somehow even more intimidating than when you’d met him during intern year. Chief Attending. Brilliant. Gruff. Demanding. Beautiful. You hated yourself a little for that last thought. But there was no denying it.

Not when you’d spent four years under him. Not when those dark eyes could pin you to the spot during rounds. Not when his deep voice somehow managed to make every order sound like a command. Not when you’d caught yourself wondering more than once what he looked like when he smiled. Not his rare amused smirk. A real smile. John snapped his fingers in front of your face.

“You disappeared.”

“Hm?”

“You did the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The Robinavich stare.”

“I do not have a Robinavich stare.”

“You absolutely do.”

He leaned forward conspiratorially.

“You know he scares me.”

You snorted.

“He scares everyone.”

“Not you.”

“He scares me.”

“No. You two argue.”

“Because I’m right.”

John pointed.

“See? Nobody argues with Chief Broody.”

“You call him that to his face.”

“I enjoy living.”

You shook your head, smiling.

“And besides,” John continued, “I’m smart enough to know that if Robinavich ever murdered me, you’d help him bury the body.”

You nearly spit out your drink.

“I absolutely would not.”

“Liar.”

“I’d at least call an attorney.”

“See? You care.”

He was looking at you with that easy affection again. Not heavy. Not overwhelming. Just…sweet.

John Carter liked you. You’d known that for months. Everyone had. Half the surgical floor had started calling him your shadow. Even Langdon had teased him mercilessly. And honestly? You liked him too.

He was fun. He made you laugh. He talked about backpacking through Europe and surfing in Australia and skiing in Switzerland with the same excitement other people reserved for Christmas morning. John Carter was easy. There wasn’t a complicated bone in his body. And after years of medicine, maybe easy wasn’t such a terrible thing.

“So,” he said casually. “Question.”

“Dangerous.”

“I know.” He flashed that smile again. “Dinner?”

You froze. John immediately raised both hands.

“Not like weird dinner.”

“There’s normal dinner?”

“I don’t know. People are weird.”

You laughed.

“I’ll think about it.”

His face lit up.

“You didn’t say no.”

“I didn’t say yes.”

“Progress.”

“You are ridiculous.”

“You adore me.”

“I tolerate you.”

“Same thing.”

“You are painfully spoiled.”

“True.”

“Arrogant.”

“Also true.”

“Hopelessly flirtatious.”

“Guilty.”

“And—”

“Doctor Carter.”

The voice came from behind you. Deep. Calm. And suddenly every muscle in your body stiffened. John’s grin vanished. Slowly, you turned.

Dr. Michael Robinavich stood there. God. How did the man make black scrubs look unfair? His dark hair had silver at the temples now, his expression tired after twenty-four hours, his reading glasses hanging from the collar of his shirt. Yet somehow he still looked devastating. And entirely unimpressed.

“Dr. Robinavich,” John greeted brightly.

“Doctor Carter.”

Robby’s eyes shifted to you. And something strange happened in your stomach. Not butterflies. Something heavier. Warmer. More dangerous.

“Doctor Y/L/N.”

You swallowed.

“Hi.”

“Trauma two.”

Your smile faded.

“Now?”

“Preferably before the patient dies.”

John sighed.

“Honestly, Robinavich, have you considered manners?”

“No.”

“Or joy?”

“No.”

“Or sunlight?”

“No.”

John looked at you.

“See what I deal with?”

Robby’s gaze never left yours.

“Doctor.”

The title. Not your first name. Not sweetheart, obviously. Not anything personal. Professional. Controlled. But somehow, that dark stare lingered a second longer than necessary. And you felt it. Lord, you felt it. John stood.

“Fine. Go save lives.”

He leaned down, speaking quietly near your ear.

“Remember dinner.”

You smiled.

“I said I’d think about it.”

“I’ll take it.”

Robby’s jaw tightened. So slightly you almost missed it. Almost. But you’d spent four years learning his moods. Learning the tiny signs. The muscle jumping in his cheek. The narrowing of his eyes. The silence.

Oh. Oh. Interesting.

John squeezed your shoulder.

“Later, beautiful.”

And then he disappeared. Leaving you standing beside Robby. Silence stretched.

“Beautiful?” Robby repeated flatly.

You blinked.

“What?”

“Carter called you beautiful.”

You fought a smile.

“He does that.”

“He does?”

There was no emotion in his voice. Which was somehow worse.

“He likes me.”

“I gathered.”

You picked up your tray.

“And?”

“And nothing.” But his eyes darkened. “You coming, Doctor, or are we waiting for Carter to write you poetry?”

You almost laughed. Was that? No. Impossible. Dr. Michael Robinavich did not get jealous. He was fifty years old. Chief of the emergency department. A legend. A man who frightened administrators and surgeons alike.

He certainly did not care about John Carter calling you beautiful. Except… As the two of you walked toward the elevators, shoulder brushing shoulder, you noticed Robby was unusually quiet. And when Dana stepped aside to let him pass, she caught your eye and smiled knowingly.

Because nurses knew everything. Especially Dana. And Dana, watching the two of you disappear toward Trauma Two, leaned toward Collins at the desk and muttered quietly,

“Oh, this is going to be fun.”

******

2:13 a.m.

Nobody talked after losing a child. Not really. People tried. Nurses whispered. Residents buried themselves in charting. Respiratory therapy quietly cleaned equipment. But everyone moved softer afterward. Quieter.

Because there wasn’t a single person in the emergency department who didn’t feel it. Especially you. He’d been six years old. Blond hair. Blue dinosaur pajamas. And despite thirty-seven minutes of everything modern medicine could throw at him, he’d died with his mother’s cries echoing down the hallway.

You’d held it together. In the room. During the code. During the conversation with his parents. You’d even managed to get through sign-out. But now, at two-thirteen in the morning, sitting alone in the charting room with the lights dimmed and tears silently running down your face, you couldn’t do it anymore.

You hated yourself for it. Fourth-year resident. Senior resident. Supposed to be tough. Supposed to be composed. Instead, your hand shook over the keyboard. The chart blurred. And a tear dropped onto the screen.

“Hey.”

His voice. Low. Gentle. You quickly wiped your eyes.

“I’m fine.”

Dr. Michael Robinavich stood in the doorway. The man everyone feared. The man who’d somehow become the safest person you’d ever known. His dark hair was a mess. There were circles under his eyes. And his own grief sat heavily in his expression.

“No, you’re not.”

You laughed weakly.

“Neither are you.”

“No.”

The answer came immediately. Honest. No walls. No pretending. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Neither of you spoke.

Because there wasn’t anything to say. You just sat there. And he just stood there.

Until finally you whispered, “I hate this job.”

His eyes softened.

“No, you don’t.”

“I do tonight.”

“That’s fair.”

“He was six.”

“I know.”

“He liked dinosaurs.”

“I know.”

“He was scared.”

His jaw tightened.

“I know.”

You finally looked at him. And that was your mistake. Because Robby looked devastated. Not Chief Robinavich. Not the attending. Not the legend. Just Robby. Tired. Sad. Human. And somehow that broke you more than anything else. The tears came harder.

“I couldn’t save him.”

“No, you couldn’t.”

“I did everything right.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Then why—”

He crossed the room immediately. Not hesitating. Not thinking. His hands came to your shoulders.

“Because life is cruel sometimes.”

Your voice cracked.

“I hate that.”

“So do I.”

“I hate seeing parents scream.”

“So do I.”

“I hate that you know exactly what I’m feeling.”

That earned the smallest smile.

“Been doing this a long time Y/N.”

And then you were crying against him. Not dramatically. Not elegantly. Just exhausted and heartbroken and tired. His arms wrapped around you instantly. As though they’d always belonged there.

One hand cradled the back of your head. The other rubbed slow circles over your spine. And suddenly you were just twenty-nine years old again.

Not Doctor. Not Senior Resident. Just you. Being held. Being safe.

“Robby.”

The name slipped out quietly. Not Chief. Not Doctor Robinavich. Robby. His breath caught. Ever so slightly. But he didn’t correct you. Instead, he rested his cheek against your hair.

And whispered softly, “I’m here.”

God. That voice. You’d followed that voice through traumas and disasters and impossible nights for four years. And somehow hearing it now nearly undid you.

“I’m tired.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t want to chart.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t want to do this tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“And you’re just going to keep saying that, aren’t you?”

His mouth twitched.

“Probably.”

You laughed through tears. And suddenly he smiled. Really smiled. Not the little smirk. Not amusement. A genuine smile. And your heart stopped. Because you’d wondered. God, you’d wondered. What it looked like. What it would feel like. What it would taste like. And now you knew. It was devastating. Beautiful. Warm. And entirely too intimate for your own good.

“Remember to do that,” he murmured.

“What?”

“Laugh.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“You disappear after pediatric deaths.” His thumb brushed your cheek, wiping away another tear. “And then eventually you come back.”

Your breath caught. Because his hand hadn’t moved. Because he was looking at you. Really looking at you. Not his resident. Not another physician. Not professionally.

And suddenly the room felt very small. Very quiet. Very dangerous. His eyes dropped to your lips. And stayed there. For just a second. Then another. Neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed.

“Robby…”

His eyes closed. God. Like your voice hurt him.

“We shouldn’t.”

“No.”

“No.”

But neither of you stepped away. You were too tired. Too heartbroken. Too honest. And perhaps too in love with each other to pretend anymore. His forehead rested against yours.

“You’re my resident.”

“Five months left.”

“I’m too old for you.”

You laughed softly.

“No you’re not.”

“There’s like…two decades between us.”

“I know math.”

His mouth twitched.

“You should run screaming.”

“Probably.”

“I am emotionally unavailable.”

“Terrible bedside manner.”

“Difficult.”

“Bossy.” You laughed. “Old.”

“Watch it.”

That made you smile. And God. The look on his face. Like he’d spent years denying himself this. Years. As though wanting you had become its own punishment.

“You deserve someone younger.”

“Like John Carter?” you whispered teasingly.

And for the first time in your life, for the very first time, you saw jealousy on Dr. Michael Robinavich.

His eyes darkened. Not angry. Not cruel. Jealous. And it hit you like a freight train.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“You’re jealous.”

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I’m fifty years old.”

“Which means you should know when you’re jealous.”

His eyes narrowed.

“You spent an hour laughing with him.”

You stared. Then slowly smiled.

“Robby.”

Immediately, he regretted saying it. You saw it. Saw him trying to retreat. Trying to put the walls back up. Trying to become Chief Robinavich again.

“I’m tired,” he muttered.

“We both are.”

“Forget I said anything.”

“No.”

His eyes met yours again. And there it was. Four years. Four years of glances. Four years of teaching. Four years of standing shoulder-to-shoulder through the worst days imaginable. And somehow, impossibly, it had become this.

Whatever this was. His hand came to your face again. And this time neither of you stopped him. His voice dropped low.

“So help me God…”

Your heartbeat thundered.

“What?”

“I have thought about kissing you for four years.”

Your breath vanished.

“Robby…”

“And I know better.”

“Do you?”

His eyes searched yours. Looking for hesitation. Looking for fear. Finding neither. And then, He kissed you. Not with urgency. Not with recklessness. But with four years of restraint and longing and affection wrapped into one impossible moment.

And the world stopped. His hand held your cheek. Yours curled against his chest. And suddenly all the grief and exhaustion and sadness of the night faded beneath the quiet certainty of him. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours again. And neither of you spoke. Because neither of you trusted yourselves.

The door burst open. Jack Abbott froze. You froze. Robby froze. Jack blinked. Looked at you. Looked at Robby. Looked back at you. And then the bastard grinned.

“Oh, thank God.”

Robby groaned. You covered your face. And Jack leaned against the doorway laughing.

“FOUR YEARS.”

“Jack—”

“FOUR YEARS, MICHAEL.”

“Get out.”

“Dana owes me fifty bucks.”

“Jack.”

“And Whitaker owes me dinner.”

“JACK.”

Still laughing, he backed out.

“I’ll be outside. Take your time. Maybe discuss your feelings. Jesus Christ, you two are exhausting.”

The door shut again. Silence. And then, To your complete astonishment, Dr. Michael Robinavich buried his face against your shoulder and laughed. Actually laughed. Warm. Deep. Beautiful. And you realized then that somehow, somewhere between traumas and terrible nights and impossible losses…

You had fallen hopelessly in love with him. And judging by the way his arms tightened around you…he’d fallen first.

******

Three days after two-thirteen in the morning, you still hadn’t recovered. Not from the loss. Not from the kiss. And certainly not from Dr. Michael Robinavich.

Because somehow the man had become worse. Or better. Depending on how one defined torture. He touched your shoulder more often now. Nothing inappropriate. Nothing anyone would notice. Just little things.

His hand brushing your back as he squeezed past you in Trauma One. His fingers grazing yours when he handed you an X-ray. Standing close enough during rounds that you could smell his aftershave and coffee.

And the looks. God. The looks. Four years of restraint had apparently been the only thing protecting your sanity because now every glance felt loaded. Heavy. Romantic. Hungry.

Not physically. Emotionally. As though every time he looked at you, he was thinking too much. Feeling too much. And neither of you had spoken about that night. Not once. Until forty-eight hours later. You’d been finishing discharge paperwork when he’d quietly appeared beside your desk.

“Coffee.”

You looked up. Blinking. And there he stood. Chief Robinavich. Holding out your favorite order. Exactly right. You stared.

“Robby.”

“I was getting one.”

“You hate caramel.”

His mouth twitched.

“Turns out I don’t.”

“Liar.”

His eyes softened.

“Drink your coffee, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. Your breath stopped. Because he’d never called you that before. Never. Not once in four years. And suddenly the entire nurses’ station had become too small. Too warm. Too dangerous.

Dana nearly fell out of her chair. Whitaker choked on his water. Jack Abbott looked ready to ascend directly into heaven. But Robby? Robby simply touched your shoulder. That warm hand. That devastatingly gentle touch. And walked away.

Leaving you completely ruined. Which was precisely why agreeing to dinner with John Carter felt like the sane thing to do. John was simple. Easy. Safe. And after Michael Robinavich, safe sounded wonderful.

******

“You look ridiculous.”

John grinned from beside his Porsche.

“You wound me.”

“No, seriously. Who owns a car like that?”

“My father.”

“Of course.”

He laughed.

“It’s borrowed.”

“You borrowed a Porsche?”

“Perks of being the disappointing son.”

You smiled despite yourself. Because that was John. He said things like that with a smile. Like they didn’t hurt. Like losing his brother at sixteen and growing up with distant parents had somehow become punchlines instead of wounds.

You understood people like that. People who smiled too much. People who laughed when things hurt. John opened your door.

“Milady.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Yet handsome.”

“Debatable.”

“Hurtful.”

And just like that, you were laughing again. The restaurant was beautiful. White tablecloths. Candlelight.nWine you couldn’t pronounce.nYou immediately felt underdressed. John, meanwhile, looked perfectly at home. His suit jacket was draped over the chair. His tie loosened. His smile bright and easy.

“Relax.”

“I hate places like this.”

“You hate everything fancy.”

“I like tacos.”

“That’s because you’re Midwestern.”

“I’m from Pittsburgh.”

“Exactly.”

He laughed. And somehow you spent three hours talking. Not awkwardly. Not politely. Just…Talking. About medicine. About travel. About life.

John had stories for everything. Skiing in Switzerland. Backpacking through Italy. Swimming in Australia. Working in Kenya. Meeting royalty in England. It sounded absurd. And fascinating.

“You’ve lived ten lives.”

“Twelve.”

“Twelve?”

“I forgot Iceland.”

You shook your head.

“You are ridiculous.”

He smiled.

“And you’re cute when you’re impressed.”

You rolled your eyes. But you smiled. Because John was fun. And because he looked at you like you were magic. Not because you were brilliant. Not because you were a senior resident. Just because you were you. And maybe that mattered.

The conversation shifted. Naturally. Quietly. Until suddenly he wasn’t smiling anymore.

“My brother would’ve liked you.”

You blinked.

“What?”

He looked down into his wine. The humor disappeared. Completely. And for the first time, you saw it. Not the sunshine. Not the charm. Not the trust fund baby everyone teased. Just John. Lonely. Sad. Still carrying a ghost.

“He was fourteen.”

His voice softened.

“Car accident.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.”

He smiled weakly.

“My parents never recovered.”

His fingers played with the stem of his glass.

“They just…left.”

Not physically. Emotionally. You knew exactly what he meant.

“Money was easier.”

He laughed quietly.

“Turns out Europe and private schools aren’t substitutes for parents.”

Your heart hurt. Because suddenly you understood. John Carter wasn’t easy. He just hid things better. And perhaps loneliness recognized loneliness.

“I think he would’ve loved you.”

You smiled.

“You don’t know that.”

“No.”

His eyes met yours.

“But I know me.”

And there was so much sincerity there. So much goodness. And for a moment you thought…Maybe. Maybe this could work.

He walked you home. Not because he had to. Because he wanted to. The summer air was warm. His jacket sat over your shoulders. And he told you stories all the way to your front porch. About skiing badly. About learning French for a girl who dumped him. About sneaking beers into boarding school. About his brother teaching him to throw a baseball.

You laughed. You smiled. And somewhere in the middle of all of it, you genuinely liked him. Perhaps not with the all-consuming gravity that was Michael Robinavich. But with affection. With possibility. And standing beneath the porch light, John smiled.

“Best first date?”

“Top five.”

He gasped.

“Top five?”

“Maybe top three.”

“Unacceptable.”

And then he kissed you. Softly. Sweetly. The kind of kiss that made you smile into it. Not demanding. Not consuming. Just kind. And when he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours.

“Can I come in?”

Your breath caught. Because suddenly another face appeared. Dark eyes. Silver at his temples. Strong hands. That deep voice.

Sweetheart.

Drink your coffee, sweetheart.

The memory alone made your heart stumble. John saw your hesitation. Immediately. And to his credit, he smiled.

“No pressure.”

“John—”

“No, really.”

His thumb brushed your cheek.

“I like you. A lot.”

His grin returned.

“And I’m charming.”

“Debatable.”

“Wildly charming.”

You laughed. And because he was sweet. Because he was kind. Because you wanted to try, You nodded.

“Okay.”

His smile lit up the entire street.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

An hour later, you sat together on the couch. Shoes kicked off. Movie forgotten. John talking animatedly about New Zealand. And you were smiling. Really smiling. Because this was nice.

Normal. Good.Until your phone buzzed. You glanced down. And your entire body froze.

One message. Three words. From Michael Robinavich.

You okay, sweetheart?

That’s all. Nothing else. But somehow your pulse quickened. John noticed immediately.

“Everything okay?”

You looked up. And suddenly guilt hit you. Because sitting beside one good man…You were thinking about another. And not just another. The man whose voice still lived in your bones. The man who looked at you like loving you was something sacred. The man who’d spent four years denying himself. The man who bought coffee he hated because you loved it.

And before you even realized it, You were smiling. Not at John. At your phone. At him.

John noticed.nAnd though he didn’t say a word, something sad flickered in his eyes.nBecause John Carter was many things.nBut he wasn’t stupid. And somewhere across Pittsburgh, sitting alone in his study with his reading glasses on and half-finished charts in front of him…

Dr. Michael Robinavich stared at his phone. Waiting. Wondering. And hating himself for doing both.

******

Molly’s was exactly the sort of place emergency department people loved. Sticky tables. Terrible lighting. Cheap beer. Questionable music. And absolutely no one judging the exhausted collection of physicians, nurses, techs, and respiratory therapists who had just spent twelve hours putting humanity back together.

Whitaker was telling a story. Jack was exaggerating something. Dana was laughing loud enough to draw attention from the entire bar. And somehow, despite yourself, you felt lighter. John Carter had texted you earlier.

Pizza next time. No white tablecloths.

Complete with three pizza emojis and a smiley face. You’d laughed. Because John Carter was sweet. Because John Carter made things easy. And because, despite the strange ache in your chest whenever Michael Robinavich walked into a room, you genuinely liked John. Which was why you hated yourself.

Because sitting two barstools away, his long legs stretched beneath the table, dark hair slightly mussed after shift, was the reason your heart still skipped.

He wasn’t saying much. Just nursing his beer. Listening. Occasionally smiling. And every now and then looking at you. Not openly. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But enough.

Enough to make your pulse jump. Enough to make Dana smile into her drink. Enough to make Jack look ready to sell tickets. Eventually, Whitaker checked his phone.

“Oh hell.”

“What?” Jack asked.

“Amy.” His face softened immediately. “I promised I’d pick her up.”

Jack groaned.

“Disgusting.”

Whitaker grinned.

“Love you too.”

He clapped Robby on the shoulder.

“See you tomorrow, boss.”

And then he was gone. Jack lasted another twenty minutes before Dana practically dragged him away.

“You promised me tacos.”

Jack pointed at you and Robby.

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

Dana smacked him.

“Stop embarrassing yourself.”

“I’m embarrassing myself? Have you met these two?”

Robby sighed.

“Jack.”

“I’m leaving.”

Jack stood. Then pointed at both of you.

“But if you idiots finally do the deed, I want details.”

“OUT.”

Jack laughed himself all the way out the door.nAnd suddenly it was quiet. Just the two of you. For the first time all evening. The jukebox played softly. People laughed in the background. And Robby took a drink of his beer.

“Peace.”

You smiled.

“Feels weird.”

“It does.”

Neither of you moved. Neither of you seemed eager to leave. Because for four years you’d stolen moments. Coffee. Charting. Rounds. Elevators.

Now you sat across from each other. And there was no patient. No chart. No excuse. Just him. Just you. And something impossibly tender growing between you.

“You know,” you said.

“Hm?”

“I had dinner with John.”

His expression remained neutral. Too neutral.

“Dana informed me.”

You laughed.

“Of course she did.”

“Dana knows everything.”

“She’s terrifying.”

“Agreed.”

You smiled into your drink.

“It was nice.”

Robby nodded.

“I’m glad.”

“You don’t sound glad.”

“I’m fifty years old.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I know how to lie better.”

You blinked. And he smiled. Actually smiled. The corners of his eyes crinkling. God. You loved that smile.

“I am glad,” he admitted softly. “But I also dislike him on principle.”

You laughed.

“Poor John.”

“He’ll recover.”

“He likes me.”

“I gathered.”

“He asked me out again.”

The words slipped out. And immediately you saw it. The change. Tiny. But there. His jaw tightened. His eyes darkened.nThe beer bottle paused halfway to his mouth.

“Oh.”

You nearly smiled.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

“Robby.”

“Fine.”

You bit back laughter.

“No, you’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“Robby.”

He exhaled heavily.

“Sweetheart, the man’s twelve years old.”

“He’s thirty-three.”

“He still says ‘bro’ unironically.”

You burst out laughing.

“He does.”

“He wears loafers without socks.”

“He does.”

“He drives a Porsche.”

“He borrowed a Porsche.”

“Even worse.”

You laughed harder. And despite himself, Robby smiled.

“You are impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. And God. There was so much affection in his eyes. Too much. Enough to make your heart ache.

“You deserve easy.” His voice was quiet. “You deserve laughter.”

“You make me laugh.”

His eyebrow rose.

“I terrify residents.”

“Not me.”

“I have terrible hobbies.”

“What hobbies?”

“Exactly.”

You grinned.

“You read trauma journals for fun.”

“They’re riveting.”

“You are such an old man.”

His smile widened.

“I know.”

And then, quietly, he asked, “Was I your first kiss in a while?”

You had two beers. Which was enough. Enough to make honesty easier. Enough to make courage appear.

“No.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“No?”

You looked at him. Eyes heavy. Heart full.

“No.”

The silence stretched.

And then softly, “Who?”

Robby’s voice was deeper now. Rougher. Dangerously calm. And perhaps it was the beer. Perhaps it was exhaustion. Or perhaps you were tired of pretending. You smiled.

“Guys my age can’t kiss worth a damn.”

He blinked. Then actually laughed.

“What?”

“It’s true.”

“You’ve conducted studies?”

“Extensive research.”

“God help me.”

You smiled.

“So who exactly are these disappointing young men?”

You leaned your cheek against your hand.

“John.”

His expression changed immediately.

“John.”

“Mm.”

He stared. And you almost laughed at how offended he looked.

“John Carter?”

“Yes.”

“The child.”

“Robby.”

“He says bro.”

“He does say bro.”

“He owns white jeans.”

“He does not own white—”

“He absolutely owns white jeans.”

You were laughing now. And Robby? Robby looked genuinely irritated. Which only made it better.

“He kissed you?”

“You seem stuck on that.”

His eyes met yours. And suddenly the teasing disappeared. The smile faded. And there it was again. Heavy. Romantic. Loaded.

“He kissed you,” he repeated softly.

The way he said it. God. Not angry. Not possessive. Hurt. As though he’d missed something precious. As though he’d lost something. Your smile faded too.

“Robby…”

He looked away.

“I’m too old.”

“You’re not.”

“Sweetheart—”

“You’re not.”

“I’m your boss.”

“Not forever.”

“You deserve—”

“Stop deciding what I deserve.”

His eyes snapped back to yours. And for one terrifying moment you thought he might finally say it. But he didn’t. Because he was Michael Robinavich. He loved carefully. He loved deeply. And he was afraid.

“I can’t.”

You stared at him. And something sad settled inside you. Because you’d given him chances. Because you’d kissed him. Because you’d waited. And still, He couldn’t. So you stood.

“Okay.”

His eyes widened.

“Wait—”

“It’s okay.”

“No.”

“Robby, it is.”

Pain flashed across his face. Real pain. And it nearly undid you. But he couldn’t ask you to wait forever.

Outside, the air was cool.The city lights glowed. And he walked beside you. Because of course he did. Always. Silent. Steady. Protective. When you reached the corner where your paths separated, he stopped.

“Text me when you get home.”

You looked up. There he was. Silver at his temples. Beautiful eyes. The man who’d held you after tragedy. The man who bought coffee he hated. The man who loved so fiercely he was terrified of it.

“Robby.”

“Text me.”

You smiled sadly.

“You always say that.”

“Because I worry.”

“About everyone?”

“No.”

The answer came instantly. And his voice was rough.

“Not everyone.”

Your heart stumbled. He knew it. You knew it.

“Just…you.”

Something inside you snapped. Not angrily. Not cruelly. Just tired. So tired. You stepped closer. His breathing stopped.

“Don’t.”

“I know.”

“We shouldn’t.”

“I know.”

His eyes closed. And when they opened again, there was no Chief Attending Robinavich. No walls. No excuses. Just Michael. The man. The one who looked at you as though loving you hurt.

So you reached up. And kissed him. Once. Deeply. Tenderly. Everything you’d wanted to say wrapped into one kiss. And when you finally pulled back, He looked destroyed. Completely. Beautifully destroyed. His forehead touched yours. And his voice cracked.

“Oh sweetheart…”

Not desire. Not hunger. Something far worse. Love. And suddenly his arms wrapped around you. Holding you close. Holding you like he’d been denying himself this for years. Because he had.

His lips brushed your forehead. Then your temple.

And finally he whispered into your hair, “Come home with me.”

Not my bed. Not tonight. Not anything selfish. Home. And something about that word nearly made you cry. Because somehow, impossibly, you knew exactly which home he meant.

******

Three days.

Three blissful, confusing, wonderful days. Three days since you’d woken up tangled in Michael Robinavich’s sheets with the early morning sun spilling through the curtains and the smell of coffee drifting from somewhere in his apartment. Three days since you’d discovered the Chief Attending of the emergency department slept on his stomach, stole blankets, and mumbled nonsense when he was barely awake. Three days since he’d wrapped an arm around your waist and buried his face against your shoulder with a sleepy groan. Three days since he’d murmured against your skin.

“Five more minutes, sweetheart.”

And somehow that memory had ruined you more than anything else. Not the kisses. Not waking up beside him. Not even the tenderness.

No. It was the softness. The gentleness. The fact that Michael Robinavich loved quietly. Deeply. Completely. And yet, he hadn’t asked. Not really. No conversation. No labels.

No “you’re mine.”

No “be with me.”

Nothing. And maybe that was unfair. Because neither had you. But somewhere between his fears and your hopes, neither of you had actually stepped forward. Which was why guilt sat in your stomach when John Carter texted.

Pizza. No white tablecloths. Promise.

And because John deserved honesty. Because John deserved kindness. Because John deserved more than silence. You agreed.

“You know,” John said, stealing one of your fries. “I think this is a much better date.”

“It is.”

“No seventeen forks.”

“No seventeen forks.”

“No tiny portions.”

“No tiny portions.”

“No French waiters judging me.”

“They were Italian.”

“They judged me in Italian.”

You laughed. And God. John smiled. Because he loved that sound. You knew he did. And it made your heart ache. Because he really was wonderful. Kind. Funny. Bright. A little spoiled. But good. Very good.

“You know what your problem is?” he asked.

“What?”

“You think too much.”

“Says the man who went skydiving in New Zealand.”

“I was twenty-two.”

“You’d do it tomorrow.”

“I absolutely would.”

You laughed. Again. Easy. Just easy. And perhaps that was the problem. Because easy wasn’t what your heart wanted. Your heart wanted long conversations in dark charting rooms. Coffee bought by a man who hated caramel. Warm hands on your shoulders after impossible nights. A deep voice saying Sweetheart. Your heart wanted gravity. And gravity had silver at his temples.

The bell above the restaurant door rang. You didn’t even look. Not at first. John was telling a ridiculous story about skiing into a tree. And then, His smile vanished.

“Oh.”

Something in his voice made you turn. And the world stopped. Jack Abbott. Michael Robinavich.

Jack saw you immediately. His grin nearly split his face.

“Well, hell!”

Robby froze. Completely. His eyes landed on you. Then John. Then the candle. Then John’s hand resting beside yours on the table. And everything in his face changed. Not anger. Not rage. Something infinitely worse. Pain. Raw. Undeniable.

Because for the first time, Michael Robinavich looked like a man who’d been punched. Jack, blissfully unaware of the emotional apocalypse occurring beside him, waved enthusiastically.

“Hey, kids!”

John smiled politely.

“Jack.”

“Johnny Boy.”

You stood awkwardly.

“Hi.”

Jack looked between everyone. Then, slowly, very slowly, He turned toward Michael. And even Jack Abbott shut up. Because Michael Robinavich wasn’t looking at you. He was looking at John. Not hostile. Not threatening. Watching. Measuring. And the thing that terrified you most? John saw it too.

To his credit, John stood. Extended his hand.

“Doctor Robinavich.”

Robby’s eyes lowered to it. Then back to John’s face. And after what felt like an eternity, he shook it.

“Carter.”

Jack cleared his throat.

“Okay then.”

You wanted to disappear. Instead, Jack recovered.

“We’re over there.”

He pointed several tables away.

“Try not to commit any felonies, Michael.”

“Jack.”

“I’m going.”

But as they walked away, Robby looked back. And his eyes found yours again. God. The weight of that stare. Heavy. Broken. Possessive. Wounded. You couldn’t breathe. And neither, apparently, could he.

*****

John was talking. You knew he was. Something about Switzerland. Or pizza. Or skiing. You had absolutely no idea. Because Michael Robinavich sat three tables away. And you could feel him.

Not staring. Not constantly. That wasn’t his style. But every time you looked up…Those dark eyes found you. And every single time your heart skipped.

Jack eventually leaned across their table. Said something. Robby barely responded. His beer sat untouched. His meal forgotten. Because he wasn’t eating. He was watching the woman he’d spent four years loving sit across from another man. And it was killing him. John saw that too. Which made everything worse.

“I’m losing you.”

His voice was quiet.

“What?”

John smiled sadly.

“I’m not stupid.”

“John—”

“You don’t look at me like that.”

Your eyes widened.

“Like what?”

“The way you’re looking over your shoulder.”

He smiled again. Sweetly. And somehow that hurt more.

“You like him.”

Your heart sank. Before you could answer, you stood.

“I need the restroom.”

John nodded.

“Take your time.”

*****

You splashed cold water on your face. This was a disaster. A complete disaster. Because John deserved honesty. And Michael. God. Michael deserved courage. And you deserved better than living in the middle.

You dried your hands. Opened the door. And immediately stopped. Michael Robinavich stood outside. One hand in his pocket. Sleeves rolled. And eyes dark. Not angry. Not cold. Just hurt.

“Robby.”

His voice was low.

“Nope, not yet.”

You should’ve said no. Instead, you allowed him to push you back into the restroom.

“Why?”

You blinked.

“What?”

His voice cracked. Actually cracked.

“Why him?”

Your heart broke. Because he wasn’t angry. He was heartbroken.

“Robby—”

“You come home with me.”

His eyes glistened.

“We wake up together.”

His voice lowered.

“I hold you.”

And God. There it was. Love. Pure and terrifying.

“You wear my shirts.”

Your breath caught.

“And then I walk into a restaurant and he’s looking at you like you’re his.”

His jaw tightened. And suddenly years of restraint began cracking.

“Do you know what that did to me?”

“Robby—”

“No.” He shook his head. “No, sweetheart.”

The endearment sounded wounded. Not seductive. Wounded.

“I need to know.” His eyes searched yours desperately “Am I losing you?”

Your own eyes burned.

“No.”

“Then tell me what we’re doing.”

Suddenly you were angry. Not at him. At both of you.

“What ARE we doing?”

His eyes widened.

“You’ve never asked!”

His face changed.

“You never asked either!”

“Because I’m the girl!”

Immediately you regretted it. And apparently so did he. Because despite everything, despite the heartbreak, Michael Robinavich actually looked offended.

“The girl?”

“Yes!”

“The girl?”

“Don’t start.”

“The girl.”

You pointed at him.

“You slept with me!”

“You slept with me!”

“You never took me for coffee afterward!”

His mouth opened. Closed. Then to your astonishment, he looked horrified.

“Sweetheart.”

“Oh don’t sweetheart me!”

His expression fell.

“No.”

Suddenly Michael Robinavich looked devastated. Not defensive. Devastated.

“You think I didn’t want coffee?”

Your anger faltered.

“You think I didn’t want breakfast?”

His voice cracked again.

“You think I didn’t want every breakfast?”

Oh. Oh God.

“Robby…”

Someone knocked on the door.

“Occupied!” he barked.

Silence. Then Jack’s voice.

“Jesus Christ.”

You nearly laughed. And so did Michael. Just slightly. That tiny laugh broke the tension. Because suddenly he looked exhausted. Tired. In love. Terrified. And completely undone.

“Sweetheart.”

His voice softened.

“I don’t know how to do this.”

Neither did you. But you knew one thing. You knew you loved him. And judging by the way Michael Robinavich looked at you like you were the answer to a prayer he never expected. He loved you too. Terrifyingly. Hopelessly. Completely. And somewhere on the other side of that door, Jack Abbott sighed dramatically. Because apparently even emotional crises had an audience.

*******

The emergency department was strangely peaceful at six-thirty in the morning. Not quiet. The ED was never quiet. But peaceful. The organized chaos hadn’t quite begun. Night shift was dragging itself toward freedom while day shift shuffled in with fresh coffee and optimism that would inevitably disappear by ten o’clock.

And sitting outside the ambulance bay, wrapped in a hoodie with your knees drawn to your chest, you wondered if your life had become some cosmic joke. Because somehow, in the span of two weeks, you’d managed to fall hopelessly in love with a Chief Attending with silver in his hair and emotional commitment issues. And break the heart of one of the sweetest men you’d ever known.

The previous night’s disaster still sat heavily in your chest. The argument. The confession. Michael’s voice cracking.

You think I didn’t want every breakfast?

God. You could still hear it. But perhaps the thing that haunted you most wasn’t the love. It was the uncertainty. Because love wasn’t always enough. Sometimes timing mattered. Sometimes courage mattered. And Michael Robinavich for all his brilliance, was afraid.

Which meant that somewhere in the middle, you’d lost yourself. And maybe John Carter had too. The ambulance bay doors slid open. You looked up. And smiled sadly.

Because of course it was him. John Carter. Fresh out of surgery. Still in scrubs. Still beautiful. Still carrying two coffees.

“Thought I’d find you here.”

You laughed softly.

“Is that creepy?”

“A little.”

He grinned.

“I learned from Robinavich.”

And despite everything you laughed. God. You laughed. Because John Carter had somehow managed to survive having his heart stepped on and still showed up with coffee.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

“No.”

“Me neither.”

He handed you a cup. And then sat beside you. Not touching. Not crowding. Just sitting. And for a while, neither of you spoke. Ambulances came and went. Birds chirped. People hurried past. Life continued. Eventually, John sighed.

“So.”

“So.”

He smiled.

“This is awkward.”

“A little.”

“You know, I had a speech.”

That surprised you.

“You did?”

“Oh yeah.” He nodded. “Big dramatic thing.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.” He held up his fingers. “There were metaphors.”

You laughed.

“And?”

“And then I saw you sitting out here looking like someone ran over your puppy.” He smiled sadly.“And suddenly the speech felt stupid.”

Your eyes burned.

“John—”

“No, let me.” His voice softened. “Please.”

You nodded. And John Carter, beautiful, funny, endlessly kind John Carter, looked out across the ambulance bay and smiled.

“You scare me.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“You do.”

His laugh was soft.

“Not because you’re scary.” He looked over at you. “But because you feel things.”

His eyes glistened.

“God, you feel things.”

Your throat tightened.

“John…”

“You don’t do easy.”

“No.”

“You don’t do casual.”

“No.”

“You don’t do halfway.”

“No.”

His smile widened.

“No, sweetheart, you do catastrophically.”

You burst out laughing through tears. And John smiled. Because he loved that sound. Even now. Even here.

“You’re all in or you’re nothing.”

His voice softened.

“And that’s beautiful.”

Tears ran down your cheeks.

“But it’s terrifying.”

You looked down.

“I’m sorry.”

“No.”

Immediately. Firmly. He reached over and squeezed your hand.

“Don’t apologize for being who you are.”

His smile turned wistful.

“Honestly?”

“What?”

“I think I liked the idea of you before I understood you.”

That hurt. Not cruelly. Just truthfully.

“You deserve someone better.”

John looked offended.

“No.” His voice was gentle. “Stop doing that.”

He squeezed your hand again.

“You don’t owe me becoming smaller so I can love you.”

The tears came harder. Because somehow he was making this easier. And perhaps that was who John Carter had always been. Sunshine. Warmth. Grace.

“I do love you.”

Your head snapped up. He smiled immediately.

“Easy.”

He laughed.

“Not forever love.”

“But I do.”

His voice quieted.

“And maybe in another life, where you met me first…” He shrugged. “Who knows?”

You cried. And John, being John, groaned.

“Oh no.”

You laughed through tears.

“Oh no?”

“Women crying is my kryptonite.”

He immediately wrapped his arms around you. And you hugged him tightly. Because you loved him. Not the way he deserved. Not the way he needed. But enough to wish him happiness. Enough to want someone wonderful for him. After a long moment, he kissed the top of your head.

“You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think he’s already ruined you.”

You laughed weakly.

“He really has.”

John smiled.

“The old man?”

“John.”

“He reads trauma journals for fun.”

“He does.”

“He uses reading glasses.”

“He does.”

“He says things like ‘back in my day.’”

“He absolutely does.”

“And somehow you’re into that.”

You laughed again. And John smiled.

“There she is.”

The girl who laughed. God. He really was wonderful. Eventually, he stood. And held out a hand. You took it. He pulled you to your feet. And then slowly he leaned down. Not desperately. Not sadly. Just sweetly. And kissed you once. Soft. Gentle. A goodbye. When he pulled away, his forehead rested briefly against yours.

“Go get him.”

Your eyes widened.

“What?”

John smiled.

“You’ve been looking at him for four years.”

His grin returned.

“And Robinavich looks at you like you invented oxygen.”

You laughed.

“He does not.”

“He absolutely does.”

And then his expression softened.

“Besides…”

“What?”

“He scares me.”

You laughed again.

“He terrifies everyone.”

“He looks at me like he wants to hide my body.”

“He does not.”

“Sweetheart, the man shook my hand like he was imagining crimes.”

You nearly collapsed laughing. And John Carter, still smiling, stepped back.

“Goodbye, beautiful.”

The nickname. The easy affection. The sunshine. And suddenly your heart hurt. Because letting good people go was hard.

“Goodbye, John.”

He smiled. And for a moment, You saw the lonely boy who’d lost his brother. The man who’d hidden behind laughter. The man who deserved the world. Then he winked.

“Tell Grandpa Robinavich I said hi.”

“John!”

Laughing, he disappeared back inside. And just like that, he was gone.

******

Three hours later. The day from hell. Two traumas. One stroke. Three admissions. And you sat on a black motorcycle in the physician parking lot. Waiting.

Because there was only one thing left to do. Only one man left. And for the first time in weeks you were certain.

The sound came first. Footsteps. Michael Robinavich walked into the lot. Helmet under his arm. Hair messy. Eyes exhausted. Beautiful. And completely unaware. Until he saw you.

Sitting there. Waiting. For him. He stopped. Actually stopped walking. And the tiredness disappeared from his face. Replaced by something softer. Something brighter.

“Hi?”

You smiled. And God. That smile nearly dropped the poor man to his knees. He approached slowly. As though afraid you might vanish.

“What are you doing?”

“Waiting.”

“For me?”

“Last I checked, this isn’t Whitaker’s motorcycle.”

That earned a laugh. Warm. Deep. Beautiful. The laugh you loved. The one hardly anyone got to hear.

His eyes searched yours. Carefully. Hopeful. Terrified.

“You need a ride?”

You nodded.

“Yeah.”

His voice was quiet.

“Okay.”

He swallowed.

“Where?”

And there it was. Not teasing. Not joking. A question. One that mattered. One that held his entire heart. Your eyes softened. And you smiled.

“Yours.”

Michael Robinavich stopped breathing. Literally. His eyes widened. And then slowly a smile spread across his face. Not a smirk. Not amusement. A smile. Like the man he’d once been before medicine and tragedy and loss had carved lines around his eyes.

And God. You thought your heart might burst. Because you had wondered. All those years. What he looked like truly happy. And now you knew. He looked beautiful. He handed you the helmet. His voice rough with emotion.

“Get on, sweetheart.”

And as you wrapped your arms around his waist and rested your cheek against his back, Michael Robinavich closed his eyes for just a second. Because after four years of wanting. After weeks of jealousy. After a lifetime of believing he was too old, too damaged, too late, the woman he loved had chosen him.

And for the first time in a very long time, Dr. Michael Robinavich rode home smiling.

[crowleysgirl67]

But but but .......

[timothyolyphant]

Jack "What the fuck am I doing here" Abbot THE PITT S02E13

[bodeckerhedron]

NOAH WYLE as JOHN CARTER

➤• ER (1994-2009)

[bodeckerhedron]

NOAH WYLE as JOHN CARTER

➤• ER (1994-2009)

[bodeckerhedron]

NOAH WYLE as JOHN CARTER

➤• ER (1994-2009)

[bodeckerhedron]

SEBASTIAN STAN as BUCKY BARNES

➤• THUNDERBOLTS* (*THE NEW AVENGERS) (2025) - DIR. JAKE SCHREIER

[shakedownstreet73]

He looks so good in green, and so cuddly in that shirt. I swear, he’s like a fine wine.

[leclercsainzz]

may 5th, 2026

hello babes! i was wondering if you could give me some jack abbot fanfic recommendations, please 😭 i need more of him!!

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 — 𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐎𝐓

⟡ 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗛𝗔𝗩𝗘 𝗡𝗢 𝗜𝗗𝗘𝗔 || @geminiwritten

↳ ⟡ 𝗠𝗜𝗦𝗦 𝗜𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗣𝗘𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗡𝗧

⟡ 𝗜𝗠𝗔𝗚𝗜𝗡𝗘 𝗕𝗘𝗜𝗡’ 𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘𝗗 𝗕𝗬 𝗠𝗘 || @robbyology

⟡ 𝗧𝗛𝗔𝗧 𝗪𝗔𝗦 𝗠𝗘 𝗕𝗟𝗨𝗘 || @docrobinavitch

⟡ 𝗠𝗬 𝗪𝗢(𝗠𝗔𝗡) 𝗢𝗡 𝗪𝗜𝗟𝗟𝗣𝗢𝗪𝗘𝗥 || @miserymorgue

⟡ 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗪𝗜𝗡 𝗦𝗢𝗠𝗘, 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗟𝗢𝗦𝗘 𝗦𝗢𝗠𝗘 || @lovebugism

↳ ⟡ 𝗕𝗔𝗕𝗬 𝗦𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗞

↳ ⟡ 𝗗𝗢𝗖𝗧𝗢𝗥 𝗕𝗔𝗥𝗞𝗘𝗥

↳ ⟡ 𝗧𝗔𝗞𝗘 𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗘 𝗢𝗙 𝗕𝗨𝗦𝗜𝗡𝗘𝗦𝗦 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗠𝗘

↳ ⟡ 𝗢𝗙𝗙-𝗗𝗔𝗬

↳ ⟡ 𝗧𝗛𝗔𝗧 𝗙𝗨𝗡𝗡𝗬 𝗙𝗘𝗘𝗟𝗜𝗡𝗚

↳ ⟡ 𝗨𝗡𝗙𝗜𝗡𝗜𝗦𝗛𝗘𝗗 𝗕𝗨𝗦𝗜𝗡𝗘𝗦𝗦

⟡ 𝗦𝗨𝗚𝗔𝗥 𝗧𝗔𝗟𝗞𝗜𝗡𝗚 || @seewhoyouwanttosee

↳ ⟡ 𝗗𝗢𝗡’𝗧 𝗦𝗠𝗜𝗟𝗘

↳ ⟡ 𝗚𝗢 𝗚𝗢 𝗝𝗨𝗜𝗖𝗘

↳ ⟡ 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗔𝗙𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗠𝗔𝗧𝗛

⟡ 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗞𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗢𝗙 𝗬𝗢𝗨 || @peachyparkerr

⟡ 𝗔𝗦 𝗜𝗡 𝗔𝗡𝗚𝗘𝗟𝗙𝗜𝗦𝗛 || @annsfics

⟡ 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗥𝗜𝗕𝗟𝗘 𝗗𝗔𝗧𝗘 || @fromsil

⟡ 𝗖𝗥𝗔𝗦𝗛 𝗖𝗢𝗨𝗥𝗦𝗘 (𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗦) || @fxckingjo

⟡ 𝗕𝗘𝗗 𝗖𝗛𝗘𝗠 || @spikedfearn

⟡ 𝗗𝗜𝗔𝗚𝗡𝗢𝗦𝗜𝗦: 𝗠𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗗 (𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗦) || @s-writing-s

⟡ 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘’𝗦 𝗔 𝗛𝗢𝗥𝗦𝗘 𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗦𝗘 𝗜𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗛𝗢𝗦𝗣𝗜𝗧𝗔𝗟 || @ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff

⟡ 𝗤𝗨𝗔𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗘𝗗 (𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗦) || @itslowkeyatthenightshift

⟡ 𝗗𝗢𝗚’𝗦 𝗕𝗘𝗦𝗧 𝗙𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗡𝗗 || @of-apollo

↳ ⟡ 𝗕𝗨𝗗𝗗𝗬 𝗞𝗡𝗢𝗪𝗦 𝗕𝗘𝗦𝗧

⟡ 𝗛𝗜𝗚𝗛 𝗔𝗧 𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗥𝗜𝗦𝗘 || @romanticpursuit

⟡ 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗧 || @andrewmiinyard

⟡ 𝗦𝗪𝗘𝗘𝗧 𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗢𝗧𝗢𝗡𝗜𝗡 || @goldiwrites

⟡ 𝗔𝗟𝗪𝗔𝗬𝗦 𝗚𝗢 𝗢𝗟𝗗𝗘𝗥 || @bluetimeombre

⟡ 𝗤𝗨𝗜𝗘𝗧 | 𝟮 | 𝟯 | 𝟰 | 𝟱 || @butyoudidthis4what

⟡ 𝗙𝗜𝗫𝗘𝗥 𝗨𝗣𝗣𝗘𝗥 || @fluttervoid

⟡ 𝗔𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗧𝗠𝗘𝗡𝗧 𝗦𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗘𝗡 || @deathreverse

⟡ 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗣𝗔𝗖𝗘 𝗪𝗘 𝗦𝗧𝗢𝗣 | 𝟮 | @mcybank

↳ ⟡ 𝗡𝗢 𝗕𝗜𝗚 𝗗𝗘𝗔𝗟, 𝗕𝗔𝗕𝗬

⟡ 𝗜 𝗛𝗔𝗧𝗘 𝗬𝗢𝗨, 𝗝𝗔𝗖𝗞 𝗔𝗕𝗕𝗢𝗧 || @raccooninthemachine

⟡ 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗔𝗥𝗘 𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗘, 𝗜’𝗠 𝗠𝗜𝗗𝗡𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧 𝗥𝗔𝗜𝗡 || @metal-armed-muse

— 𝗮 𝗳𝗲𝘄 𝗼𝗳 𝗺𝘆 𝗰𝘂𝗿𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗳𝗮𝘃𝗼𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲𝘀. 𝗶’𝗹𝗹 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗯𝗮𝗯𝗹𝘆 𝗯𝗲 𝗮𝗱𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 𝗮𝘀 𝗶 𝗴𝗼, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝗲𝗻𝗷𝗼𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘀𝗲:) 𝗮𝗹𝘀𝗼 𝗽𝗹𝘀 𝗱𝗿𝗼𝗽 𝗿𝗲𝗰𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀, 𝗶 𝗻𝗲𝗲𝗱 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲!!

[landsccape]

[doctor-darko]

The slutty earring, come back to us

[brainstreams]

Don't use AI to write. Use cocaine like a real author.