[looking at people younger than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at people older than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at myself] its over
Summary: After the parking garage reveal, you and Jack get one quiet morning at home before PTMC starts asking questions. Jack brings home the good decaf beans, your son responds to his voice, and for a little while, the marriage being public does not feel like a disaster. Then you go back to work. Santos has a written list. Cassie wants wedding photos. Robby has selected favorites. Dana knew everything anyway. Mel notices more than she says. And Jack Abbot, against his better judgment, tells the story of the grocery list proposal.
Warnings: Pregnant!Reader, pregnancy symptoms/discomfort, swollen feet/back pain, food/coffee mentions, marriage reveal aftermath, workplace teasing, soft husband Jack, brief pediatric hospital/radiology mention, no real angst, ensemble chaos, Mel quietly clocking things before anyone else does.
Author’s Note: Chapter Two is all about the aftermath of everyone realizing Jack and Reader are married, but the pregnancy is still theirs for now. This chapter has domestic morning-after softness, emotionally significant decaf, wedding photo chaos, Santos with highlighted questions, and Jack being publicly husband-coded for approximately five seconds before everyone makes it weird.
Xoxo, Del
Previous Part(s): | Prologue | Chpt. 1 |
Chapter Two: The Follow-Up Questions
YOUR POV:
You had not slept well. That was not new, exactly. Sleep had become less of an event and more of a negotiation. You started every night with hope, three pillows, a glass of water, a sleeve of crackers, and the misguided belief that this time your body might cooperate. Then, sometime around two in the morning, your hips would ache, your back would complain, your bladder would develop the urgency of a fire alarm, and your son would begin whatever small aquatic gymnastics he had recently learned.
By 7:42 in the morning, you had accepted that rest was not coming back for you. You were standing in the kitchen in one of Jack’s old sweatshirts, one hand braced on the counter, trying to decide whether your feet looked swollen enough to be annoying or swollen enough to be rude.
They were rude. Definitely rude.
Your back ached. Your calves felt tight. Your eyes felt gritty with the kind of tiredness that lived behind them instead of on them. The house was quiet around you, morning light slipping pale and thin across the counters, catching on the two mugs still sitting in the sink from yesterday.
You should have been miserable. You were not. Not exactly.
You were tired enough to consider becoming part of the kitchen floor, but for the first time in weeks, there was room around the tiredness. It did not come with tears waiting behind your lashes. It did not come with the sudden urge to cry because Jack had looked at you too gently over a glass of water or because a commercial had used a piano score irresponsibly. Your hormones, by some temporary mercy, had decided to behave like members of a civilized society.
So when the front door opened, you smiled before you even saw him.
Jack stepped inside with the hospital still on his shoulders, twelve hours of night shift under his eyes, and a brown paper coffee bag tucked under one arm. “Morning,” he said, voice low.
Your son kicked. Not a flutter. Not the strange little roll he had been practicing for the past week.
A kick.
Small, but definite, low beneath your ribs.
You froze with one hand still braced on the counter.
Jack’s eyes sharpened immediately. “You okay?” he asked.
You looked at him. Then, at the bag under his arm. Then back at him.
“Yeah,” you said. “He just has opinions.”
Jack’s gaze dropped for half a second, then returned to your face. “About morning?”
You shrugged. “Apparently.”
His mouth moved at the corner. He crossed the kitchen and set the brown paper bag on the counter like it was no big deal.
It was, in fact, a very big deal. You glanced down. The same stamped logo from yesterday stared back at you. The fancy decaf. Not a cup this time. Beans. A whole bag of them.
Your entire soul briefly left your body and returned with a stronger set of priorities. “Jack.”
“You liked it,” he said.
You grabbed the front of his scrub top and kissed him. Jack made a low, surprised sound against your mouth, one hand coming automatically to your waist, careful, even startled. His palm was warm through the sweatshirt, his fingers steady at your side, and you felt him soften into the kiss the second his brain caught up with the rest of him.
The kiss was not long. It was grateful. Devout. Slightly caffeinated in spirit.
You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. “I have never loved you more.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “You said that on our wedding day.”
You kept one hand fisted in his scrub top. “This is different.”
His hand stayed at your waist. “On our honeymoon.”
“Still different,” you said.
Jack’s thumb moved once against your sweatshirt. “When we found out you were pregnant.”
“Emotionally significant, yes.”
His eyes held yours. “At the OB-GYN for our first appointment.”
Your teasing softened before you could stop it. “That was because you cried.”
His expression shifted. Not much. Enough.
“Yeah,” Jack said quietly. “I did.”
Your fingers loosened in the front of his scrub top. Jack’s hand moved from your waist to your stomach, settling carefully over the soft curve beneath his sweatshirt.
“We heard his heartbeat,” he said.
Your chest went tender all at once. “Yeah,” you said softly. “We did.”
His thumb moved once. The kitchen went quiet around you. Morning light. Two mugs in the sink. A bag of decaf beans on the counter. The hospital is still clinging to his scrubs. You, barefoot and sore and exhausted, standing in the middle of all of it while your husband touched the place where your son was growing.
Jack looked down at his hand. “Morning, kid,” he said.
Your son kicked again, right beneath his palm. Jack went completely still.
You did too. “Oh,” you whispered.
Jack’s eyes stayed on his hand.
“That happened when you came in,” you said.
His voice was rough. “When I said morning?”
You nodded. The silence changed. Not empty. Full. Jack looked down at your stomach like he trusted your body more than he trusted his own hope.
“He knows your voice,” you said.
Jack swallowed. “Maybe.”
“Jack.”
His thumb shifted carefully against you. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Maybe he does.”
For another second, neither of you moved. You wanted to keep him there in the kitchen forever. In his rumpled dark scrubs, with one hand on your stomach, the morning wrapped quietly around both of you. You wanted to take the whole image and put it somewhere safe, somewhere the ER could not reach, somewhere the night shift and parking garage chaos and Santos’s follow-up questions could not touch.
Then you looked at the bag of coffee beans on the counter. Your heart, apparently, had room for the miracle of your son and a good cup of decaf in the same morning.
You looked Jack dead in the eyes. “This time I mean it.”
Jack stared at you for one beat. Then he huffed a tired laugh, the sound low and surprised. “You’re serious.”
You nodded. “I am extremely serious.”
“It’s decaf,” Jack said dryly.
“It’s hope.”
Jack’s mouth softened. You leaned around him and pulled the bag closer, cradling it against your chest with one hand while the other stayed near your stomach. Jack watched you hold the coffee like it had been rescued from a burning building.
“You know,” he said, “that was something.”
You looked up. “The coffee?”
“The parking garage.”
“Oh.” You smiled. “That.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “That.”
He moved past you to the sink and washed his hands like he did every morning when he came home from the hospital. Thorough. Automatic. Scrubbing the night shift from his skin before he touched too much of the house. You leaned back against the counter and watched him. “How bad was it after I left?” you asked.
Jack dried his hands on the towel beside the sink. “Clinically or socially?”
Your smile widened. “Socially.”
His face went flat.
“Oh, good,” you said. “Tell me everything.”
Jack tossed the towel over the edge of the sink. “Robby texted the ED group chat before I got back upstairs.”
You blinked. “There’s an ED group chat?”
“Unfortunately,” Jack said.
Your eyebrows lifted. “And you’re in it?”
His face went flat. “Against my will.”
You hugged the coffee beans tighter. “What did he say?”
Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone with the resigned air of a man presenting evidence at trial. He turned the screen toward you.
Robby: Congratulations to Abbot on hard-launching his wife in the parking garage.
Below it was a wedding photo—you and Jack, seven years younger, standing outside under warm May light. Your dress caught at the edge of the frame. Jack’s suit jacket buttoned, his tie slightly crooked despite his best efforts, his hand wrapped around yours like he was anchoring himself to the only thing in the world that made sense.
You smiled down at the phone. “Oh,” you said.
Jack looked at the screen, then at you. “That’s your reaction?”
You shrugged. “That’s a good picture.”
Jack looked at the screen, then at you. “That is not the issue.”
You kept staring at the photo. “You look handsome.”
Jack took the phone back. “Still not the issue.”
You shrugged. “It is one of the issues.”
His eyes narrowed. “No.”
You smiled down at the phone. “Important evidence.”
His brow rose. “Of what?”
You smiled gently. “That I married well.” You looked up from the photo. “Did he send more?”
Jack’s expression tightened with deep personal suffering. “He titled them selected favorites.”
You brightened. “Oh, he’s been waiting for this.”
“That does not make it better,” Jack said.
“It makes it funnier.”
His eyes narrowed. “To you.”
You grinned.
Jack scrolled with his thumb, his expression pained. “Shen responded with a thumbs-up.”
“That feels right,” you said.
He kept scrolling. “And then he wrote, ‘I assumed.’”
You straightened. “Shen knew?”
“Shen assumed,” Jack replied.
“That’s worse.”
Jack slipped the phone back into his pocket. “He said pattern recognition.”
Your smile started slowly.
Jack pointed at you. “Don’t.”
“I’m not doing anything,” you replied.
“Your face is.”
You pressed a hand to your chest. “My face is proud of you.”
Jack turned toward the hallway. “My face is going to bed.”
You laughed, and the sound surprised you. It came easily. No tears behind it. No tightness in your throat. No sudden hormonal ambush waiting to turn good coffee and a soft look into a full emotional weather event. Just laughter.
Jack noticed that too. Of course he did. His eyes moved over your face, and something in him eased. You felt it happen.
That made your smile soften. “What?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
“Jack.”
He leaned back against the counter opposite you, exhaustion sitting in the line of his shoulders, his hair mussed from a night of running his hand through it.
“You laughed,” he said.
Your throat tightened a little, but not enough to hurt. “Yeah.”
His gaze held yours.
You looked down at the coffee bag, then back at him. “I think my hormones are leveling out,” you said.
“Yeah?” Jack asked.
“Temporarily,” you added. “I reserve the right to cry over a bagel tomorrow.”
His expression stayed serious. “Granted.”
“And maybe a dog food commercial,” you added.
Jack nodded. “Also granted.”
You looked down at the coffee bag still sitting against your chest. “But last night was funny.”
“It was something,” Jack said.
“Santos dropped her keys.”
His mouth moved faintly. “She lost inside voice privileges.”
“She announced that clearly,” you replied.
Jack’s mouth moved like he was fighting a smile.
You looked at him for another second. “I didn’t cry,” you said.
His expression changed. Not dramatically. Just enough. “No,” he said. “You didn’t.”
“I wanted to when the coffee was good.”
Jack’s gaze softened. “That would’ve been fair.”
“And maybe when you told me to text after toast,” you admitted.
Jack’s eyebrows lifted.
You shrugged. “Married toast got me.”
He tilted his head. “Married toast got Santos too.”
“Santos was harmed by married toast,” you said.
“She’ll recover.”
You considered that. “Will she?”
Jack’s answer came immediately. “No.”
You laughed again, softer this time. Jack pushed away from the counter and stepped toward you. His hand came to your back first, broad and warm, settling where the ache had been sitting all morning like a bad tenant.
Your eyes closed before you could stop them. “Back?” he asked.
You nodded. “Feet too.”
“How bad?” he asked.
“Rude,” you answered.
His thumb moved gently on your spine. “Rude?”
“They are no longer behaving with basic social decency.”
Jack looked down. You followed his gaze to your feet. “They’re swollen,” he said.
You shrugged. “A little.”
His eyes lifted.
“Medium,” you corrected.
His mouth tilted. “Closer.”
You sighed. “They look like they’re retaining secrets.”
Jack’s mouth twitched again.
You held up the coffee bag. “But emotionally, I am thriving.”
His brow rose. “Physically?”
You frowned. “Please don’t ask follow-up questions.”
He looked at you. You looked back. Then you both laughed a little, because the phrase had been ruined forever. Jack’s phone buzzed again. He did not look at it.
You did. “Robby?”
Jack nodded. “Probably.”
You glanced at the phone in his hand. “Selected favorites?”
Jack’s expression flattened. “Probably.”
“Do you think he has the grocery list proposal story locked and loaded?”
Jack slipped the phone back into his pocket. “He was not there for that.”
“No, but he knows.”
His eyes narrowed. “He knows too much.”
“He was your best man,” you pointed out.
Jack looked solemn. “I have regrets.”
You smiled. Jack’s hand stayed on your back, steady and warm. Your son did not move again, but Jack kept his other hand near your stomach anyway, not touching this time. Just close. Like he was waiting for permission from a person who weighed less than a mango and already had both of you rearranging the world around him.
You watched his face. “They know now,” you said.
Jack’s gaze lifted from your stomach to your eyes. “Yeah.”
“Part of it.” You murmured.
His expression went quiet. “Part of it,” he agreed.
The house seemed to settle around you. Your marriage was public now. Not announced in a newsletter. Not framed in a photo on the nurses’ station wall. But known. Seen. Spoken out loud in a parking garage under terrible fluorescent lighting while Santos lost her mind and Robby threatened to curate wedding photos.
People knew you belonged to Jack.
People knew Jack belonged to you.
But they did not know this. They did not know about your son kicking when Jack came home. They did not know about the first heartbeat or the way Jack had cried in a sterile little exam room because a fast, impossible sound had made him a father. They did not know about the pillows, the crackers, the decaf, the hand on your stomach in the morning light.
That still belonged to you.
For now.
Jack’s thumb moved once on your back.
“That one still feels ours,” you said.
His eyes stayed on yours. “It is.”
You nodded. Your throat felt full, but the tears did not come. You were grateful for that. You were grateful for the coffee. You were grateful for the man in front of you, exhausted and soft in the kitchen, still smelling faintly like hospital soap and night shift, looking at you like he would fight the entire world for the right to stand here and be ordinary with you.
Jack leaned in and kissed your forehead. “Go sit,” he said.
You pulled back. “Excuse me?”
His hand stayed on your back. “Your feet are rude.”
You glared. “My feet heard that.”
Jack grinned. “Good.”
You frowned. “You just got home from a twelve-hour shift.”
Jack’s hand stayed warm on your back. “And you slept like hell.”
“You need sleep.”
“So do you.”
“I’m awake now,” you said.
His eyes dropped briefly to the coffee bag. “You’re standing because the coffee beans gave you a spiritual event.”
You looked down at the bag. “They did.”
Jack’s face softened. Then his phone buzzed again. This time, he sighed and pulled it out. You leaned around him to look.
Robby: Santos has begun discovery.
Robby: She has a list.
Robby: Actually, she has highlighted questions.
You stared at the screen. Then you started laughing.
Jack closed his eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “That was something.”
You looked up at him, still laughing, sore and tired and happy in a way that felt steadier than it had in weeks. “It’s going to be so bad,” you said.
Jack slipped the phone back into his pocket. “It already is.”
“Do you regret it?”
His answer came immediately. “No.”
The laughter softened out of you.
Jack held your gaze. “Not that,” he said.
Your chest warmed. “Not us?”
His expression went quiet again. “Never us.”
For one second, the whole morning narrowed to that. Then your son shifted faintly, not a kick this time, just a small roll beneath your ribs. Jack felt it because he was close enough. His eyes dropped.
You smiled. “Still has opinions,” you whispered.
Jack’s mouth softened. “Gets that from you.”
You gasped. “That is slander.”
He kissed your forehead again. “Sit down,” he said.
You lifted the coffee beans. “Only if you make this.”
Jack took the bag from you.
You looked him dead in the eyes. “Hope.”
He huffed another tired laugh and turned toward the coffee maker. And for a few minutes, before PTMC got its follow-up questions, before Santos’s highlighted list, before the ED group chat, before the rest of the world came pressing back in, there was only your kitchen.
Your husband.
Your son.
And the very good coffee Jack had brought home, like it was no big deal.
By the time you walked back into PTMC, you had already accepted that the day was going to be ridiculous. There was no other possible outcome. You had made it through the morning at home with Jack, the decaf beans, your son kicking at the sound of his voice, and Robby’s selected favorites threatening to become a department-wide historical archive. Jack had gone to bed with the grim resignation of a man who knew he would wake up to more texts. You had made yourself one very good cup of decaf, eaten half a piece of toast with Irish butter and farmers market honey, put on one of your loose cardigans, and driven back to work with the dangerous optimism of a woman who had temporarily forgotten who she worked with.
That optimism died the second you reached the ED nurses’ station. Santos had a list. A single sheet of paper folded into thirds and covered in sharp, angry handwriting. Several lines were highlighted. That was somehow worse. Cassie stood beside her, leaning one hip against the counter with a coffee in her hand and an expression that looked significantly less prosecutorial and significantly more delighted. Mel was at the far workstation with her tablet hugged lightly against her chest, already watching with the careful interest of someone who knew a social disaster was coming and did not want anyone to get hurt by it. Dana was seated near the discharge stack, calm as ever, as if she had decided that the best way to survive the aftermath was to refuse emotional involvement.
Robby was nowhere in sight. That felt intentional.
Santos looked up the second she saw you. “You.”
You stopped with one hand on the strap of your Child Life bag. “Good morning to you, too.”
Santos lifted the paper. Your eyes dropped to the highlighted lines. Then back to her face. “Is that about me?”
Santos clicked her pen. “It is about institutional transparency.”
Cassie leaned over her shoulder. “It’s mostly about your wedding.”
Santos did not look away from you. “Some of it is about the wedding.”
Mel’s mouth curved, small and careful. Dana turned a page without looking up. You stepped closer to the counter, more amused than you probably should have been. “You wrote questions down?”
“I had to,” Santos said. “Every time I remembered a detail, it raised more questions.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It was,” Santos replied. “Thank you for acknowledging that.”
Cassie smiled at you. “For the record, some of them are very sweet.”
Santos lowered the paper slightly and looked at her. “Do not compromise the integrity of the list.”
Cassie lifted both hands. “Sorry.”
“You added one,” Santos said.
Cassie’s smile turned sheepish. “One.”
Dana finally glanced up. “The dancing question?”
Cassie brightened. “It’s important.”
Santos pointed her pen toward Dana. “You are not helping.”
Dana returned to her paperwork. “I rarely try to.”
You shifted your weight, feeling the familiar pull in your lower back. Not terrible. Not enough to make you wince. Just enough to remind you that standing in one place was beginning to count as a hobby your body did not support. Mel’s eyes flicked briefly toward your posture. Not your stomach. Not obviously. Just enough. You adjusted the strap of your bag before she could decide whether to ask anything.
Santos noticed the movement and stepped closer. “No fleeing,” she said.
“I just got here.”
“You’re Child Life,” Santos said. “You could be summoned anywhere at any time.”
You nodded. “That is how my job works.”
“It feels convenient,” Santos replied with a glare.
You nodded again. “It is convenient for the children.”
Cassie smiled into her coffee.
Santos pointed her pen at you. “Do not hide behind the children. It’s emotionally manipulative.”
You looked at her. “And yet effective.”
Mel made a tiny sound from behind her tablet. Santos glared toward her. “Et tu, Mel?”
Mel’s cheeks warmed. “It was a good answer.”
“It was evasive,” Santos said.
“It can be both,” Dana said.
You looked at the list again. “How many questions are on there?”
Cassie looked at you anyway. “There are subquestions.”
You laughed before you could stop it. The sound came easier than it had a few weeks ago. Less dangerous. Less likely to open some emotional trapdoor beneath your feet. You were tired, yes. Your feet were already starting to feel rude again, yes. But your hormones had apparently decided to remain members of a civilized society for at least part of the day. You would take it.
Santos narrowed her eyes. “You are enjoying this.”
You shrugged. “I am enjoying parts of this.”
“You hid a seven-year marriage,” Santos replied.
You pointed one finger at her. “We did not hide it.”
“You did not tell us.”
“You never asked.”
Santos’s face went flat. “Do not use his annoying sentence against me.”
Cassie looked between you and Santos. “To be fair, no one did ask.”
Santos turned on her. “I am processing betrayal.”
“You met him as Abbot,” Dana said, still looking at her papers. “Not as her husband.”
“That is exactly the problem,” Santos said.
Mel looked at you, smiling gently. “You really do not have to answer anything.”
Santos made a wounded sound.
Mel’s eyes flicked to her. “I’m just saying.”
“You can be happy for them and nosy,” Santos said. “I contain multitudes.”
Cassie lifted her coffee. “That is true.”
You looked at Santos’s highlighted sheet, then at the clock behind the desk. You had exactly six minutes before you needed to go upstairs. Peds had already messaged about a seven-year-old in radiology who had decided the MRI machine was a robot mouth. You could not blame him. MRI machines did have a lot of robot mouth energy.
Santos looked down at the list with immediate, visible pressure. “Don’t rush me.”
“I am absolutely rushing you,” you said. “Peds needs me in five minutes.”
Santos scanned the page, pen hovering over the highlighted lines. Cassie leaned over her shoulder. “Ask the dancing one.”
“I know what I’m doing,” Santos said.
Dana did not look up. “Debatable.”
Santos ignored her and jabbed the pen at the page. “Did he dance?”
You smiled immediately. “Yes.”
Santos’s eyes widened. “Abbot dances?”
“With me,” you said.
Cassie pressed both hands to her chest. “Oh, that’s so cute.”
Mel’s expression softened. Dana’s pen paused for half a second over her paperwork.
Santos stared at you. “That answer created more questions.”
You adjusted your Child Life bag on your shoulder. “That sounds like a you problem.”
Cassie lowered her hands, still smiling. “What kind of dancing?”
Santos pointed her pen at Cassie. “That is clearly a follow-up.”
Cassie looked at you hopefully. You sighed, already losing. Then you reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone with the long-suffering patience of a woman who had known exactly how this would go. “I have approved photos.”
Santos froze. “Approved?”
“Curated,” you said.
Dana glanced up. “Smart.”
Cassie stepped closer immediately. “Oh, my God.”
Santos held up one hand. “Wait. Are we being given evidence?”
“We are being given a gift,” Cassie said.
“It can be both,” Santos replied.
You opened the folder you had made that morning after Jack had finally gone to bed. Not the whole album. Not every intimate moment. Not every look. Just enough. Approved lore. Safe offerings. Small pieces of a life you had never hidden but had not exactly handed over either.
The first photo was just you.
Warm May light fell across your dress, catching on the fabric where you held the skirt carefully in one hand so it would not brush the grass. Your smile was wide and slightly stunned, like happiness had arrived faster than you could organize your face around it.
Cassie made a soft sound. “Oh my God,” she said. “You look beautiful.”
Mel smiled. “You really do.”
You looked down at the screen, still a little shy about it even now. “Thanks.”
Santos leaned closer, all investigative edge briefly softened. “That’s your dress?”
“That’s my dress.” You confirmed.
Cassie’s eyes stayed on the photo. “It’s gorgeous.”
You smiled. “I loved it.”
Dana’s voice came from the paperwork stack. “Good choice.”
You looked at her over the phone. “Thank you.”
Dana did not look up. “I said it then.”
“And I appreciated it then too.”
Her mouth moved once, almost a smile.
You swiped to the next photo. This one was you and Jack beneath the trees. His hand was wrapped around yours, his suit jacket buttoned, his tie straight for once because he had stopped touching it long enough for the photographer to catch him. He was not smiling at the camera.
Not really. He was looking at you.
Santos went quiet.
Cassie leaned closer. “That is the face.”
You smiled. “That is one of the faces.”
Mel’s expression softened. “He looks happy.”
“He was,” you said.
The words came out gentler than you meant them to. Santos looked at you, then back at the photo. “That is extremely inconvenient for my argument that he is emotionally unavailable on principle.”
“He’s still annoying,” Dana said.
You nodded. “Oh, absolutely.”
Cassie laughed. You swiped again. The next photo caught the two of you in the middle of your first dance. Jack’s hand was at your waist, yours at his shoulder, your cheek turned toward him. The lights above you had blurred softly and were gold in the background. You were smiling at something he had said, and Jack was looking down at you with a small, private curve to his mouth.
Cassie pressed a hand to her chest. “Okay, that’s adorable.”
Santos pointed at the screen. “He danced.”
“With me,” you reminded her.
Dana looked over the top of her paperwork. “You are on a loop.”
“Because I was right,” Santos said.
Mel smiled. “What song?”
You looked down at the photo, warmth moving through your chest. You told them the song. Cassie made another soft sound, more romantic than medical.
Santos pointed at her. “Stay with us.”
“I’m here,” Cassie said. “Emotionally affected, but here.”
You swiped to the next photo. Robby had one arm around your shoulders, suit jacket open, tie already loosened, grin bright enough to be legally obnoxious. You were laughing so hard your eyes were nearly closed, one hand pressed to your stomach, even though back then there had been no baby there, only laughter you could not contain.
Cassie laughed. “That tracks.”
Santos squinted. “Robby cleans up surprisingly well.”
Robby’s voice drifted in from behind you. “I am, in fact, radiant.”
You turned. Robby had appeared near the medication room with a coffee in one hand and his phone in the other, because of course he had. His expression was far too bright for someone who had done nothing good.
Dana did not look up. “Debatable.”
Robby pressed one hand to his chest. “Cruel.”
“You’ll live,” Dana said.
You looked back at your phone. Then you swiped once more.
Robby stopped smiling. “Do not.”
You looked back at him. “You sent photos in the group chat.”
“So this is retaliation?” Robby asked, bewildered.
“This is balance.” You corrected.
You turned the phone toward Santos and Cassie. The photo had been taken from the side of the aisle. You were halfway down it, bouquet in your hands, dress moving around your legs. But the photo’s real subject was Robby. Standing beside Jack in a dark suit, one hand pressed to his mouth, eyes wet.
Santos stared.
Cassie’s whole face softened. “You cried.”
Robby crossed his arms. “Allegedly.”
Dana turned a page. “There is visual evidence.”
Robby looked wounded. “You were supposed to be discreet.”
Dana’s face did not change. “I am. This is among friends.”
Santos pointed at the screen. “This is devastating.”
Robby pointed back at her. “This is manipulated evidence.”
Mel’s eyes were warm when she looked at him. “It’s sweet.”
Robby’s expression faltered for one brief second.
Then he cleared his throat and looked at his coffee. “I had allergies.”
“To weddings?” Santos asked.
“To pollen,” he said quickly.
“It was indoors during the ceremony,” Dana said.
Robby turned toward her. “You are being very unsupportive today.”
Dana looked up. “I’m consistent.”
You swiped again before Robby could attempt a legal defense. The next photo was quieter. You and Dana stood off to the side of the reception tent, arms around each other in a hug that looked less staged than stolen. Your face was turned into her shoulder, laughing at something she had said. Dana’s expression was calmer, but soft in that unmistakable way she only ever let happen when she thought no one was making a big deal out of it.
Cassie smiled immediately. “Aw.”
Mel looked over at Dana. “That’s sweet.”
Dana’s pen paused over the paper in front of her.
Santos turned to her. “You hugged the bride.”
Dana looked up. “That is generally allowed.”
“You looked emotional,” Santos continued.
Dana shrugged. “That is a strong word.”
You smiled at the phone. “She told me not to trip and ruin the pictures.”
Dana’s expression stayed dry. “It was practical guidance.”
Robby looked at the screen. “That’s actually a good one.”
Dana glanced at him. “Don’t make it weird.”
“Too late,” Santos said.
Your phone buzzed before anyone could ask for more. You checked the screen.
Peds/Radiology: MRI prep consult whenever you’re free. Kiddo is convinced the scanner has teeth.
You looked up at Santos. “I have to go upstairs.”
Santos’s mouth dropped open. “No.”
“Peds needs Child Life,” you replied with a shrug.
Santos glared at you. “Peds can wait.”
Mel looked over. “Peds probably cannot wait.”
Santos pointed toward Mel. “You are supposed to be neutral.”
“I’m not,” Mel said gently.
You slipped your phone back into your pocket and picked up your bag.
Santos lifted the list again. “This is not over.”
“I assumed,” you replied.
Santos shook the paper. “There are highlighted questions.”
“I can see that.”
“Highlighted,” Santos repeated.
You glanced at Cassie. “Keep her hydrated.”
Cassie nodded solemnly. “I’ll try.”
Dana finally looked up. “Bring back a sticker.”
You smiled. “For the patient?”
“For Santos,” Dana said. “If she regulates.”
Santos glared at her. “I am regulated.”
Robby made a noise.
Santos rounded on him. “Do not.”
He lifted both hands. “Didn’t say anything.”
You smiled despite yourself. Your phone buzzed again. You looked down.
Jack: Alive?
You smiled before you could help it.
You: Barely. Santos has a written list.
The reply came a few seconds later.
Jack: Of course she does.
You: Some questions are highlighted.
Jack: I’m calling out.
You: You’re an attending.
Jack: Retiring.
You laughed down at your phone.
Santos saw it immediately. “That’s him.”
You slipped your phone into your cardigan pocket. “That’s protected information.”
“It is absolutely him.”
Robby leaned against the counter. “It’s him.”
You looked at him. “You are supposed to be on my side.”
“I am,” Robby said. “Your side is funnier.”
Cassie smiled at you. “Tell him we said hi.”
Santos lifted the list. “Tell him I have questions.”
Mel’s voice softened. “Tell him we’re happy for you.”
That gentled something in your chest. You looked at her.
Mel smiled, small and sincere, her tablet still hugged to her. “Really.”
Your throat tightened, but not dangerously. Not like it had last month, when kindness felt like it might knock you over if it came too suddenly. Just enough. “Thanks,” you said.
Robby’s smile softened around the edges.
Dana, still pretending not to participate, said, “Go to peds before the MRI develops a reputation.”
You nodded and adjusted your bag. “I’m going.”
Santos pointed her pen at you as you backed away. “We are on question one.”
“You got an answer,” you replied.
Santos frowned. “I got a problem.”
“You already had several.” You called back.
Cassie laughed into her coffee.
Robby lifted his phone. “Should I show them the reception entrance while you’re gone?”
You stopped walking.
Robby looked at your face. Then he lowered the phone. “Noted,” he said.
Santos turned toward him slowly. “Reception entrance?”
You pointed at Robby again. “Do not.”
He put one hand over his heart. “Your lack of trust wounds me.”
“You thrive on lack of trust,” you replied.
Robby sighed. “I do.”
Your phone buzzed with another peds update. You started toward the hallway.
Behind you, Santos called, “This is not over!”
You did not turn around. “Highlighted. I remember.”
“Highlighted!”
You lifted one hand in acknowledgment and headed for the elevators. The ED noise followed you for a few steps. Monitors. Phones. The low murmur of voices. Robby was already saying something that made Santos snap back. You smiled to yourself as you walked.
PTMC knew now.
Not all of it.
Not the small roll beneath your ribs when Jack said morning. Not the way his hand had gone still over your stomach. Not the heartbeat memory folded into your kitchen beside the coffee beans.
But they knew part of it. Enough to ask questions. Enough to make lists. Enough to understand, finally, that they had not been watching the beginning. They had walked into the middle of a story already full of grocery lists, wedding photos, morning coffee, married toast, and a man who danced only with you.
Your phone buzzed once more as you reached the elevators.
Jack: Do not let Robby show the reception entrance.
You grinned.
You: Too late to threaten me. I’m helping a kid escape the robot mouth.
Jack: Good luck.
A second later, another message came through.
Jack: Text me if your feet get worse.
You looked down at your shoes. Rude feet. Swollen ankles.
A baby boy tucked safely beneath your cardigan, still unknown to nearly everyone downstairs.
You smiled, softer this time.
You: Go to sleep, husband.
The reply took longer. Then:
Jack: Yes, ma’am.
You stared at it for a second, warmth spreading through your chest. The elevator doors opened. You stepped inside and pressed the radiology button. For now, Santos could keep her highlighted questions. You had a robot mouth to defeat.
By the time you made it back to the ED, the robot mouth had been successfully rebranded as a spaceship scanner, and your cardigan had acquired a glitter sticker you did not remember receiving. Your feet had moved from rude to openly hostile. You counted that as a win. The seven-year-old in radiology had not loved the MRI machine. He had not even liked the MRI machine. But he had agreed that a spaceship scanner was less terrifying than a robot mouth with invisible teeth, and sometimes, in child life, that counted as a diplomatic breakthrough.
You stepped off the elevator and adjusted your bag on your shoulder. Your back ached. Your feet throbbed. Your son shifted low beneath your cardigan like he, too, had opinions about the amount of walking required by your profession.
“Noted,” you murmured down at him.
Then you turned the corner toward the nurses’ station and immediately regretted returning to the scene of the crime. Santos was waiting, not standing in the middle of the hallway, technically, not blocking your path, technically. But she had positioned herself behind the counter with the kind of intent usually reserved for depositions and hostage negotiations. The list was still in her hand, unfolded now, several lines highlighted with aggressive precision. Cassie stood beside her with the bright, invested expression of someone who had been emotionally fed and wanted seconds. Mel was at the far workstation, tablet in hand, watching with gentle interest. Dana sat near the discharge stack, entirely too calm. Robby leaned one hip against the counter with coffee in hand, phone face down beside him, which meant he was either behaving or preparing not to.
Both possibilities were concerning.
Santos looked up the second she saw you. “You survived.”
You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “The robot mouth has been neutralized.”
Cassie smiled. “Did it have teeth?”
You shrugged. “Emotionally, yes.”
Mel’s mouth curved.
Santos lifted the list. “Excellent. Question two.”
You stopped walking.
Cassie leaned closer to you. “She reorganized the highlights.”
Santos did not look away from you. “The list evolved.”
You inhaled deeply. “That sounds ominous.”
“It should,” Dana added.
You glanced at her. Dana did not look up from the paperwork in front of her. “I advised against color-coding.”
Santos pointed the pen at her. “You advised against joy.”
“I advised against escalation.”
Robby took a sip of coffee. “Historically, escalation is where Santos thrives.”
Santos turned her head toward him. “You are on thin ice.”
Robby smiled. “I packed skates.”
You smiled despite yourself and leaned against the counter, only a little. Enough to take some pressure off your feet without making it obvious. Mel noticed. Of course, she noticed. Her eyes flicked to the way your hand settled against the edge of the counter, then to your face. Not with alarm. Not with judgment. Just that quiet, careful attention that made you feel both grateful and deeply perceived. You straightened slightly. Mel looked back at her tablet. Santos missed none of it, but for once, she was too focused on her list to know what she was looking at.
“Rapid fire,” Santos announced.
You blinked. “I did not agree to rapid fire.”
“You showed photos,” Santos said. “The hearing has expanded.”
Cassie looked apologetic. “I did ask about the photos.”
“You were very polite,” you told her.
Santos clicked her pen. “Who said I love you first?”
You looked at the highlighted sheet. “That’s your rapid fire opener?”
“I am establishing a timeline and emotional precedent.”
Robby leaned toward Cassie. “She practiced that.”
Santos pointed the pen at him without looking. “Do not undermine the process.”
You considered lying for exactly half a second.
Then you smiled. “Jack.”
Cassie’s eyes widened. “Really?”
Mel looked up from her tablet, smiling softly.
Santos froze. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No,” Santos repeated, as if the universe might correct itself if she sounded offended enough.
You shrugged. “He did.”
Robby nodded once. “That tracks.”
Santos rounded on him. “How does that track?”
Robby looked at you, then back at Santos. “Abbot loves like a man accepting a terminal diagnosis. Once he knows, he knows.”
The station went quiet for half a beat. Dana turned a page. “Accurate.”
You stared at Robby. His expression softened for one second too long. Then he ruined it by lifting his coffee and smiling. “Also, he’s bad at casual.”
You laughed.
Santos scribbled something on the list. “Fine. Who initiated the first kiss?”
“Me,” you said.
Cassie grinned. “Cute.”
Santos pointed at you. “Brave.”
You exhaled audibly. “You have no idea.”
Mel’s eyebrows lifted with open interest. You took a careful breath, letting the memory warm without letting it take over. Jack had been younger then and still guarded. Still careful. Still looking at you like you were a problem he had not expected to want. You had kissed him because if you had waited for him to stop thinking himself out of wanting things, you would still be standing in that parking lot.
Santos saw something on your face and narrowed her eyes. “That answer has a story.”
“They all have stories,” you said.
Santos grinned wickedly. “That is exactly why this process exists.”
Cassie leaned against the counter, delighted. “Was he surprised?”
You smiled. “Yes.”
Robby snorted. “He probably froze.”
“He did not freeze,” you said.
Robby looked at you.
You looked back. “He paused,” you amended.
Dana’s mouth moved faintly.
Santos made another note. “When did you start living together?”
You tilted your head. “Officially or emotionally?”
Santos’s eyes narrowed. “Do not make categories.”
You shrugged. “Then I cannot answer accurately.”
Cassie laughed into her coffee. Mel hugged her tablet a little closer to her chest, smiling.
Santos tapped the pen against the page. “Officially.”
“About a year before the wedding,” you said.
Cassie looked surprised. “Oh, that’s sweet.”
“Emotionally,” Robby said, because apparently he had decided to become legal counsel for the concept of nuisance, “Jack had a mug for her at his place way before that.”
Dana finally looked up. “There was also the drawer.”
You turned to her. “Dana.”
Dana’s eyebrows lifted. “What?”
Santos went completely still. “Drawer?”
You closed your eyes.
Cassie whispered, “What drawer?”
Robby’s smile widened. “Oh, we’re getting into drawer lore.”
“We are not,” you said.
Santos leaned forward. “There was a drawer?”
You opened your eyes and looked at her. “I am not discussing drawer lore in the ED.”
“That means there is drawer lore.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That means I have boundaries.”
Robby nodded gravely. “Cowardly with boundaries.”
You pointed at him. “I am very close to calling you Michael.”
His smile dimmed. “Understood.”
Santos looked bitterly pleased as she wrote something down. “Fine. We will circle back.”
“We absolutely will not.”
“We absolutely will.”
Cassie glanced at the list. “Ask the one about knowing.”
Santos looked down. “I was getting there.”
Your stomach shifted. Not nausea. Not exactly. Just a small tightening low in your abdomen, a roll that made you briefly aware of how long you had been standing. You moved one hand to your hip instead of your stomach, turning the gesture into something casual before anyone could make meaning of it.
Mel’s gaze lifted again.
Dana’s pen paused.
Robby stopped smiling for half a second, eyes flicking down and back up so fast no one else would have caught it.
You gave him a look. He gave you one back. Careful, his said. I know, yours answered.
Santos missed it because she had finally found the highlighted line she wanted. “When did you realize he was the one?”
The question should have been too much for a nurses’ station. Somehow, it wasn’t. Cassie’s expression softened immediately. Mel went still in that quiet, open way of hers. Even Robby stopped performing for a second. You looked down at the glitter sticker on your cardigan sleeve. A tiny purple star. Crooked. Stuck there by a seven-year-old who had decided the spaceship scanner needed a mission commander. You rubbed one edge of it with your thumb.
“There wasn’t one moment,” you said.
Santos lowered the pen slightly.
You smiled a little. “It was a lot of little ones.”
Cassie leaned in, soft and silent.
“Coffee,” you said. “Keys. Him showing up when he said he would. The way he made ordinary things feel safe.”
Dana’s pen stopped moving. Robby looked down at his coffee. Your throat warmed, but the tears did not come. You were grateful for that. The words felt true without being dangerous. Tender without breaking you open.
You lifted your eyes to Santos. “That was how I knew.”
Santos stared at you for a second. Then she looked down at the list. “That was not rapid-fire.”
“You asked a big question.”
Cassie made a small, emotional sound.
Mel smiled at you, eyes warm.
Santos pointed her pen vaguely between all of you. “No one speaks. I need a second to regain authority.”
Robby opened his mouth.
Dana said, “Don’t.”
Robby shut his mouth.
The ambulance bay doors opened before Santos could recover. Jack stepped in with coffee in one hand and the expression of a man who had already been warned. His hair was still a little damp from the shower he had taken after sleeping, his dark scrub top fresh, his badge clipped neatly at his chest. He looked less exhausted than he had that morning, but not by much. Night shift already sat on him in advance, waiting to claim him.
His eyes found you immediately. Face. Shoulders. The way you were leaning on the counter. Ginger ale beside your hand. Back to face. You felt the assessment like a touch.
Santos turned slowly. “Husband.”
Jack stopped walking. The room went still with immediate, greedy interest. He looked at Santos for one beat.
Then he pointed toward you. “Only she gets to call me that.”
Your entire mood improved. You straightened at the counter, ginger ale in one hand and dignity nowhere to be found. “Hello, husband.”
Jack’s eyes came back to you. For half a second, the ED got the face Santos had been trying to prove existed. Soft. Private. Yours. “Hi,” he said.
Then he stepped beside you, leaned down, and pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head.
It was over before anyone could make it weird.
Santos made it weird anyway. “SEE?”
Jack set his coffee down beside your ginger ale.
Cassie pressed both hands over her mouth. “That was really cute.”
Dana, without looking up, said, “Unfortunately.”
Robby leaned against the workstation. “Public growth. I’m proud.”
Jack looked at him. “Don’t be.”
You smiled into your ginger ale. Jack’s hand brushed lightly against the back of your cardigan, low enough to look accidental, steady enough for you to know it was not. “How are your feet?” he asked.
Santos made a noise.
Jack looked at her. “What?”
“Nothing,” Santos said. “Just adding to the evidence.”
“It’s not evidence,” Jack said.
“You asked about her feet.”
Jack shrugged. “Feet are medical.”
Dana nodded without looking up. “Regrettably true.”
You took a sip of ginger ale. “They’re rude.”
Jack’s gaze dropped. “Medium or severe?”
“Medium.”
His eyes lifted to yours.
You sighed. “Medium with ambition.”
“Sit in a minute,” he replied.
You narrowed your eyes. “You just got here.”
Jack tilted his head. “That was not a complicated instruction.”
Santos lifted her pen. “Husband tone.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Don’t.” Jack saw the paper in Santos’s hand.
His face changed. “No.”
Santos smiled. “I’m ready for my second source.”
“No,” Jack said again.
You looked up at him. “She already asked me rapid-fire.”
Jack’s eyes dropped to yours. “Why did you let that happen?”
“I was curious what she picked.”
Jack lowered his voice. “That’s how they get you.”
Santos clicked her pen. “How did the proposal actually happen?”
Jack looked at the paper. “No.”
You bumped your shoulder lightly against his arm. “Answer her.”
His gaze moved to you. You smiled. “Please.”
Jack stared at you for one beat, unimpressed and deeply fond. Then he exhaled through his nose and looked back at Santos. “I wrote it at the bottom of the grocery list,” he said.
The station quieted by half a degree.
“Normal list. Coffee. Paper towels. Bread. Honey.”
Cassie’s expression softened.
Jack’s eyes flicked toward you. “I asked her to check it,” he said. “See if anything was missing.”
Your chest warmed. His voice stayed even, but his face had changed. Just enough.
“She checked the list, got very quiet, then turned around.”
Robby went still beside the counter, the performance draining out of him before he could stop it.
“I had the ring box open,” Jack said. “And she said, ‘Are you serious?’”
Santos’s pen hovered over the paper. “And?” Cassie asked softly.
Jack looked down at you. “I said yes.”
You smiled faintly. “You did.”
For a second, you were back there. In your kitchen. Barefoot. One hand still resting on the grocery list because your brain had stopped working somewhere between honey and marry me. Jack standing in front of you with the ring box open, looking calm in the way he only looked when something mattered too much to trust to nerves.
Santos’s voice was quieter when she spoke. “And then?”
Jack’s jaw shifted. You did not say anything. You only looked at him. His expression softened by one degree. “Then I told her that was where I wanted to ask,” he said. “At home. In our life. Doing our things.”
Your throat tightened.
Jack’s voice stayed low. “So I asked there.”
For once, Santos did not immediately speak.
Cassie whispered, “Oh my God.”
Mel smiled down at her tablet, eyes warm.
Dana turned a page with unusual care. “Efficient and effective.”
Robby cleared his throat and lifted his coffee. “Strong list.”
Jack looked at him. Robby lowered the cup. “What? It was.”
Santos stared at Jack. “I hate that I liked that.”
Jack picked up his coffee. “Okay.”
“Do not okay me,” Santos said. “I’m vulnerable.”
You laughed, and Jack’s mouth softened before he could stop it. Your son shifted beneath your cardigan. The movement was small, low, and sudden enough that you paused with your ginger ale halfway to your mouth. Jack saw it. His eyes dropped for half a second, then came back to your face.
The station was still caught in proposal aftermath, Santos muttering something about emotional ambushes, Cassie looking misty, Robby pretending not to be affected, Dana pretending not to notice all of them.
But Mel saw.
You felt her attention sharpen from across the workstation.
Jack lowered his voice. “You okay?”
You nodded once. “Yeah.”
His gaze held yours. The question under it was quieter. The baby?
You answered with the smallest shift of your mouth. Yes.
Jack’s jaw moved once. No one else caught it—almost no one. Mel’s eyes moved from Jack’s face to your hand, still hovering near the lower edge of your cardigan. Then she looked back at her tablet. She did not say anything. That was the mercy of her.
Santos lifted the list again, recovering. “I have one more.”
Jack pointed at the paper. “No.”
Santos glared at him. “You don’t know what it is.”
Jack glared back. “I know enough.”
The overhead speakers crackled before Santos could reply, and a voice called for Dr. Abbot to trauma two. Night shift reached for him.
You watched the shift happen. It was always there, that change in him. Not a mask exactly. Not a disappearance. More like a narrowing. The soft line of his mouth settled. His shoulders squared. His eyes moved once to the board, then toward the trauma bay doors, already sorting through possibilities before he had crossed the room.
The husband at your side became the attending in stages.
Still, he looked at you first. “Five minutes,” Jack said.
You lifted your brows from the stool. “I sat down.”
“Stay there.”
Santos pointed her pen at him. “That is definitely husband tone.”
Jack looked at her.
“It is,” Cassie said, quieter but delighted.
Dana did not glance up from her paperwork. “It is.”
Robby lifted his coffee. “For the record, I agree.”
Jack stared at him. Robby lowered the cup. “Terrible. I withdraw.”
His eyes came back to you. For one second, the ED noise thinned around the two of you. Monitors, voices, ringing phones, Santos’s pen tapping against her highlighted list. All of it softened beneath the weight of the way he looked at you. Then his gaze dropped, just briefly, to the lower curve beneath your cardigan.
Half a second. No more.
Your son shifted again. Small. Secret. Yours.
Jack saw the pause in your breath. Of course he did. His jaw moved once. Then he looked back up at your face.
You gave him the smallest nod. I’m okay.
His expression answered before he turned away. I know. Text me anyway.
Then he moved toward trauma two, coffee abandoned beside your ginger ale, dark scrubs disappearing into motion and noise. Santos watched him go.
Then she turned back to you, eyes narrowed. “I am adding silent communication to the list.”
You wrapped both hands around your ginger ale. “You do that.”
Cassie leaned against the counter, still soft around the edges from the proposal story. “I can’t believe he proposed with a grocery list.”
Robby looked toward trauma two, then back at you. “Strong list.”
“You’ve said that several times,” Dana said.
“It remains true.”
Santos tapped her pen against the paper. “I still have questions.”
Mel stepped closer to the workstation before you could answer. Not enough to make a scene. Just enough. “You okay?” she asked.
Her voice was light. Gentle enough to pass as casual. Her eyes were not casual.
You looked up at her.
For a second, you saw everything she had noticed. The ginger ale. The crackers. The loose cardigan. Jack asking about your feet. His eyes dropping too quickly. Your hand hovering too close to your stomach. The tiny pauses you kept trying to smooth over before anyone could name them.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
Mel’s gaze flicked once toward trauma two, where Jack had disappeared. “He worries,” she said.
Your mouth softened before you could stop it. “He does.”
“And you let him.”
That landed differently. You looked down at the ginger ale in your hands, then at the glitter sticker still clinging crookedly to your sleeve. Purple star. Mission commander. Robot mouth defeated. “Sometimes,” you said.
Mel smiled. Small. Careful. “Good.”
She did not ask.
She only shifted her tablet against her chest and lowered her voice a little more. “If you need anything, I’m around.”
Your throat tightened, but the tears stayed where they were. “Thanks,” you said.
Mel nodded once, then stepped away.
Behind you, Santos was arguing with Robby about whether selected favorites should be admissible without full album context. Cassie was asking Dana if she had any wedding photos. Dana was saying "no" in a tone that meant "yes," but not for public consumption.
The ED kept moving.
Night shift settled in around the day shift’s leftovers. Trauma two filled with voices. A monitor alarmed and was silenced. Someone laughed near the medication room. Somewhere down the hall, a child cried, and your body leaned toward the sound before your brain had finished deciding to move.
PTMC knew about the marriage now.
They knew about the grocery list.
The first dance.
The seven years.
The coffee.
The toast.
Your son shifted beneath your cardigan again, a small roll low under your ribs, hidden beneath soft fabric and everyone else’s assumptions.
Mel glanced up from across the workstation. Gentle. Knowing. Not asking.
You rested one hand against the edge of the counter instead of your stomach. Careful. For now.
Dr. Jack Abbot x (female) reader | Dr. Jack Abbot x you
Summary: Jack and you are busy getting engaged. Unfortunately that leaves Robby alone with your daughter - and a dinner invitation that definitively isn't a date.
A/N: I'm no longer updating the taglist because Tumblr has been glitching way too much lately. If you don't want to miss any updates, feel free to turn on notifications for my posts! <3
Link to "You stole my cart" master list (1)
Link to "You stole my cart" master list (2)
Previous chapter: You can stop with that psychpathic stare of yours
--- --- ---
Robby had considered it a successful day.
He had managed to keep Lizzie alive and now she was napping, mostly clean, mildly sun-tired. Because apparently eating sand and screaming her lungs out in a happy way had exhausted her.
And him, honestly.
He stood in your kitchen, leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee and stared into the fridge like he had expected something different.
Technically there was food. A lot of food. But mostly ingredients.
Because Jack shopped like someone who deeply believed in the concept of cooking.
Robby, unfortunately, believed deeply in takeout.
He closed the fridge door again and reached for his phone. He scrolled through the chats, then hesitated for a moment and started typing.
Robby:
I’m looking after Lizzie tonight because her parents abandoned her for the night. Wanna come over for dinner?
It took almost twenty minutes for her to text back.
Mara:
Dinner? With you?
You know my conditions before I agree to go on a date with you.
Robby:
It wouldn’t be a date. Lizzie’s here and she’s the biggest cockblock I can think of, honestly.
So what do you think? Takeout?
This time she replied faster.
Mara:
I already bought groceries for tonight.
Robby frowned. That sounded suspiciously like a soft no.
He shrugged. Well, fine then.
He started typing:
Robby:
Okay :(
Then immediately deleted it. He didn’t want to sound too pathetic. He was a grown man after all.
Robby:
Fair enough.
The typing bubble appeared instantly.
Mara:
We could cook together, if you want to? As friends. Definitively not as a date.
Robby smiled when he started typing.
Robby:
Cool. Let’s say at 7 p.m?
She only sent a thumbs up, which was enough for Robby. He put his phone away and took a sip of his coffee, softly humming to himself.
The knock on the door came shortly after seven. Robby had just managed to convince Lizzie that no, she absolutely could not eat the dish sponge even. Which apparently had made her so emotionally unstable she couldn’t stop crying.
She let out gutwrenching sobs, while clenching her little fists into his hoodie, the fabric already damp from her big baby tears.
“I know, I know” Robby cooed, stroking her hair, shifting her higher on his hip as he walked toward the door. “I’m a horrible person. You’re not the first one to accuse me of that. I know that. But please, act normal in front of Mara, huh?”
“RARA!” she wailed, pressing her face into his hoodie.
“Yeah, okay, good talk.”
He pulled the door open - and there she was.
Mara stood in the hallway holding two grocery bags and looking vaguely overdressed for something that was supposed to be dinner with a toddler. She was still beautiful.
For a second both of them just looked at each other.
It felt weird, because they had only talked through text with each other since meeting for the only time on New Year’s Eve.
“Hey” Robby said eventually.
“Hey.” Mara tilted her head, looking at Lizzie who was still sobbing her eyes out. “Um, everything’s okay with her?”
Robby shrugged. “We had a small dispute whether or not she was allowed to suck on the dish sponge.”
“Ah.” Mara nodded solemnly. “But honestly - it’s probably not the most disgusting thing she ever had in her mouth. Toddlers are nasty little creatures. Last time I babysat her she licked a dog.”
“And you let her do that?”
Now it was Maras time to shrug. “I’m choosing my battles carefully.”
Robby started laughing. “Well, okay, yeah, you are definitively better at this than me.”
“Kind of my job” she replied dryly, then put the grocery bags on the ground before leaning over to Lizzie. “Hey, girl. What’s wrong?”
Lizzie lifted her head - and her entire face lit up. “ARA!!”
Mara blinked in surprise when Lizzie nearly launched herself off Robby’s hip, directly into her arms. She caught her, laughing.
“Hey baby.”
The tears were immediately forgotten - Lizzie squealed like this was the best thing that had ever happened to her.
Robby narrowed his eyes. “My heart is breaking.”
Mara shrugged. “You’ll get over it.” Then she nudged with her foot at the bags. “So, I brought groceries.”
Robby crouched and peeked inside. “That’s a lot of ingredients.”
“Yeah. Maybe I went out to get some more. I have no clue how much you eat. And her.” She paused. “I maybe also bought some dessert. And cheese and crackers.”
Robby chuckled. “I see - you’re coming prepared.” He stood and lifted the bags. “Come in.”
Mara hesitated for the tiniest second - then stepped in.
Robby dropped the grocery bags onto the counter while Mara settled Lizzie more comfortably on her hip. He glanced over to his goddaughter, snuggling up to this clearly-not-godfather-shaped person.
The betrayal stung a little.
“You know, I spent all afternoon keeping you alive and feeding you sweets” he said mock-pouting.
Lizzie smiled at him, then buried her face immediately against Mara’s shoulder, giggling.
He lifted his eyebrows. “Well, okay - message received.”
Mara snorted softly and started unpacking groceries with one hand. “She clearly likes me better.”
“She’s usually obsessed with me” Robby replied quickly.
Mara glanced down at the toddler clinging to her. “Hard to believe, honestly.”
“Okay, that was just plain rude.”
She shrugged. “Get used to it. I’m not here to coddle you.”
He narrowed his eyes, then sighed. “No, you’re here to help me cook.”
She laughed. “Well, it seems more like I’m the one cooking and you’re standing there, observing me like I’m one of your poor interns.” She looked him up and down. “Or do I totally misjudge you and you’re like a secret chef?”
Robby scratched the back of his neck. “Um, well…”
“I’ll take that as a no. But no worries - I’ll tell you exactly what I need you to do. You’re not the first guy I teach to cook - and you’re a doctor, so I think you’ve got very skilled hands.”
He started grinning.
She noticed immediately and rolled her eyes. “If you say something naughty now, I’m going to leave and I’m not coming back. This is not a date. It’s not even flirting. This is just cooking with a friend. Understood?”
He stopped smiling immediately, letting out a sigh. “Okay. Understood.” He looked at the ingredients clattering around the counter. “So, what are we making?”
“Something easy. Chicken, potatoes, vegetables.”
Robby tilted his head. “That sounds like a proper meal.”
Mara shrugged. “I love cooking and enjoy knowing what actually went into my food.”
He laughed out loud. “As a doctor I love to hear that.”
She smiled then shook her head, adjusting Lizzie on her hip. “You’re getting heavy, Lizzie” she murmured. “And I can’t do anything with you clinging to me. So I guess your Uncle Robby needs to peel the potatoes.”
“So this clearly isn’t a date” Robby let out with a sigh.
“Hm?” Mara looked at him, briefly confused.
“If this was a date no one would peel potatoes” Robby replied with a serious impression on his face.
“Okay, humor me. What would a typical date with you look like?”
Robby reached into the drawer for the peeler. “Dinner somewhere nice. Where the food already comes prepared” he added with a grin. “Then probably drinks somewhere. And then… depends.” He paused for a moment. “And I would never meet a woman in her or my apartment for the first date. I’m not up to date on everything but even I know that could come across as creepy.”
Mara lifted one eyebrow. “That’s a level of consideration I didn’t think you had in you.”
Robby huffed, mock-offended.
For a while Robby peeled potatoes in silence while Mara tried to keep Lizzie entertained. When she sat her down in her highchair her lip started wobbling dangerously before she started screaming. So Mara lifted her up on her hip again.
Lizzie went quiet immediately, tangling her fingers in Maras hair, leaning against her shoulder while sucking on her thumb.
Robby shot her a look. “That’s incredibly adorable.”
Mara rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I know. I just can’t really help you cook. Are you sure you’re fine preparing everything?”
Robby turned around, his eyes narrowing. “I’m nearly fifty years old. I think I can handle some cooking.”
She grinned. “Okay, don’t bite my head off, buddy. I was just asking.”
“Buddy” Robby repeated quietly while shaking his head then went back to peel potatoes. He was silent for a while, then - “But you need to tell me what to do with the courgettes. No idea honestly. Do I need to peel them too?”
Dinner turned out surprisingly good.
When Mara mentioned this Robby seemed almost offended by this.
“I can cook” he said, looking at her with raised brows.
“So why do you live on takeout then?” Mara asked, her gaze on Lizzie while feeding her.
“Because I work probably a hundred hours a week and when I come home I just want to relax and don’t think about shopping and cooking” Robby replied, probably a little harsher than he meant to.
Mara paused briefly, glancing at him. “Fair point” she said eventually, cleaning Lizzie's mouth with a napkin. “So is it hard to work in the emergency department?”
Robby looked down on his plate, then letting out a short laugh. “It’s not exactly relaxing. And I’m not only working there - I’m the head of the department, so it’s actually quite a bit of administration stuff on the side. Which I hate honestly.”
“So, why do you do it then? You don’t strike me for the kind of person who does it for the money.”
Robby swallowed hard, hesitating just enough before answering. “I worked very hard to get into a position where I can make a difference. For the department. For the staff. For my colleagues.” He shrugged. “I think it’s worth the extra stress.”
Mara narrowed her eyes. “So, you’re a martyr.”
Robby stared at her. “Are you mocking me?”
She shrugged, feeding Lizzie another piece of vegetable. “Maybe a little.” She paused. “So, are you making a difference?”
Robby pressed his lips together. It took him a while to answer. Eventually he sighed. “I don’t know but I would love to believe I do.”
Mara nodded slowly. But before she could answer Lizzie gagged - and spit a piece of eggplant directly on the highchair table. Robby stared at her while Mara turned away, gagging herself.
“Woah, Lizzie, no” she managed, sounding deeply disgusted.
“I guess she doesn’t like eggplant” Robby replied with a shrug, picking the chewed piece of vegetable up with a napkin.
“Clearly” Mara said, swallowing hard. “I don’t mind poopy diapers but that… ugh, girl, no.”
Lizzie stared at her, grinning widely, letting another piece of vegetable fall out of her mouth. Mara stood abruptly, walking away. She braced her hands against the counter and took a deep breath.
Robby laughed out loud. “Lizzie, you’re an absolute menace” he chuckled, cleaning her up a little. “I didn’t cook so your Auntie Mara can puke it all out again because of you, yeah?”
Lizzie let out a high-pitched giggle.
“At least she thinks it’s funny.” Mara looked back over her shoulder.
“Of course she does.” Robby still chuckled. “It’s hilarious.”
After dinner Robby handled Lizzie’s bedtime routine - something he knew by heart by now. He knew exactly how warm she wanted her bathing water, what pyjama she loved and what stuffed animal would find its way into the crib. He also knew which lullaby he needed to sing to make her fall asleep almost instantly.
Meanwhile Mara cleaned the kitchen - and the highchair, even when she just wanted to burn the whole thing.
Eventually they found themselves on the sofa on the balcony, two bottles of non-alcoholic beer and two plates with slices of a banana cream cheesecake in front of them.
“Yep. From Kyles Cakes. It’s just the best” she replied, matter-of-factly.
“It’s not bad” Robby said with a shrug, clinking his bottle against hers. “Cheers.”
“Cheers, Robby.” She took a sip.
“Thanks for coming over” Robby said eventually, his voice soft. “It’s not like I can’t handle that little gremlin on my own but this was definitively nicer.”
Mara smiled. “You’re welcome. It was less weird than I thought, so…”
Robby laughed. “Thanks for that compliment.”
“Sure” she replied, also laughing.
They fell silent again, just eating cake and sipping on their bottles. Eventually Robby put his plate away and cleared his throat.
“So.”
Mara immediately narrowed her eyes. “Oh god.”
“What?”
“That never starts anything good.”
Robby held up his hand. “I only got a question.”
Mara didn’t look convinced. “Okay.”
“You keep talking about therapy.”
She looked at him suspiciously. “Yeah?”
“What’s the big deal?”
She studied him for a second. “You really don’t get it?”
He shook his head. “No. Not really.”
Mara took a deep breath. “You’re fifty-”
“Fifty-ish.”
“God, you’re worse with your age than any women I know” she exhaled..
Robby grinned. “I’ll take this as a compliment.”
She shook her head, but continued anyway. “So you’re fifty-ish. You work in a very demanding field and you see unspeakable things on a daily basis. And you really think you don’t need a vessel to talk all of this through?”
Robby tilted his head, lifting his shoulders a little. “There’s nothing to talk through, honestly. I’ve got a thick skin.”
“Oh, come on Robby, that’s bullshit.”
He stared at her, definitively not expecting such a strong reaction to his words. “Um. What?”
She shrugged. “That’s not things you just forget. I mean I have no clue about your work but still - I guess you’ve seen your fair share of dying people. And god knows what’s happening in your private life. So… yeah, I think you could profit from some therapy sessions.”
“Jesus.” Robby rubbed his chin. “You’ve got strong opinions, woman.”
Mara let out a short laugh.
“You know, I’ve got friends who are going to therapy. Hell I’m going to therapy” she exclaimed suddenly. “And it’s the best goddamn decision I ever made. I feel better. I feel healthier. I can cope better. And I’m finally able to have real relationships with people. With men. Without always sabotaging myself.”
She glanced over briefly at Robby. “And honestly I’d like that for you too.”
Robby seemed like he was at a loss for words. He stared at her for a moment, then glanced down at the bottle in his hands.
Mara took another sip and let her gaze wander around the balcony and the city surrounding them. She didn’t talk. She didn’t break the silence .She just waited.
Eventually Robby stirred. “Okay.”
That was all he said to this. She nodded slowly. “Okay.”
--- --- ---
You wanna keep reading? - Next part is coming soon, I promise :)
My mother used to make computer cores as a "work from home" side business. As a child I got spending money via un-winding the ones that failed testing so that the magnetic center could be re-used. I got between $0.05 and $0.25 per core depending. Mom got more for the finished ones, of course, though I don't know how much. Her sister was an expert, and did the more complicated kind, some of which ended up in satellites and/or were used by NASA!
They were all done by hand using a kind of treadle-operated frame with a little (crochet!) hook to pull the wires around the cores. The people making them were mostly housewives who did this as a side-job in the 80s and 90s. I don't know if it's still done that way anywhere in the USA today, but the history of computing and space exploration is littered with "women's work" like this.
not every mutual fits neatly into an archetypal medievalism but there are some mutuals that im like yeah addressing you as “my liege” would come strangely naturally
Summary: Your shift starts with a six-year-old convinced stitches are a government conspiracy and ends with Jack walking into the ER carrying fancy decaf, plausible deniability, and absolutely zero ability to be normal about his pregnant wife. Santos clocks the coffee. Then the butter. Then the honey. Then the bag. And by the time everyone follows you into the parking garage, your very private marriage becomes everyone’s favorite new problem.
Warnings: Pregnant!Reader, pregnancy symptoms/nausea/food aversions, brief pediatric injury/stitches, medical setting, established marriage, workplace teasing, soft husband Jack, chaotic ensemble, no real angst, everyone being deeply nosy in a parking garage.
Author’s Note: Welcome to You Never Asked. This is an established-marriage Jack fic, so the whole premise is less “secret relationship” and more “private adults who never made a department-wide announcement.” Reader is a child life specialist, meaning she works with pediatric patients and families to help kids understand scary hospital experiences in age-appropriate ways. Present-day Reader is pregnant in this fic, so skip if pregnancy fic is not your thing. Otherwise, please enjoy Jack Abbot attempting subtlety and failing because he knows too much about his wife’s coffee, toast, butter, and farmers' market honey.
Xoxo, Del
Previous Part(s): | Prologue |
Chapter One: Shift Change
YOUR POV:
You were halfway through convincing a six-year-old that stitches were not a government conspiracy when your phone buzzed in the side pocket of your child life bag. You ignored it. Not because you lacked curiosity. Because Miles Warren had one hand clamped beneath his chin, one suspicious eye fixed on the suture tray, and the posture of a man preparing to report Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center to whoever regulated betrayal, he was six. Furious enough to be forty-five.
“No one is sewing my face,” Miles announced.
Dr. Mel King looked up from the rolling stool near the bedside, where she had been reviewing his chart with the focused gentleness that made kids trust her faster than they expected to.
“No one is sewing your face without explaining it first,” you said.
Miles narrowed his eyes. “That sounds like trick words.”
“Fair,” you said, because it absolutely did.
His mother sat beside the bed with one hand hovering near his sneaker, wearing the exhausted, hopeful expression of a parent who had already tried snacks, bargaining, and one deeply unsuccessful promise involving extra screen time. Perlah stood near the counter, quietly arranging supplies with the calm efficiency of someone who had already survived three versions of this exact argument before lunch.
You smiled at Miles and reached into your bag. “I’m going to tell you the truth in kid words,” you said.
Miles’s hand loosened slightly. “Kid words?”
“Yep.” You pulled out two options and held them up. “You can hold the squishy dinosaur or the blue stress ball while we talk.”
Miles studied both with the gravity of someone choosing legal representation. Mel leaned back slightly on the stool, giving him time.
The dinosaur was green, soft, and vaguely cross-eyed. The stress ball was shaped like a globe and had seen better days.
Miles pointed with his free hand. “Dinosaur.”
“Strong choice,” you said, placing it gently in his lap.
Miles picked it up and squeezed. “What’s his name?”
You looked at the dinosaur with grave consideration. “That depends. Is he a doctor dinosaur or a regular dinosaur?”
Miles blinked. “A doctor.”
“Then Dr. Pickles,” you answered.
Perlah’s mouth twitched. Mel’s eyes brightened in immediate approval.
Miles looked down at the dinosaur, deeply unimpressed. “That’s a bad doctor name.”
“You’re right,” you said. “He’s had some complaints.”
Miles’s mother let out a soft, relieved breath that almost became a laugh.
Mel nodded once, as if this was clinically relevant. “Dr. Pickles is currently under peer review.”
Miles looked at Mel. “What does that mean?”
“It means other doctors are checking his work,” Mel said.
You nodded toward the dinosaur. “And his attitude.”
Miles squeezed Dr. Pickles again. His shoulders lowered by half an inch.
You counted that as progress. Your phone buzzed again. You ignored that, too.
Probably Jack. Definitely Jack. Which meant the text was probably about ginger ale, crackers, decaf coffee, the mint candies he had started keeping in places you had not known mint candies could be kept, or the fact that you had slept for roughly four hours and then stared at the ceiling as if it had personally betrayed you.
Jack had not been overbearing about the pregnancy. Not exactly. He had been Jack about it. Which meant he noticed everything, filed it away, and quietly rearranged the world by six inches so it bothered you less. He knew you still adored coffee and had accepted decaf with all the grace of a woman being exiled from her homeland. He knew you got jealous every time someone walked past with a real latte. He knew you had wanted fries for three days last week and then gagged the second a takeout container opened near you.
He knew the specific face you made when you were trying to decide if a food sounded possible or if your stomach had already declared war. He knew you were tired. He knew you were trying.
That was the part that got you.
Jack never treated the pregnancy like you were fragile. He treated it like you were doing something hard, and he wanted to be useful. You loved him so much that it made you deeply irritated.
“You said truth,” Miles reminded you.
“I did.” You shifted closer, keeping your voice calm. “First, Perlah is going to clean your chin. That part might feel cold and wet. It might sting a little because cuts are rude.”
Miles’s eyes moved to Perlah. Perlah held up the gauze to show him.
“Then,” you continued, “Dr. King is going to use medicine to help the skin around the cut get sleepy.”
Miles’s face tightened. “How?”
You did not soften the answer into a lie. Kids usually knew when adults were sanding off the sharp edges of truth. They could feel the missing parts. “With a poke,” you said.
Miles stiffened. His mother’s hand twitched toward him, then stopped.
You kept your attention on Miles. “It is okay to not like that part.”
“I don’t like that part,” Miles said immediately.
You nodded. “Excellent honesty.”
“It sounds terrible,” Miles grumbled.
“It is not my favorite design choice either,” you said.
Mel hugged the chart lightly to her chest, like she was restraining herself from laughing. “Medicine has several design flaws.”
Miles’s mouth twitched before he remembered to be outraged. “Medicine is stupid.”
“Sometimes,” you agreed. “But the poke is fast, and then the sleepy medicine helps the stitches hurt less.”
Miles looked at Mel. “How many stitches?”
Mel shifted closer on the stool, her expression open and serious. “Probably three.”
Miles stared at her. Mel held up three fingers. “Maybe four if your chin decides to be dramatic.”
Miles looked personally offended by his own chin.
You held up your fingers. “Here are your choices. You can watch what’s happening, or you can look at your mom. You can count, or I can tell you each step before it happens. You can squeeze Dr. Pickles, or you can squeeze your mom’s hand.”
Miles considered this. His mother leaned closer. “You can squeeze my hand as hard as you need, bud.”
Miles looked suspicious. “What if I break it?”
His mother smiled in that brave way parents did when they were trying not to cry in front of their children. “Then I’ll get stitches too.”
“That’s not funny,” Miles said.
“No,” she agreed. “It was medium funny.”
Miles gave this serious thought.
Your phone buzzed a third time.
Mel’s gaze flicked briefly toward your bag. Mel saw things. Not loudly. Not with the hungry curiosity of someone looking for gossip. She noticed the way a room shifted, the way a voice changed, the way someone’s hand moved toward pain before they remembered other people could see.
Quietly. Accurately. A little dangerously.
You reached into the front pocket of your bag for your laminated prep cards, and your fingers brushed the edge of a saltine sleeve. You paused. Jack. Of course. He had tucked crackers into the pocket that morning while you were standing in the kitchen, wearing one of his old shirts, staring mournfully at his real coffee like it had betrayed you by existing. Not the main pocket. That would risk crumbs near your stickers and fidgets. The outside pocket. Because Jack Abbot was an emotionally devastating maniac about practical details.
You had started dressing differently two weeks ago. Not dramatically. Nothing that would look like a confession to anyone who wasn’t paying close attention. Looser sweaters. Longer cardigans. Scrub tops that skimmed instead of clung. At first, it had been practical. Your body had changed quietly, then all at once. One morning, you had stood in front of the bathroom mirror, shirt lifted just enough to see the new curve beneath your ribs, and Jack had gone still in the doorway behind you. You had seen his face in the mirror. Not surprise. Not fear. Just love. So much of it, so sudden and bare, that your eyes filled before you could tell yourself not to be ridiculous.
Jack had crossed the room without a word and wrapped both arms around you from behind, one hand settling carefully over the place where your son was beginning to make himself known.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you had said, already crying.
His chin had brushed your shoulder. “Like what?”
“Like you’re happy,” you replied through tears.
Jack had gone quiet for a second. Then his thumb moved once over your stomach, barely there. “I am.”
That had made you cry harder, obviously. Jack had held you through it with the grim patience of a man accepting consequences for being too sincere before coffee.
Now, in Miles’s exam room, you tugged the hem of your cardigan lower without thinking. Mel’s eyes dropped for half a second to the visible corner of the cracker packet, then briefly to your cardigan. Then she looked back at Miles. She did not say anything. That was somehow worse.
You pulled out the prep cards and turned back to the bed. “Okay. This card shows what stitches look like when they’re still in the package.”
Miles leaned forward despite himself.
You showed him the card, then the next one. “These are not like sewing clothes,” you said. “No giant needle. No sewing machine. No one is turning you into pants.”
Miles stared at you and almost smiled. “Who would turn me into pants?”
“No one in this room,” Perlah said.
Miles glanced at Mel. Mel shook her head. “I’m not qualified for pants.”
Miles looked marginally reassured.
Something shifted low in your abdomen. Small. Strange. Not painful. Not sharp. Just enough to make you pause with your thumb resting against the edge of the laminated card. It was still new enough that your body had not figured out how to make it casual. A flutter. A roll. A quiet internal reminder from someone who had recently developed the habit of making his presence known at inconvenient times. Yesterday morning, while Jack was making breakfast, it had startled you badly enough that you had stopped mid-sentence.
Jack had gone still across the kitchen, butter knife in hand, eyes already on you. You had told him it was nothing. He had not believed you for one second.
Now, in Miles’s exam room, you let one hand drift to the lower edge of your cardigan for half a breath. Then you moved it away.
Mel was looking at the chart. Mostly. “You okay?” she asked.
You lifted the next card. “Yep.”
Mel nodded. She did not challenge you. She did not stare. She only tucked one foot under the stool and watched Miles again, giving you the grace of not making your body the center of the room.
You appreciated that. You also did not trust it.
Miles squeezed Dr. Pickles. “What if I cry?”
You looked back at him, grateful for the question. “Then you cry.”
His brow furrowed. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” you said. “Crying is allowed.”
Perlah stepped closer with the cleaning supplies. “I cry when my coffee order is wrong.”
A sharp little pang of envy hit before you could stop it. Coffee. Real coffee. Full-caffeine, glorious, beautiful coffee. You missed it with the kind of intensity usually reserved for long-lost lovers and discontinued favorite lipsticks.
Miles looked at Perlah as if this were possibly the most adult thing anyone had ever admitted to him.
Mel nodded. “I cried once because a patient gave me a sticker and told me I was doing a good job.”
Miles looked at you.
“I cried last week because someone walked past me with an everything bagel,” you said.
Mel’s eyes slid briefly toward you. Damn it.
Miles frowned. “You don’t like bagels?”
“I love bagels,” you said. That was the problem.
Mel’s gaze lingered for half a second longer than necessary before she turned back to Miles.
Miles looked between all of you. “Adults cry a lot.”
“Constantly,” Perlah said.
“Secretly,” Mel added.
You nodded. “In supply closets.”
Miles considered this and seemed to find it medically acceptable.
Perlah moved beside the bed. “I’m going to clean your chin now. Cold and wet first.”
Miles clutched Dr. Pickles. “No tricks?”
“No tricks,” Perlah said.
You held up the card. “Truth in kid words, remember?”
Miles looked at you. “Tell me each step.”
“I can do that.”
Perlah cleaned the wound. Miles hissed through his teeth but did not pull away. You kept your voice low and steady, narrating before each step, leaving space for him to react, reminding him that holding still did not mean pretending he liked it. Your phone buzzed again.
This time, even Miles noticed. “Is someone calling you?” he asked.
“Texting,” you said.
His brow furrowed. “Is it important?”
You thought of Jack’s probable message. Ginger ale still helping? Crackers are in the outside pocket. There’s decaf in your travel mug if you want it. No pressure. Just options.
Your throat warmed. “Someone’s just checking on me,” you said.
Perlah smiled to herself.
Miles nodded like he understood this on a personal level. “My grandma texts like that.”
You smiled. “Then your grandma and my person would probably get along.”
Mel’s gaze lifted again. Your person. You had not said husband. You rarely did at work. Not because you were hiding. Not exactly.
It just never came up in a way that needed correction, and Jack was private enough that announcing your marriage at the nurses’ station sounded like something he would endure with the expression of a man being asked to donate a kidney recreationally. Also, there was a small, terrible part of you that found the whole thing funny. PTMC knew you by your first name because kids did better with first names. Families did too.
You were Child Life, soft sweaters, a calm voice, and stickers tucked into every available pocket.
Jack was Abbot. Night shift. Dry voice. Trauma rooms. Military posture. Coffee so black it seemed medicinal.
People saw you both in fragments. Shift change. Late consults. Hallway overlap. The occasional staff meeting where Jack sat in the back and looked like every agenda item had personally offended him. Almost no one put the pieces together.
Robby knew, obviously. Dana knew too, because Dana knew everything worth knowing and had the good sense not to announce other people’s lives at the nurses’ station. But Robby was the one who enjoyed it. Robby had stood beside Jack in a suit and called it deeply unsettling when Jack adjusted his tie for the fourth time before the ceremony. He had been Jack’s best man, a title he brought up only when it would annoy Jack most.
Perlah finished cleaning Miles’s chin. “First part done,” Perlah said.
Miles opened one eye. “That kinda sucked.”
“It does suck,” you agreed.
Miles looked surprised. “You can say that?”
“Yes,” you said.
Miles processed this with the intensity of a philosopher in dinosaur socks.
Mel rolled closer on the stool. “Sleepy medicine next.”
Miles’s face tightened. You leaned in just enough to keep his focus. “Do you want to count, or do you want me to tell you when it’s done?”
Miles swallowed. “Tell me when it’s done.”
“Okay.” You placed Dr. Pickles more firmly under his hand. “You squeeze him. I’ll watch the medicine.”
Miles nodded once. His mother offered her hand. Miles took it. The poke happened fast. Miles cried. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a tight little burst of tears that made his mother’s face crumple and Perlah’s gaze soften.
You stayed with him through it. “That was the worst part,” you said when the needle was gone.
Miles sniffed hard. “That was terrible.”
You nodded. “It was.”
“I hated it,” Miles added.
“That’s okay,” you said. “You’re allowed.”
Miles looked down at Dr. Pickles, betrayed by medicine and possibly dinosaurs.
Mel gave the anesthetic a minute to work. Your phone buzzed again. Perlah set the used supplies aside. Mel glanced at your bag, then back at Miles. Only once. A quick thing. Barely anything. Still enough.
“You can check that,” Mel said gently.
“I’m good,” you said.
Mel hugged the chart closer to her chest. “It’s persistent.”
You smiled. “That’s one word for him.”
The second the sentence left your mouth, you felt Mel’s attention sharpen by a fraction. Not enough to make a thing of it. Enough. Miles’s mother leaned over to kiss the top of his head, giving you a small window. You reached into your bag and checked your phone. There were, in fact, four texts.
Jack: Ginger ale still helping?
Jack: Crackers are in the outside pocket if not.
Jack: No pressure. Just options.
Jack: Love you both. You’re doing good.
You stared at the last message for half a second too long. Love you both. You’re doing good. It was such a Jack text. Practical care stacked under one plain, devastating sentence. No exclamation points. No hearts. No little cartoon baby emoji. Just ginger ale, decaf, and love, organized in order of immediate usefulness.
You typed back with one thumb.
You: We’re okay. With a patient. Dr. Pickles is under peer review.
The response came almost immediately.
Jack: Sounds fair. A second later: Jack: Tell him to improve.
You bit the inside of your cheek. You had texted him a picture of the dinosaur earlier, with no explanation except "new attending on peds."
Jack had replied: Looks underqualified.
You locked your phone. Mel’s eyes were on Miles, but you knew better than to think she had missed the way your face softened. You tucked the phone away and picked up the sticker sheet. The stitches went better than Miles expected and worse than he wanted. Both things could be true. He squeezed Dr. Pickles hard enough to flatten the dinosaur’s head. He cried once more when the first stitch tugged, then got distracted by the fact that Mel had once fainted during a blood draw when she was twelve.
“You’re a doctor,” Miles said, scandalized.
“I recovered,” Mel said.
Miles eyed her. “But you fainted?”
“Briefly.”
You leaned closer to Miles. “She’s very brave now.”
Mel pulled off her gloves. “Medium brave.”
Miles nodded solemnly. “Medium brave counts.”
By the time Mel finished the last stitch, Miles looked exhausted, offended, and deeply proud of himself. A good combination. “You did it,” his mother whispered.
Miles looked at you. “Was I brave?”
You peeled a dinosaur sticker from the sheet. “Very.”
Miles frowned. You waited.
“Medium brave,” he corrected. “Not all the way.”
You pressed the sticker gently to the back of his hand. “Medium brave counts.”
Mel smiled as she reached for the discharge instructions on the computer. “Usually more than all-the-way brave,” she said.
Miles looked at her. “Why?”
Mel glanced over from the screen. “Because medium brave means you were scared and did it anyway.”
Miles looked down at Dr. Pickles. His chin was swollen. His cheeks were blotchy. His fingers were still tight around the dinosaur. But he smiled. Just a little.
You felt that tiny, internal shift again. A small roll low under your ribs, subtle enough that no one else should have noticed. You breathed through it.
Mel did not look at your stomach. She did not ask. She only handed you the sanitizer when you reached for it and watched your hand settle for one brief second against the lower curve beneath your cardigan before you caught yourself and moved.
That was the thing about Mel. She didn’t need to say anything to make you feel seen.
Miles’s mother thanked everyone three times. Mel gave wound care instructions. Perlah handed over extra gauze and the kind of practical reassurance parents needed after watching their children bleed. You promised Miles that Dr. Pickles could stay with him until discharge as long as he did not file another complaint with the medical board.
Miles hugged the dinosaur to his chest. “He’s on probation.”
“Fair,” you said.
You stepped out of the room with Mel a few minutes later, letting the door click softly behind you. The noise of the ER met you all at once. Phones. Monitors. A transport tech laughed near the desk. Someone called for an EKG. The familiar, relentless rhythm of PTMC refused to pause just because one six-year-old had survived the betrayal of stitches.
Mel stopped beside the counter and reached for the sanitizer. You checked the time. The day shift ended in thirty minutes. Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You glanced down.
Jack: I’m early. Five minutes out.
You smiled despite yourself.
Jack had always liked nights. He liked the dark. The smaller crew. The way the hospital narrowed down to alarms, instincts, and people who knew how to move without talking too much. He liked the solitude of it, the strange mercy of working while the rest of the world slept.
Or he had.
Lately, nights had started to feel different. Lately, nights meant leaving you at home with ginger ale on the nightstand, decaf in the cabinet, pillows wedged around your hips, and a body that could not decide what it wanted without punishing you for guessing wrong.
Jack still loved the work. You knew he did. But you also knew the way his hand lingered at your back before he left now. The way his eyes moved over your face like he was trying to memorize how tired you looked before he had to spend twelve hours away from it. The way he kissed you once, then again, like the second one might keep something safe that the first one could not. He hated leaving. You knew that, too.
Mel dried her hands with a paper towel beside you. You slipped your phone back into your pocket before she could see the screen. Mel didn’t ask who it was. She didn’t need to. Instead, her gaze moved once to the ginger ale beside your water bottle. Then, to the sleeve of saltines in your bag. Then to your face.
“You feeling okay today?” Mel asked. The question was gentle enough to pass as nothing.
You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “Yeah.”
Mel nodded once, accepting the answer without quite believing it. “Good,” she said.
You looked at her for another beat. Mel only smiled mildly and tossed the paper towel into the trash. You turned toward the workstation to finish your notes, one hand resting briefly over the place where your son had rolled beneath your ribs. The day shift was almost over. Night shift was getting ready to begin. And no one in the ER knew that Jack Abbot was five minutes away from walking through those doors with decaf in one hand, plausible deniability in the other, and every intention of checking on his pregnant wife without anyone noticing.
The first thing you saw was the cup. Not Jack. Not technically. The cup came through the ambulance bay doors first, carried in one hand like a formal apology. It was not from the cafeteria. It was not from the lobby kiosk. It was definitely not hospital decaf, which tasted like someone had rinsed a coffee pot and asked you to be grateful. This cup had a sleeve. A stamped logo. A handwritten label. Fancy. Suspicious. Hopeful, which felt cruel.
Then Jack came through the doors behind it, already in dark scrubs, his badge clipped at his chest, his other hand wrapped around his own coffee. Real coffee. Actual coffee. Coffee with caffeine and dignity and a future. You stared at it with immediate, unreasonable resentment.
Then you looked at your husband. Jack’s eyes found yours from across the department the way they always did, quickly and without announcement. Face first. Then shoulders. Then the ginger ale beside your laptop. The sleeve of the crackers was half-tucked under your notebook. Your cardigan, loose and soft over the curve you had spent the last two weeks pretending was not becoming obvious.
His gaze dropped for less than a second. You felt it anyway. Then he crossed the ER like he was only coming in for the night shift. Like he had not texted you three separate options in the last hour and found a new brand of decaf because you had said, once, half-asleep and miserable against his pillow, that you missed coffee so much you could cry. He set the fancy cup beside your laptop. ‘Decaf. Don’t yell until after trying’ was written in black marker across the lid.
Your throat did something ridiculous. Jack’s face did not change. “New one,” he said.
You looked at the cup, then at him. “You bought me fancy decaf coffee?”
His mouth barely moved. “Try it.”
You picked up the cup with both hands because it was warm and because your body, traitorous and exhausted, had already decided that warmth was reason enough to hope. The first sip was cautious. Defensive. You expected disappointment. You expected hot brown sadness. You expected the thin, bitter lie every decaf had been telling you for the past month and a half.
Instead, the coffee was warm. Smooth. Rich. Good. Actually, unfairly, wonderfully good.
Your eyes closed before you could stop them. “Oh my God,” you said.
Jack went still. Not in a way anyone else would notice. Not unless they knew him. Not unless they knew the exact way his body held itself when he was waiting for the verdict on something that mattered more than he wanted it to.
“Yeah?” he asked.
You nodded, still holding the cup close. “Jack.” His eyes stayed on you. “It’s good.” The words came out smaller than you meant them to. Grateful in a way coffee probably did not deserve.
Except it was not just coffee. It was a normal thing. One thing your body had not rejected. One thing that tasted as if it belonged to the version of you who used to drink real coffee without negotiating with your stomach first. Jack understood that. Of course he did. That was the best part.
His shoulders settled by a fraction. “Good.”
You looked down at the lid again, and a laugh caught in your throat. “I wasn’t going to yell,” you said.
Jack gave you a look.
“I was going to emotionally object,” you corrected.
“Mm,” he hummed.
“With dignity,” you added.
Jack nodded once. “Sure.”
You took another sip, and this time you did not bother hiding how much you liked it. You were too tired to perform indifference, too relieved to make him work for it. “Thank you,” you said.
Jack’s expression went quieter. “Yeah,” he said. “Of course.”
Behind the counter, Santos lowered the chart in her hand. Slowly. “Oh, no,” she said.
You closed your eyes. Jack did not move.
Santos pointed at the cup. “That was a moment.”
Jack looked at her. “It was coffee.”
“It was not coffee.” Santos’s eyes narrowed. “It was emotionally loaded coffee.”
Robby made a pleased sound from the workstation behind her. “Excellent band name.”
Jack’s gaze cut toward him. “Don’t help.”
“I’m helping myself,” Robby said.
Dana did not look up from the discharge papers in front of her, but the corner of her mouth moved like she had decided not to be held responsible for anyone in the department. Mel, who had been reviewing something on her tablet near the counter, glanced between you and Jack with quiet interest. Not nosy. Not loud. Just watching.
Santos was loud enough for both of them. “Since when does Abbot bring Child Life specialty beverages?” she asked.
Jack picked up his own coffee. “Since Child Life suffered enough.”
You took another sip. “I support this policy.”
Santos pointed at you. “You’re too happy. That’s suspicious.”
“I’m drinking good decaf for the first time in weeks,” you said. “My joy is proportionate.”
Robby leaned one hip against the workstation. “Strong argument.”
Jack looked at him again. Robby lifted both hands. “I’m neutral.”
“You have never been neutral in your life,” Dana said.
Robby nodded once. “Also fair.”
Jack’s real coffee drifted near you when he shifted his weight, and your stomach made one small, sour complaint. You did not move. You did not even think you changed expression. Jack noticed anyway. He moved his cup to the far side of the counter without looking at it. Small. Quiet. Automatic. Your fingers tightened around your decaf. Mel noticed. You saw her notice. Her eyes flicked to Jack’s hand, then back to your face, and something thoughtful crossed her expression before she politely looked down at her tablet again.
Santos missed none of it. Her gaze sharpened.
Jack lowered his voice, but not enough to be secretive. Just enough to make the space between you feel smaller. “How bad?”
You knew what he meant. Not work. Not Miles. Not the coffee. The nausea. The hunger that kept arriving with disgust tucked beneath it. The way your body had started treating dinner like a negotiation no one had authorized. “Manageable,” you said.
Jack’s eyes narrowed by a fraction.
You sighed. “Annoying.”
He almost smiled, “Closer.”
“The bagel smell in the break room was a crime scene,” you grumbled.
His mouth twitched. “That bad?”
You nodded. “I considered filing charges.”
Jack nodded as if this were a reasonable escalation. “What sounds possible for dinner?”
You looked down at the coffee in your hands. Good coffee. Actual good coffee. Decaf, tragically, but not a punishment. Not a thin, bitter insult. Good enough that your whole body seemed confused by the relief of wanting something and being able to have it.
“Toast,” you admitted.
Jack nodded once. “Toast is good.”
“Toast is barely dinner,” you said with a frown.
Jack looked at you so sincerely that your chest squeezed tight. “Toast is dinner if it stays down.”
Your throat tightened. That was the thing about Jack. He did not make ‘possible’ sound like failure. He just lowered the bar until you could step over it without shame.
“Butter and honey,” you said.
His expression softened. “Irish butter’s in the fridge.”
You looked at him. “You got more?”
He nodded. “Aldi had it.”
“You went to Aldi?” you asked, eyes bright.
Jack shrugged. “I survived.”
“You hate Aldi.” Your eyebrows rose.
“I hate the parking lot,” Jack corrected you.
You couldn’t stop your smile, “And the cart quarter.”
Jack's eyes narrowed, “The cart quarter is an aggressive system.”
You laughed before you could help it, one hand settling briefly against your cardigan when your son shifted low and strange, as if he had opinions about grocery logistics. Jack saw. Of course, he saw. His eyes dropped for half a second, then came back to your face. “Still okay?” he asked.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
His voice stayed low. “Good honey’s on the counter.”
You inhaled sharply, “The farmers market one?”
“The one you said tasted like flowers and sunshine,” Jack replied.
You stared at him for one second too long.
Santos put the chart down. “Hold on.”
Jack did not look away from you quickly enough.
Apparently, that was Santos’s final straw. “No,” she said. “Absolutely not.”
You took another sip of coffee.
Santos pointed at Jack. “You know what butter she has.”
Jack’s face stayed calm. “Most kitchens have butter.”
Santos glared, “Do not insult me.”
Robby made a quiet, delighted noise.
Santos’s finger stayed aimed at Jack. “You said Irish butter. From Aldi. Like a man who has personally fought the parking lot and lost.”
Jack’s brow furrowed, “I didn’t lose.”
“You know where her farmers' market honey is.” Santos continued.
“It’s on the counter,” Jack said with a nod.
Santos stared at him. “Again, not helping your case.”
Dana finally looked up. “It is good honey.”
Santos turned on her. “You stay out of this.” Dana’s eyebrows lifted. Santos exhaled sharply. “Actually, no. You’re involved now. Is this normal?”
Dana glanced once at you, then at Jack, then at the coffee in your hands. “For them?” she said. “Yes.” The department went quiet for half a beat. Robby’s smile became openly dangerous. Jack looked at Dana. Dana returned to her paperwork like she had not just thrown a match into gasoline.
Santos’s eyes widened. “For them?”
You looked down at your coffee. Jack took a drink from his. Neither of you answered. Mel hugged her tablet a little closer to her chest. “Oh,” she said softly.
Santos snapped her attention to Mel. “Oh, what?”
Mel’s cheeks colored. “Nothing.”
“No, that was an oh,” Santos replied, eyes narrowed.
Mel shrugged. “It was an observational oh.”
Robby nodded. “Clinically, much worse.”
Jack set his coffee down. “Robby.”
Robby folded his arms. “What? I’m supporting the diagnostic process.”
Santos pointed between you and Jack. “Oh, my God.”
You took another sip. Jack’s jaw shifted like he knew exactly where this was going and had decided to let it happen.
Santos’s eyes narrowed. “You’re dating.”
The words landed in the middle of the nurses’ station with the subtlety of a dropped tray. Perlah, passing behind Santos with a stack of supplies, slowed for exactly one step before deciding she valued her peace and kept walking. Mel’s eyes widened. Robby leaned back against the workstation, delighted in a way that did not bode well for anyone. “Interesting theory,” he said.
Santos pointed at him without looking. “You know something.”
“I know many things,” Robby said, nodding wisely.
Her eyes narrowed, “About this.”
“Especially about this,” Robby agreed.
Jack’s eyes cut toward him. Robby smiled. “Sorry. Department morale.”
Santos turned back to you. “Are you dating Abbot?”
You looked at Jack. Jack looked at you. There was a very long second where neither of you spoke, not because you were trying to hide anything, but because the actual answer was so much funnier than the question. “No,” you said.
Santos blinked. “No?”
“No,” Jack said.
Santos stared at both of you. “That was too synchronized.”
“Still true,” Jack said.
She threw up her hands, “Then why do you know her butter?”
You lifted the coffee. “It’s very memorable butter.”
Santos pointed at you. “I do not like you right now.”
You nodded solemnly. “That seems fair.”
Mel looked from you to Jack again, her expression caught somewhere between surprised and delighted. “So you’re not dating?”
Jack picked up his coffee. “No.”
Mel’s eyebrows drew together. “But the coffee?”
“It’s decaf,” Jack said.
Santos made a strangled sound. “That is not an answer.”
Dana turned a page. “It is one if you’ve met him.”
You smiled into your cup. Jack saw that too. The smile. The way you were trying to hide it. The way you were failing because the coffee was good, and he had gone to Aldi for butter, and your son was rolling around like he had decided to make himself known during the least convenient window of time. His face softened before he caught it.
Santos saw that too. She went very still. Then she pointed at him again. “You have a face.”
Jack stared at her. “Most people do.”
“No.” Santos stepped closer. “You have a specific face.”
Robby pressed his lips together. Jack looked unimpressed. “That cleared nothing up.”
“You looked soft.”
“Santos,” Mel said, but she sounded like she was trying not to laugh.
“He did,” Santos insisted. “He looked soft at Child Life.”
You glanced at Jack. “Congratulations.”
His mouth twitched. “Thank you.”
Santos threw a hand out. “See? Vibe.”
Dana sighed. “This is why I don’t work nights.”
“You work all the time,” Robby said.
Dana looked at him. “And yet I avoid this.” The overhead speakers crackled, and someone called for environmental services near trauma two. The ER resumed around you in pieces. Monitors beeped. A printer coughed out discharge paperwork. Someone laughed near the medication room. Jack glanced toward the board. Night shift was beginning to swallow him. You could feel it happening. The department reaching for him. The trauma rooms and consults and handoffs and all the things that would keep him here while you went home to the quiet house with the new loaf of bread on the counter and good honey waiting beside it.
His gaze came back to you. “I’ve got four minutes,” he said.
“Luxury,” you replied.
He almost smiled. “Can I walk you out?”
Your chest warmed before you could stop it. “You have handoff.”
Jack shrugged. “Robby’s still pretending to work.”
Robby lifted one hand without looking away from the show. “Rude. Accurate.”
Jack held your gaze. “Four minutes.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Okay.”
Santos made a sound. “No.”
Jack looked at her. “Problem?”
Her eyes narrowed, “Yes, problem. You cannot say you are not dating and then walk her out with your emotionally loaded coffee situation.”
“It’s her coffee,” Jack said.
“That does not make it less loaded,” Santos replied.
You started gathering your things before Santos could build a formal case. Your notebook went into your Child Life bag. The laminated prep cards slid into their folder. Dr. Pickles, temporarily retired from active duty after Miles’s successful stitches, stayed tucked in the side pocket.
Jack watched your hands. Not hovering. Not taking over. Just ready, the way he always was.
When you reached for the bag strap, his eyes dropped to it. “Can I?” he asked.
The question was quiet enough that it was mostly yours. You handed him the strap. Jack took the bag and settled it onto his shoulder like it belonged there. Santos stared. Mel’s mouth parted slightly. Robby looked delighted enough to require supervision.
Dana did not look up, but she said, “Careful, Abbot. That bag has stickers.”
Jack adjusted the strap. “I’m aware.”
Santos’s voice went flat. “You’re aware.”
You picked up your coffee. “There are a lot of stickers.”
Mel smiled. “That tracks.”
Santos pointed between you again. “You are all hearing this, right?”
Robby pushed away from the workstation. “I hear many things.”
“You knew he carried her bag?”
Robby’s grin widened. “I know many things.”
“Stop saying that,” she snapped.
Robby’s grin turned wicked. “No.”
Jack looked toward the elevator, then back at you. “Ready?” You nodded. The movement made your back complain in a low, annoying pulse. You must have shifted your weight more carefully than you meant to, because Jack’s hand lifted a fraction at his side. He did not touch you. Not here. Not in front of the whole department while Santos was watching like she had been personally assigned to solve the mystery of your entire life. But he wanted to.
You could feel that too. “I’m good,” you said softly.
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours for one second longer. Then he nodded. “Okay.”
Santos looked at Mel. “They are absolutely dating.”
“They said they’re not,” Mel said, though her voice had gone thoughtful.
Santos narrowed her eyes. “People lie.”
Dana picked up her bag from the counter. “Sometimes people answer the question asked.”
Santos turned slowly toward her. Dana’s expression stayed mild. Robby made a sound like he was enjoying the evening more than anyone had a right to. Jack started toward the elevators with your Child Life bag on his shoulder and your four-minute goodbye ticking down beside him. You fell into step at his side.
Behind you, Santos made a sound. “Nope,” she said.
You glanced back. She had grabbed her coat from the back of the chair and was already following.
Mel looked between Santos and the elevator. “Are we all going down?”
“I am,” Santos said. “For reasons.”
Robby pushed away from the workstation. “I’m done for the day.”
Dana picked up her bag. “I’m also leaving before this becomes my problem.”
“Too late,” Robby said. Dana ignored him.
Cassie appeared from the hallway with her keys in hand, Langdon beside her, still zipping his coat. “Are people leaving?” Cassie asked.
Jack did not stop walking. “Shift change,” he said.
Robby smiled. “Love this place.”
By the time the elevator doors opened, all of you had somehow become a group. You. Jack. Santos. Mel. Robby. Dana. Langdon. Cassie. It was too many people for one elevator, and exactly the wrong number of witnesses for a secret that had never really been a secret. Santos got in first, like proximity might help her solve whatever crime she had decided Jack was committing. Mel followed, glancing between you and Jack with careful, growing curiosity. Robby stepped in behind her, already wearing the expression of a man who knew exactly how this ended and had chosen not to save anyone. Dana entered last with the resigned calm of someone who had seen more than enough hospital nonsense to recognize when nonsense had become inevitable. Langdon and Cassie squeezed in at the last second, both still half in their coats, both clearly unsure why Santos looked like she was about to interrogate someone under oath. The elevator doors slid shut. Jack stood beside you with your Child Life bag on his shoulder. The bag had three cartoon stickers on the front pocket, two laminated keychains, one slightly crushed granola bar in the side pouch, and Dr. Pickles’s green squishy dinosaur head peeking out from the top. Jack Abbot, night-shift attending, former combat medic, allergic to unnecessary bonding, carried it as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
Which it was to you.
Not, apparently, to everyone else. The elevator hummed down one level. Santos looked at Jack’s shoulder. Then at you. Then back at Jack’s shoulder. “I’m just saying,” she said, “this is weird.”
Jack did not look at her. “Most things are.”
“No.” Santos pointed at your bag. “This is specific weird.”
Robby made a pleased sound. “Specific weird is my favorite kind.”
Dana closed her eyes. Mel pressed her lips together. You took another sip of your decaf, which remained warm and good, and therefore, the only reason you had not started openly laughing. Jack’s gaze slid toward you. Just briefly. That was all. But you knew him well enough to read it. ‘Careful’, his eyes said. You lifted your brows. ‘I am behaving beautifully’, your face said back. His mouth moved at the corner. Santos saw it.
She stepped forward as the elevator doors opened into the parking level. “Oh, absolutely not,” she said. Jack walked out first because he was closest to the doors. You followed with your coffee in hand, the cool garage air brushing across your face. It smelled like concrete, rainwater, and old exhaust, sharp enough to wake you up a little. Somewhere farther down the row, a car chirped unlocked. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Your back ached in that deep, annoying way that felt less like pain and more like your body had reorganized itself without asking permission. You shifted your weight as you walked. Jack noticed. He slowed half a step.
You did not look at him when you said, “I’m good.”
Jack raised a brow. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it loudly,” you replied.
Robby coughed behind you. Santos’s footsteps stuttered. Mel made a tiny sound that might have been a laugh.
Jack looked down at you. “I’ll work on that.”
You smiled softly. “No, you won’t.”
“No,” he said. “Probably not.”
Santos pointed at both of you as she walked. “See? Dating.”
“We’re still not dating,” Jack said.
Robby’s smile turned bright enough to become a workplace hazard. You started walking towards your car, which was only two rows away, and you were suddenly very aware of the butter in your refrigerator, the honey on your counter, the toast waiting at home, and the fact that your husband was on the edge of being swallowed by the night shift. The group followed. Of course, they followed. Santos had the look of a woman who had found blood in the water and also somehow filed an HR complaint about it in her head. At your car, Jack shifted your bag carefully off his shoulder and handed it to you.
“Can I have that?” he asked.
You smiled and traded him the coffee for the bag so you could dig out your keys. He held the cup without comment, thumb resting against the sleeve, watching you search the pocket where your keys were supposed to be and definitely were not. You frowned. Jack reached into the smaller front pocket without looking. He pulled out your keys. You looked at him.
He held them out. “Front pocket,” he said.
Your eyes narrowed. “I know where my keys are.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Eventually.”
Behind you, Santos made a sound of actual physical pain. Mel whispered, “Oh.”
Langdon looked at Cassie. “What did I miss?”
Cassie’s eyes were huge. “A lot, apparently.”
You unlocked the car. Jack handed your coffee back to you. “Text me when you’re home,” he said.
“You’ll probably be in trauma one, saving lives,” you replied.
Jack grinned. “Text me anyway.”
Your chest warmed. “Bossy,” you said.
Jack’s face softened, small and private. “Accurate.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but your son shifted low and strange again, a flutter turning into something just solid enough to make you pause. It was not painful. Just new. Still new enough that wonder arrived before you could protect yourself from it. Your hand hovered near your cardigan and stopped there. You did not press. You did not draw attention. You only breathed once, slowly. Jack’s eyes dropped. Half a second. No more. When they came back to your face, his expression had changed. Barely. Enough. “You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” you said, softer. “Just ready to be home.”
He nodded. The department pulled at him from three floors above you. You could feel that too. The invisible hook of night shift. Handoff. Trauma bays. The board. The particular gravity of people needing him. But for this second, in the parking garage, he stayed.
His hand settled briefly at the small of your back. Familiar. Automatic. Yours.
You leaned up without thinking, and he bent down to meet you.
The kiss was quick. Not dramatic. Not performative.
Just the warm press of his mouth against yours before one of you went home and the other went back inside. A married goodbye. The kind that had happened in kitchens, doorways, airport drop-offs, grocery store parking lots, and once in the middle of a hotel hallway when Robby had yelled that he was happy for you but also deeply uncomfortable. Jack pulled back first, but not far. His thumb brushed once against your back before he let his hand fall.
Behind you, something clattered against concrete. Probably Santos’s keys. Possibly Santos’s entire understanding of the world.
“I’m sorry,” Santos said.
You turned. Santos stood ten feet away, mouth open, keys now on the ground near her shoe. Mel had gone perfectly still beside her. Langdon looked like someone had switched the language on a monitor and expected him to interpret the rhythm strip anyway. Cassie had both hands pressed over her mouth. Dana looked at the ceiling like she had requested one quiet shift change and been personally denied. Robby looked like Christmas had come early and brought catering with it.
Santos pointed at Jack. “You said you weren’t dating.”
Jack’s hand stayed near your back. “We’re not.”
“You kissed her,” she replied.
Jack nodded. “I did.”
“So you’re dating,” she replied, gesturing between the two of you.
“No,” Jack said. “We’re not dating anymore.”
Santos blinked. Mel blinked. Cassie dropped her hands. “Anymore?”
You looked up at Jack, then shrugged. “What’s it been, six years?”
“Seven in May,” Jack said.
“Seven in May,” Robby said at the same time.
The garage went silent. You turned slowly toward Robby. Robby lifted both hands. “What? I was there.”
Santos’s mouth opened. “You were where?”
Jack sighed. “Don’t.”
Robby’s smile became catastrophic. “Best man.”
Santos stared at him. “Best man?” she repeated.
Robby nodded. “Great suit. Very emotional day.”
Jack looked at him. “You cried.”
Robby pointed at Jack. “Allegedly.”
You lifted your coffee. “There are photos.”
“Hostile witness,” Robby said.
You looked at Jack. Jack looked back at you, his face soft in a way he probably would have hidden if he had remembered anyone else was there.
Santos made a sound. Not a word. A sound. Then she looked at Jack. Then at you. Then at Jack again. “You’re married?”
Jack nodded once. “Yep.”
You nodded too. “Yep.”
The garage erupted.
“YOU’RE MARRIED?” Santos’s voice bounced off three levels of concrete.
Jack winced. “Inside voice.”
“No.” Santos stabbed a finger toward him. “Absolutely not. You do not get an inside voice right now. You lost inside voice privileges when you kissed Child Life in a parking garage and revealed a seven-year marriage.”
Cassie looked between you and Jack, eyes bright with shock. “Wait, before PTMC?”
You nodded. “Before PTMC.”
Mel’s expression softened. “That’s why the coffee.”
Santos spun toward her. “Do not act like the coffee was enough information.”
“It was emotionally loaded coffee,” Cassie said.
Robby pointed at her. “She gets it.”
Jack’s eyes closed for half a second. Dana adjusted the bag on her shoulder. “This could have been an email.”
Santos turned on her. “You knew.”
Dana looked at her. “Yes.”
Santos threw both hands out. “Why does everyone know?”
“Everyone does not know,” Dana said.
“I didn’t know!” Santos exclaimed.
Dana’s expression stayed perfectly calm. “Then, everyone clearly does not know.”
Mel pressed her lips together. Cassie turned away, shoulders shaking.
Santos pointed at Dana. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Dana’s eyebrows lifted. “It was not my marriage to announce.” Santos stared at her. Dana added, “Also, you never asked.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. Santos looked personally betrayed by the entire universe. Then she turned on Robby. “You,” she said.
Robby put a hand to his chest. “Me?”
She glared at him. “You knew for seven years.”
“Technically longer. They dated before that,” Robby replied.
Jack stared at him. Robby shrugged. “Context matters.”
Santos took one step toward him. “You watched me investigate Aldi butter like an idiot.”
Robby grinned, “You were doing great.”
“I hate you.” Santos snapped.
Mel looked at you, still gentle despite the chaos. “How did you meet?”
That quieted the group by a fraction. Not completely. But enough. You felt Jack beside you, the small shift in his body. Not discomfort exactly. Something older. Something private. Your hand tightened around your coffee. “Military hospital,” you said.
Mel’s face softened. Cassie’s expression changed too, curiosity gentling into something more careful. Santos, to her credit, did not make a joke. Jack looked toward the far end of the garage, then back at you. You smiled a little. “He was lurking outside room 417.”
Jack’s eyebrows lifted. “Lurking.”
“You were standing in the hallway pretending not to hover,” you said to him.
Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I was waiting.”
“For what?” you asked. He paused.
Robby leaned in. “Careful. This is how history gets written.”
Jack gave him a look. You looked back at Mel. “I was helping a little girl get ready to see her dad after he’d been hurt. Jack saw us.”
Mel’s eyes warmed. Cassie pressed a hand to her chest. “That’s actually really sweet.”
“He asked someone who I was,” you added.
Robby nodded immediately. “Immediately.”
Jack looked at him. “You weren’t there.”
“I know Miller,” Robby said. “Miller told the story better.”
Jack’s jaw shifted. “Miller told the story worse.”
You smiled. “Then he asked me for coffee.”
Santos squinted at Jack. “You asked someone out?”
Jack stared at her. “Yes.”
“Out loud?” she continued.
Jack looked confused. “How else would I do it?”
Robby opened his mouth. Jack pointed at him without looking. “No.”
Robby closed his mouth with visible effort. Langdon looked at you. “And he proposed?”
“No,” Santos said, already turning back to Jack with renewed offense. “No, wait. I need this. How did Abbot propose? Did he do it with words? Did he make eye contact? Did he file paperwork?”
Jack looked toward the elevator. “I have to go back inside.”
“Absolutely not,” Santos said. “You owe us seven years of lore.”
Jack narrowed his eyes at her. “I owe you nothing.”
“You owe me emotional damages,” she snapped back.
Dana started toward her car. “You’ll survive.”
“I might not,” Santos called after her.
Dana did not turn around. “Then update your emergency contact.”
Robby laughed. Jack did not. Mel looked at you, smiling now. “How did he propose?”
You glanced at Jack. His face had gone quieter, the line of his mouth held flat like he knew what you were about to say and wanted very badly to stop you, but not enough to actually do it. You loved him so much that it made you a little stupid. “He put it on the grocery list,” you said.
Santos stopped moving. “I’m sorry?”
Robby’s face lit up. “Oh, this is good.”
Jack looked at him. “Do not.”
Robby ignored him completely. “Strong list.”
Cassie whispered, “The grocery list?”
You nodded. “At home. In the kitchen. He asked me to look it over and see if he missed anything.”
Mel’s smile grew. Langdon blinked. “And he wrote ‘proposal’ on it?”
“Not proposal,” you said.
Jack’s expression softened before he could stop it. You looked down at your coffee. “He wrote, ‘marry me?’” You said. “With a question mark.”
Cassie made a soft noise. Mel pressed the tablet to her chest. “That’s beautiful.”
Santos pointed at Jack. “You proposed with errands.”
Jack’s jaw shifted. “She said yes.”
Robby nodded gravely. “Again. Strong list.”
You smiled. “There was coffee on it, too.”
“Of course there was,” Dana called from near her car.
Santos dragged both hands down her face. “This entire department is a conspiracy.”
“It’s not a conspiracy,” Mel said, though she was still smiling.
Santos turned to her. “You are only saying that because you’re happy for them.”
“I am happy for them,” Mel replied.
Jack looked at you then, and the noise around you thinned for a second. His eyes moved over your face. Tired. Nauseous. Amused. Softened by good decaf and too much attention and the strange tenderness of watching your private life become public in one loud, ridiculous burst. He stepped closer. “Enough,” he said, not exactly to the group. To you, maybe. For you.
Santos opened her mouth. Jack looked at her. She shut it. Mostly.
He turned back to you. “Go home. Eat your toast.”
Santos pointed weakly. “See? Again with the toast.”
You opened your car door. “Goodnight, Santos.”
“The toast was married toast,” she glared at you.
“All toast is married if you use the good honey,” Robby said.
Dana opened her car door. “I’m leaving before this gets worse.”
“It can get worse?” Langdon asked.
Robby smiled. “Always.”
Jack handed you the coffee one last time, his fingers brushing yours around the cup.
“Text me when you’re home,” he said.
You nodded once. “I will.”
“And after toast,” he added.
You smiled. “Bossy.”
His gaze held yours. “Married,” he corrected quietly.
Your chest went warm. “Apparently,” you said.
His mouth softened. For a second, you wanted to stay there. To keep him in the parking garage under bad fluorescent lights with your bag in his hand and the whole department spinning around the two of you. To have one more minute before the ER took him back. But the night shift was already waiting. And you had toast to make. And a son the ER did not know about yet, shifting softly beneath your ribs like he had survived his first family scandal and found it unimpressive.
You slid into the driver’s seat. Jack shut the door carefully after you were settled. Through the open window, Santos was still staring at him like she had discovered a new organ. “I have follow-up questions,” she said.
Jack nodded once. “I’m sure.”
She pointed at him. “Tomorrow.”
“No,” Jack said immediately.
“Yes.” Santos snapped back.
Dana’s voice carried from across the row. “Tomorrow will be worse if you fight it.”
Robby lifted a hand. “I have photos.”
Jack’s head turned slowly. “Do not,” he said.
Robby smiled at you over Jack’s shoulder. “I have selected favorites.”
You laughed as you set your coffee in the cup holder. Jack looked pained. Santos looked reborn. Mel looked delighted. Cassie was already whispering something to Langdon, who still seemed stuck on the phrase grocery list. And you realized, with your good decaf beside you and your husband standing in the parking garage in his dark scrubs, that PTMC had finally caught up to a story that had been yours for years.
Santos pointed at Jack one last time. “Why didn’t anyone tell us?”
Jack glanced toward the elevators, already half-pulled back to work. Then he looked at you. His mouth moved, barely. “You never asked,” he said.
Santos stared at him. “That,” she said, “is the most annoying thing you have ever said.”
Robby leaned closer to your window. “Top five.”
Jack looked at him. “Go home.”
Robby pushed off your car with a grin. “Yes, sir.”
You started the engine. Jack stepped back, but his eyes stayed on yours until you pulled out of the space. In the rearview mirror, you saw him standing there for one more second, surrounded by people who suddenly knew one of the truest things about him. Then the elevator doors opened. Night shift called him back.
This is a worker’s reprieve checkpoint. I only want you to engage with this post if you’re shirking your duties on the clock right now. We are going to make it. We are going to text and scroll on company time. We are going to find a corner or bathroom to linger in while something needs doing. Get some!
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