I just wanna say I absolutely adore your “keep up” series!!! I’m so love how you’ve been building up to jack and her finally getting together 💗 I’m excited for them to finally be officially eachothers, they both deserve so much love and peace 💗💗💗💗
Thank you so much. That honestly means a lot because the slow burn has been driving both the readers and me a little insane 😂
I've really wanted to take my time with them because they both carry so much grief and baggage. I wanted it to feel like they were healing first before they finally chose each other.
They're so close now, and I'm really excited for you guys to see what happens next. Thank you for sticking with them all this time. 💗
Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a Comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️
The moment you arrived at the hospital a nurse was already waiting outside the operating room.
"Doctor."
You walked straight toward her. "What's the situation?"
"Thirty-eight-year-old male. Motor vehicle collision. Internal bleeding. Dr. Garcia is already inside."
"Vitals?"
"Stable after transfusion."
"Let's go."
You scrubbed in quickly while the circulating nurse helped you into your sterile gown and gloves, and a moment later you stepped into the OR. Garcia glanced up briefly from the surgical field.
"Took you a while."
"His place is kind of far."
That was all you said before your attention shifted entirely to the patient.
"Clamp. Suction. Retractor."
The room settled into its familiar rhythm. Garcia had already controlled most of the bleeding. Together you located the remaining vessel, repaired it, inspected the abdomen one final time, and began closing. The surgery went smoothly, the kind that felt almost routine after the ones that didn't.
As the nurses transferred the patient to recovery you peeled off your gloves and moved to the scrub sink beside Garcia. She noticed you checking the clock almost immediately.
"In a hurry?"
"I'm going down to the ER for a while."
"Really."
You looked at her. "Really."
Garcia smirked. "Uh-huh."
"I'm talking to Robby."
"Of course you are."
You narrowed your eyes. "What?"
"Nothing." She dried her hands with the serenity of someone who had already won the conversation. "Tell Abbot he's being dramatic."
You grabbed your badge. "I'll tell him you miss him."
Garcia looked genuinely offended. "I absolutely do not."
You chuckled and pushed through the OR doors. "See you later."
Then you headed downstairs toward the ER.
You stepped into the Pitt and the usual chaos met you immediately. Monitors beeping from every direction, paramedics rushing another patient through the ambulance bay, nurses weaving between stretchers with the practiced ease of people who had done it a thousand times and would do it a thousand more. A battlefield. Just another normal day.
At the attending station Dana looked up first. "Well, look who decided to visit."
"I was passing by."
"Mhm." She smiled with the particular warmth of someone who knew exactly what passing by meant in this context. "Passing by."
Before you could respond Robby looked up from his computer. "Helloooo." Then went straight back to typing.
You leaned over the counter. "Can I ask you a favor?"
Robby's fingers stopped on the keyboard. He looked up slowly. "Whyyy?"
"Could you give Abbot one more day off?"
He studied you for a second, something turning over behind his eyes. "Because?"
"Because tomorrow is my day off."
A smile escaped before you could stop it, small and entirely self-betraying. Robby had to press his lips together to keep his own from spreading too wide. If playing cupid meant Jack Abbot finally stopped moping around the ER like a man with unfinished business, he would do it without a single reservation.
"Of course," he said immediately. "Absolutely. Shen and Cruz can manage."
"Give them a chance to lead," you agreed, tapping the counter lightly.
"You got it."
You gave them both a small nod and headed back toward the elevator. The moment you disappeared around the corner Dana stepped closer to Robby, a smile already taking over her face.
"Sooo?"
Robby watched the elevator doors close before he answered. Then he shrugged, easy and unbothered. "I just want my friend to be happy."
Dana laughed softly and folded her arms. "You call it helping. I call it finally getting those two to stop dancing around each other."
Robby smiled to himself and went back to his keyboard. "About time," he said quietly.
*****
Jack had been reading for nearly an hour. The phantom pain had finally settled into a dull ache instead of the sharp relentless pulse that had haunted him all morning. Maybe it was the medication. Maybe it was finally getting some sleep.
His eyes drifted toward the front door.
Maybe it was because you'd stopped by.
The apartment was quiet. Until a key turned in the lock.
Jack looked up from his book. He set it aside, slipped on his prosthetic, and walked toward the door.
It opened, and the familiar scent of antiseptic reached him before you did.
"You're—"
Something barreled into his legs before he could finish.
"Woof!"
Jack looked down and laughed, low and genuine. "Hey, buddy." Riot's tail wagged so hard his entire body shook with it, his paws scrabbling against the floor in his enthusiasm to be as close to Jack as physically possible.
You stepped inside and closed the door behind you. "He's sleeping over. Make sure you're not lonely." You reached down and scratched behind Riot's ears.
Jack smiled. "I think he's more worried about you than me."
"He has separation anxiety," you said, already turning back toward the hallway.
"You're not going to stay?"
You stopped. Turned around. "You want me to stay?"
Jack cleared his throat. "Well." He glanced down at Riot with the expression of a man constructing a reasonable argument in real time. "Riot kind of whines at night."
"You just said he has separation anxiety."
Both Jack and Riot looked up at you at exactly the same time, wearing identical expressions of patient expectation.
You sighed dramatically. Then leaned slightly to your left and pulled a duffel bag off your shoulder.
Jack blinked. "Wait. You prepared?"
You smirked. "I never said I was leaving."
Then you walked past him into the apartment like that explained everything. Jack stood there for a second, then closed the door behind you, chuckling quietly to himself.
"What do you want for dinner?"
You looked back over your shoulder. "Anything that isn't hospital food."
"I think I can manage that."
By the time evening settled outside, takeout containers covered the coffee table and Riot had already finished his dinner and relocated to the rug, sprawled out with one of his toys and the boneless contentment of an animal whose world was exactly as it should be. The television played quietly in the background.
Jack looked up from his food. "Robby gave me another day off."
"I know." You took another bite. "I asked him to."
He frowned. "Why?"
"Because tomorrow is also my day off."
Silence. Jack stared at his dinner for a moment, then muttered mostly to himself, "Should I put in for sick leave more often?"
You looked at him over the rim of your drink. "I can still call Robby and tell him you're feeling much better."
Jack immediately shook his head. "Never mind."
The corner of your mouth lifted. "Thought so."
He smiled to himself and went back to his food. The takeout was decent, Riot was snoring softly on the rug, and the television was saying something neither of you were particularly listening to. Outside, the city moved through its evening the way it always did.
Inside, for the first time in a long while, the apartment didn't feel empty.
******
After dinner the apartment gradually grew quiet. Riot yawned first, which started a chain reaction. You stretched your arms above your head and looked toward the living room.
"I'll sleep on the couch."
"Nope."
You blinked. "Why not?"
Jack scratched the back of his neck, suddenly finding the floor far more interesting than your face. "Because." He cleared his throat. "My bed is big enough." A pause. He looked up for half a second. "For the three of us."
Silence.
He immediately regretted how that had sounded. "I mean." He pointed at Riot, who had already wandered into the bedroom and was circling the foot of the bed with the focused intention of an animal who had already made his decision. "Riot slept beside me last time he was here."
"Oh." That was all you managed.
Jack rubbed the back of his neck again. "Just like the old days, right?" He gave you a small, almost shy smile, the kind that didn't show up often enough to be taken for granted.
"Yeah," you said softly. "Just like the old days."
You hoped he couldn't hear how hard your heart was suddenly beating.
FLASHBACK
The desert finally cooled after sunset. For the first time all day the air was almost pleasant, the kind of temperature that made you forget for twenty minutes how brutal the hours before it had been.
You were halfway across camp chasing a small blur of black fur. "Riot!"
The puppy ignored you completely and ran straight toward the familiar figure lying just beyond the barracks.
Jack.
He always ended his day there, flat on his back with his hands behind his head, looking up at the stars before turning in. It had become its own kind of ritual.
Tiny Riot launched himself directly onto Jack's chest.
"Oof." Jack laughed, low and easy. "Hey, buddy." The puppy licked his chin with great enthusiasm while Jack scratched behind his ears, and then he finally noticed you slowing to a stop beside them.
"Lose something?"
"I think he lost me," you said.
Jack chuckled. "Sounds about right."
You folded your arms. "I've been chasing him for ten minutes."
Riot barked, with the energy of an animal who considered this a personal achievement. Jack looked up at you. "You can sit."
You hesitated. "I don't want to interrupt."
"You'd be interrupting me staring at stars."
"Sounds important."
"It is."
That made you laugh. You lowered yourself onto the ground beside him and the warm sand shifted beneath you as you looked up. The night sky stretched endlessly above you both, more stars than you ever saw back home, the kind of sky that made problems feel a different size than they had in the tent.
"So." You broke the silence first. "What do you think about every night?"
Jack didn't answer immediately. "Nothing."
You turned your head. "You're lying."
"Mostly tomorrow," he admitted.
"Fair." You looked back up at the sky. Neither of you spoke for a while, and the silence wasn't awkward. It never really was with him, which was its own kind of thing you hadn't figured out what to do with yet.
"Well, well."
Diaz's voice cut through the quiet. Both of you turned. He was standing a few feet away with his hands on his hips, looking between you, Jack, and the tiny puppy now stretched contentedly across Jack's chest like he owned it. Then the grin spread across his face.
"Family night."
You rolled your eyes immediately. "We're not a family."
Diaz ignored this completely. He walked over and dropped onto the sand beside Jack with the ease of someone who had decided he was invited. He pointed at Jack. "You. The grumpy dad."
Jack sighed. "I'm already regretting you being here."
Diaz pointed at you. "You. Mom."
"What?"
"And Riot." He reached over and scratched the puppy's head. "The child."
Riot barked happily.
"There. He agrees."
"He absolutely does not," you muttered.
Diaz looked between the two of you with the satisfied expression of a man presenting a well-researched conclusion. "You know what's funny?"
Neither of you answered.
"You two always end up in the same place after every mission." He nodded toward the space between you. "Every single time."
Jack folded his hands back behind his head. "Coincidence."
"Mhm." Diaz nodded with great drama. "And the dog just happened to adopt both of you."
"Coincidence," Jack said again.
Diaz laughed. "Keep telling yourselves that."
You grabbed a handful of sand and threw it at him. It barely reached his boots. He looked down at it.
"That's all you've got?"
"I was aiming for your mouth."
Jack snorted.
Diaz clutched his chest. "See?" He pointed at you. "Violence." Then at Jack. "Silence." Then he patted Riot one more time and looked at all three of you with the settled satisfaction of someone whose point had just been made for him.
"Family night," he said quietly, mostly to himself.
Nobody argued with him that time.
******
PRESENT TIME
Jack woke before sunrise.
For a brief moment he stayed still, letting the dream settle. Not the explosion. Not the blood. Before that. The quiet nights, you and Diaz and tiny Riot, small enough to fit comfortably in one arm, happily chewing on Jack's sleeve while the three of you lay beneath a sky full of more stars than any of you had time to count.
Funny. Back then all three of you had slept on hard ground without a single complaint.
Now Riot had claimed half the mattress and you were asleep beside him under a warm blanket, your breathing slow and even, your face completely relaxed in a way it rarely was during waking hours.
Life was strange.
Jack smiled to himself and quietly climbed out of bed.
A shower sounded like a good idea.
The sound of running water eventually stirred Riot awake. One oversized ear twitched. Then the other. He yawned dramatically, stretched his entire body from nose to tail, and then climbed across the mattress toward you with the purposeful energy of an animal who had decided you had slept long enough.
His cold nose nudged your cheek.
"Five more minutes," you mumbled.
"Woof."
"No."
Another nudge, more insistent this time.
"Traitor," you muttered into the pillow.
The bathroom door opened. Steam drifted out into the bedroom. Jack stepped through it with a towel slung around his neck and another wrapped low around his waist, rubbing damp hair with one hand, still half in his own head.
Still half asleep, your eyes wandered in his direction.
Your brain took an extra second to catch up with what your eyes were doing.
Jack caught you staring. A slow grin appeared, unhurried and deeply satisfied. "Enjoying the view?"
"What?" You blinked. Then registered exactly where your eyes had settled and looked away immediately. "Oh, please. I saw you like this all the time in the army."
Jack raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" He tilted his head slightly. "So you've been noticing my body this whole time."
You grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at him. "How long are you planning to stand there half naked?"
He caught the pillow without effort. "I've been living alone for years." A shrug, entirely unrepentant. "I forgot people usually expect a warning."
Still quietly laughing to himself, he tossed the pillow back onto the bed, pulled a clean shirt from the wardrobe, and disappeared back into the bathroom to finish getting dressed.
The moment the door clicked shut you buried your face in both hands.
"Oh my God."
Your ears felt warm. Riot put his head in your lap, looked up at you with his big brown eyes, and wagged his tail once.
"Not a word," you told him.
He wagged again.
Inside the bathroom, Jack pulled his shirt over his head and looked at himself in the mirror for a moment. The smile refused to leave his face no matter how much he tried to dial it back into something more reasonable.
For once, getting teased hadn't been nearly as fun as doing the teasing.
*****
An hour later the three of you were walking through downtown Pittsburgh. Morning sunlight reflected off the glass buildings while Riot trotted ahead, occasionally glancing back to confirm both of you were still following, which you were.
Jack walked a few steps behind, quietly. He pulled out his phone and raised it.
Click.
You hadn't noticed. You were too busy watching Riot investigate every tree along the path with the focused dedication of a professional. Jack looked at the photo. You, Riot, morning sun, the coffee shop a few steps ahead. Good enough. He opened Instagram.
Jack slowed his pace a fraction, letting a little distance grow between you. He pulled out his phone, lifting the screen to frame the shot. The morning sunlight was hitting perfectly, catching you walking right beside Riot with your coffee clutched in your hand, the local café just ahead. It was perfect. He snapped the picture, opened Instagram, and after thinking for a quick second, he typed out a caption:
Morning walk with the family.
He hit post and slipped his phone back into his coat pocket. It buzzed almost immediately against his hip.
"Well, that was fast," he muttered to himself, pulling the device back out.
The notification was from a group chat titled The Pitt Crew, and the messages were already flying across the screen.
Princess: OH MY GOD.
Santos: JACK POSTED HER.
Whitaker: HE NEVER POSTS PEOPLE.
Princess: EXCEPT HIS DOG.
Shen: Correction.
Shen: Their dog.
Dana: Cute picture.
Robby: Morning, Jack.
Garcia: I see someone is enjoying his sick leave.
Princess: THEY WENT FOR COFFEE TOGETHER.
Santos: THIS ISN'T A DATE???
Shen: If that's not a date, then I'm a pediatrician.
Princess: YOU GUYS HAD A WHOLE SLEEPOVER DIDN'T YOU???
Jack didn't even hesitate. He tapped the text box and sent a single word.
Jack: Yes.
The chat group exploded instantly.
Princess: ????????????????
Whitaker: HE SAID YES SO CASUALLY.
Santos: I'M LOSING MY MIND.
Garcia: Called it.
Dana: I'm happy for you two.
Robby: Don't make me approve sick leave too often, Abbott.
Jack smiled to himself, a genuine chuckle escaping his throat, before he quietly locked the screen. Mission accomplished.
"What?" you asked, glancing over your shoulder at him. "You've been smiling at your phone for the last minute."
Jack quickly slipped the device back into his pocket, falling back into step right beside you. "...Nothing."
He kept his face completely blank, but he knew that somewhere inside the emergency department, Princess had probably stopped working entirely just to process the fact that Jack Abbott had voluntarily admitted to a sleepover.
You knew he did something but you needed caffeine to interrogate him. So you stepped into the cafe. "Hi."
The barista smiled. "Morning. What can I get you?"
"Two lattes."
"Sure." He glanced at you again with the particular friendliness of someone who had decided to be more helpful than strictly necessary. "I don't think I've seen you here before."
"I've been busy."
"Hopefully we'll see you more often."
Before you could answer, Jack appeared beside you. Without a word he rested his hand lightly against the small of your back. Not enough to pull you closer. Just enough to be obvious about something.
The barista noticed immediately.
Jack looked at you with complete seriousness. "Honey."
You froze.
"Our son is waiting outside."
Your brain short-circuited entirely. You turned slowly toward the barista. He looked equally confused, glancing between the two of you and the door beyond which a very large German Shepherd was visible through the glass.
The silence lasted exactly three seconds.
Then the barista slid the drinks across the counter with the energy of someone who had decided not to ask. "Here's your two lattes."
"Thank you." You grabbed both cups and escaped the café before anything else could happen.
Outside, Riot greeted you both with an enthusiastic bark. You looked at Jack.
"You could've just said dog."
Jack stopped walking. A pause. "Oh."
He looked genuinely like he had just realized something. "You're right. I didn't think of that."
You clicked your tongue. Sometimes he was unbelievably childish for a man his age.
Jack took a long sip of his coffee. "I'll never go there again."
"You were the problem."
"I know."
"You were grumpy."
"I'm always grumpy."
"You were worse than usual."
Jack shrugged with complete serenity. "My therapist told me I find comfort in darkness." He sipped his coffee again. "Her words."
You laughed despite yourself. "You actually listened to your therapist."
"I occasionally surprise people."
Your phone vibrated before you could respond. Clark. You answered. "Morning."
"I called the hospital." His voice was alert in that particular way that meant he already knew something. "They told me both you and Abbot have the day off."
"That's right."
"Perfect." He didn't give you time to ask why. "Come to my place. Now."
The call ended.
Jack glanced over. "Who was that?"
"Clark." You slipped the phone back into your pocket. "He wants us at his place."
Jack looked at Riot, then back at the street ahead with a smile already settling onto his face. "Oh." He reached down and scratched behind Riot's ears. "This is gonna be fun."
“Woof!” Riot barked like he completely agreed.
*******
Clark's house sat on the edge of town. Or rather, estate. You slowed the car as the wrought iron gate opened automatically, your eyes following the long driveway up toward the house.
"I knew Clark was rich," you said slowly. "But this?"
Jack looked out the window without much surprise. "He buys land every time he has extra money." He nodded toward an empty field visible beyond the tree line. "Says it's the safest investment."
"He's terrifying."
"I've been saying that for years."
By the time you parked, the front door had already opened. Clark stepped outside with his coffee mug in hand, unhurried, the way a man moved when he owned the ground he was standing on.
"There you are."
Riot was out of the car before anyone else, sprinting across the driveway with the full commitment of an animal reuniting with someone important.
"Woof!"
Clark crouched with a grin that took ten years off his face. "And you too, little guy." He scratched behind Riot's ears while the dog tried to climb into his lap. "Good to see you, soldier."
Jack climbed out and stretched. "What are we doing here, old man?"
Clark looked him up and down. "Grumpy in the morning?"
"I mentioned that to him," you offered.
Clark glanced at you. "So you did." Then his eyes moved between the two of you with the slow assessment of someone taking inventory. "How did the three of you end up together?"
Jack answered before you could. "They slept at my place."
Silence.
You turned toward Jack slowly. His expression was completely neutral, which meant he had not yet processed what he had just said out loud to a man who noticed everything.
Clark stared at both of you for exactly two seconds.
Then he burst out laughing. A loud, genuine laugh, the kind that came from somewhere deep and didn't apologize for itself. He slapped Jack's shoulder hard enough to mean it. "Finally!"
You covered your face with both hands. "Oh my God."
Jack frowned. "What?"
Clark was still laughing, wiping the corner of his eye with his thumb. "Nothing, nothing."
"I meant." Jack pointed at you. "And the dog." He gestured at Riot, who was sitting at Clark's feet looking extremely pleased with the current energy. "All three of us. In the apartment."
Clark nodded slowly, composing himself with great effort. "Oh, I know what you meant. Eventually."
He turned back toward the house, shoulders still shaking, coffee mug raised like a toast to no one in particular.
Jack stood in the driveway looking at the back of his head. Then at you.
You looked at him over your hands.
Neither of you said anything.
Riot wagged his tail.
Clark's smile slowly faded. "It's about my grandson."
You frowned. "What about him?"
"An idiot." He took a sip of his coffee. "He's making videos. The dangerous kind. Climbing buildings, hanging off bridges, jumping between rooftops. Anything people apparently call content these days."
"I've seen a few of them," you admitted. "He has more followers than doctor J."
Jack turned toward you. "You knew about this but you didn't know about my recent updates?"
"What updates?"
He looked at you with mild offense. You pulled out your phone, frowning. Truthfully, ever since Jack's Instagram story had sent half the hospital into full detective mode, you had muted most of your notifications. The daily Pitt group chat was already enough to manage. You preferred not looking at your phone unless absolutely necessary.
You opened Instagram.
Your eyes widened. "Jack."
He looked completely innocent. "Hm?"
"You tagged me."
"So?"
"You posted my picture."
"So?"
"And." You scrolled. "There are four hundred comments."
Jack shrugged. "I didn't count."
"Jack!"
Clark took a long sip of his coffee. "Ah." He nodded to himself with the satisfaction of someone watching something he had predicted arrive exactly on schedule. "There it is. Another married couple argument."
Jack answered immediately. "We're not married."
"You keep saying that," Clark said pleasantly.
Before either of you could continue, a voice came from the front porch.
"Grandpa?"
All three of you turned.
A teenage boy walked out of the house. Tall, curly dark hair, a hoodie despite the warmth of the morning, a camera hanging around his neck like it belonged there. He moved with the easy confidence of someone who had never once entered a room quietly in his life.
Clark sighed. "My idiot grandson. Michael."
Michael walked over with a grin already in place and offered his hand first. "So you guys are the famous army people."
You shook it. "Nice to meet you."
Jack did the same. "You must've done something impressive if Clark dragged both of us out here."
Michael laughed and casually wrapped an arm around Clark's shoulders. "Aww, Grandpa." He bumped him once. "I prefer creative problem solver."
Clark looked at the sky briefly. "I prefer future heart attack."
Michael grinned. "Relax." Another easy bump of his shoulder. "I'm too pretty to die."
Silence.
Jack's smile disappeared. Your expression went still. Clark looked slowly between the two of you, reading the quiet that had settled over both of you in the span of one sentence.
Because that was exactly something Gabriel Diaz would have said. The phrasing, the delivery, the complete and unearned confidence of it. Every single time, without fail, said with that same grin like the universe had personally guaranteed him an exemption.
Michael noticed the shift immediately, his smile fading slightly. "Did I say something wrong?"
Clark placed a hand on his grandson's shoulder. "No," he said quietly. "You just reminded us of someone."
Michael looked between you and Jack, reading the room the way young people did when they understood more than adults expected them to. He didn't push. He just nodded once and let it sit.
Riot chose that moment to shove his nose into Michael's hand, which broke the spell faster than anything else could have.
Michael looked down. "Oh, he's huge."
"His name is Riot," you said.
Michael crouched immediately, and Riot, who had excellent judgment about people, wagged his tail and leaned into him without hesitation.
Clark cleared his throat. "He's planning to jump his dirt bike across the old service bridge over Miller Creek." He pointed toward a wooded area beyond the property line. "The county closed it years ago."
You frowned. "Because it's unstable?"
"Exactly."
Michael waved a hand. "I'm not riding on the bridge." He smiled with the confidence of someone who had never once considered consequences a personal concern. "I'm jumping over the broken section."
You stared at him. "That somehow sounds worse."
"There'll be professionals there."
Clark snorted. "Professional idiots."
"They know what they're doing."
Jack folded his arms. "If you're looking for the fastest route to the trauma bay," he said calmly, "that's a solid plan."
Michael laughed. "You guys make it sound like I'm guaranteed to crash."
"No," Jack said. "We're saying you'll crash eventually. The question is whether you want to do it on your terms or the bridge's terms."
"Optimistic."
"Experienced."
Michael lifted both hands in surrender and looked around at the three of you with theatrical defeat. "I've officially been outnumbered." Then his eyes landed on Riot sitting patiently at the edge of the driveway, and his entire face changed.
"Whoa." He pulled the camera from around his neck immediately. "Now that's content." He crouched beside Riot, who tilted his head with the regal patience of an animal accustomed to being admired. Michael started recording, angling the lens carefully.
"Morning, everyone." He turned the camera toward Riot. "I just met the CEO of emotional support."
Clark clicked his tongue. "You see? Nothing gets through that thick skull." He watched his grandson talk earnestly to a German Shepherd on camera. "I don't know where he gets it from."
Jack watched quietly for a moment, then said, "He got it from you."
Clark looked genuinely offended. "I have never done anything that stupid in my life."
You and Jack turned toward him at exactly the same time. "Really?"
Clark opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked between the two of you, then at Michael still filming Riot with complete artistic commitment, then back at you.
"I walked into that one," he said.
"Completely," Jack agreed.
Clark took a long sip of his coffee and said nothing further, which was its own kind of answer.
******
Michael led them around the side of the house to where his setup was laid out with the organized precision of someone who had thought about this for longer than anyone around him was comfortable with.
"Two cameras," he said, pointing. "GoPro mounted on the helmet, second angle from the side. Drone for the overhead shot." He moved along the lineup. "Spotter positioned at the far end of the bridge. Medical kit, fully stocked. Fire extinguisher. Helmet, obviously." He paused for effect. "And I hired two licensed motocross riders to consult on the jump trajectory."
You and Jack looked at each other.
Then back at the setup.
Then at each other again.
"Still a terrible idea," you both said at exactly the same time.
Michael blinked. "Seriously? Even with all of that?"
Jack shrugged. "Preparation doesn't make a bad decision good."
You nodded. "It just makes it organized."
Michael stared at the two of you. "Do you practice being like this or does it just happen naturally?"
"Experience," Jack said.
"Years of it," you confirmed.
Michael exhaled dramatically and turned back to his equipment. "I just need one video. One that actually blows up. If it does, I could get sponsored. Monster, Red Bull, Fox, anyone. That's all I need."
Jack deadpanned, "Or UPMC Trauma."
You added, "They'll definitely know your name."
Michael groaned. "You two are impossible." He turned toward Clark, who was standing back with his coffee mug and the expression of a man enjoying this far more than he was letting on. "Grandpa. Are you absolutely sure these two aren't married?"
Clark didn't even look at him. "This isn't about them. It's about you."
Michael sighed like this was deeply unfair.
He walked them back to the driveway when it was time to leave, hands in his hoodie pockets, Riot trotting beside him like they had been friends for years.
Jack stopped at the car door. "One piece of advice."
Michael looked up. "Hm?"
"You're still young. You've got plenty of time to do stupid things. So don't rush all of them into this year."
Michael laughed, genuine and easy. "I'll think about it."
You stepped slightly closer. "Promise me you'll walk away if something feels wrong. Even if the cameras are rolling and everyone's watching. Just walk away."
Michael looked at you for a second, something in his expression shifting into something more honest than the performance he'd been giving all morning. "You sound like Grandpa."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
He smiled. "I'll be careful."
You both nodded. You both also knew exactly what teenagers meant when they said that, which was roughly the same thing soldiers meant when they said easy mission. But you let it stand, because some things needed to be said out loud even when everyone in the conversation understood their limitations.
Michael scratched Riot behind the ears one last time and headed back toward the house. Clark lifted his mug from the porch in a small farewell salute.
************
The drive back was quiet. Just the radio, low enough to be background noise, and trees passing steadily outside the windows.
Then, softly, you said, "He reminds me of Diaz."
Jack didn't answer immediately. He kept his eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console.
"Yeah," he said finally. "I saw it too."
A pause settled between you, unhurried and familiar.
"The jokes," Jack said. "The confidence. The way he talks like he's figured something out that everyone else missed."
"The way he thinks he's invincible," you added quietly.
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Scared the hell out of me," Jack said.
You nodded slowly. Outside the window the trees kept passing, steady and indifferent, and neither of you spoke again for a long time. The radio filled the space and that was enough.
************
A few hours after leaving Clark's house, you finally made it back to your apartment. The place was quiet. It was too quiet. Riot was fast asleep near the couch, completely exhausted from all the excitement of the evening, his chest rising and falling rhythmically.
For some reason, your eyes drifted toward the desk in the corner of the room, specifically toward the bottom drawer.
The drawer. The one you almost never opened. The one that held things you simply weren't ready for.
You stared at it, then looked away, trying to shake the sudden impulse. Then your gaze locked back onto it. Years. It had been years, yet somehow, you already knew exactly what was inside.
Slowly, you crossed the room and pulled the drawer open. The old wooden box was exactly where you had left it, with dust resting lightly across the surface of the lid. Your fingers hesitated in the air, trembling slightly, before you finally lifted it out. Inside sat old photographs, a few faded military patches, a silver collar pin, and a single envelope. Your name was written across the front in Gabriel's unmistakable handwriting.
The mere sight of it still hurt. You swallowed hard, pulling out a chair and sitting down as the apartment suddenly felt very small and very quiet. You carefully broke the seal, unfolded the crisp paper, and began to read.
If you're reading this... well. Congratulations. I'm dead.
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh, a breathless sound breaking the quiet. Of course. Of course that was exactly how he started it.
Which, if we're being honest, is a terrible deal for me. So I'd appreciate it if you're appropriately devastated for at least a month. Longer if you actually liked me.
You rolled your eyes despite yourself, your vision already blurring as tears welled in the corners of your eyes.
First things first. Abbott still owes me twenty bucks. Death does NOT erase debt. Tell him I'll haunt him every payday until he coughs it up.
A real laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. You could practically hear Gabriel's voice saying the words aloud in the room.
Actually... you know what my biggest regret is? Not taking enough pictures. I always said "later." Then one day... there wasn't one. So if life teaches you anything... take the stupid picture. Even if your hair looks terrible. Even if Abbott is making one of those grumpy faces. Especially then.
Your chest tightened painfully because suddenly you thought about the photograph sitting on Jack's coffee table, the one he still kept, the one you almost never allowed yourself to think about anymore.
Second biggest regret? Never getting to annoy you and Abbott after you two finally admitted whatever the hell this thing is between you.
You immediately groaned, burying your face in your free hand. "Oh my God."
Yeah. Don't look so surprised. I knew. Clark knew. Half the camp knew. You two had the emotional communication skills of wet cardboard. You argued like an old married couple, then stared at each other when the other wasn't looking. It was painful. Seriously. Just kiss already. Or yell. Honestly, I don't think either of you knows the difference.
You covered your burning face completely, your voice cracking. "Idiot."
Anyway... I know you. Which means if something happened to me... you're probably blaming yourself.
The brief smile vanished from your face.
So let me save you some time. No. You don't get to do that. You hear me? You don't.
The written words hit harder than you ever expected because somehow, he still knew you. Even then, even before everything actually happened.
You gave me more time than I should've had. Out here... most of us don't get miracles. I did. Because of you. You fought for me when everyone else would've accepted the outcome. Even when it wasn't enough... you still fought.
The tears came freely before you even realized it, one hot drop and then another falling directly onto the paper, wrinkling the ink.
So don't spend the rest of your life treating yourself like punishment. You already carried enough. Go live. Run those ridiculous races you keep talking about. Keep making Abbott roll his eyes. And when he inevitably says something stupid... yell at him. You seem weirdly good at that.
A broken laugh escaped you, wiping a wet cheek with your shoulder because he wasn't wrong.
Take care of Riot. Actually... spoil him. He deserves it. Just don't let him get fat. Clark will blame you.
You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, then kept reading.
One more thing. If years from now... Abbott still looks at you the way he does now... for the love of God... just marry the man.
Your breath caught in your throat.
Life's already too short. Don't waste whatever time you've got pretending you don't feel something. You both deserve something good after all this. And if Abbott somehow manages to screw it up... tell him I can still haunt him. Twenty bucks first. Then haunting. Forever your favorite extremely annoying, non-blood-related big brother, Gabriel Diaz.
At the very bottom, written in much smaller handwriting, was one final line.
P.S. If you're crying while reading this, that's embarrassing. Drink some water.
You stared at the tiny script, then laughed. You actually laughed right through your tears, exactly the way Gabriel would have wanted you to. And for the very first time in years, the crushing weight of the guilt felt just a little bit lighter.
You folded the letter carefully, almost reverently, handling the paper as if creasing it the wrong way would mean losing him all over again. The apartment fell completely quiet, with only Riot's soft, rhythmic breathing filling the space. Your thumb brushed across Gabriel's signature one last time, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at your lips.
"...Idiot," you murmured, your voice cracking anyway. For years, you had carried the crushing weight of guilt, believing it was the only way to honor his memory. But looking down at the worn paper, you realized you might have been completely wrong.
Your eyes drifted toward the dark window, watching the city lights flicker outside. Without meaning to, another face materialized in your thoughts.
Jack. Grumpy, sarcastic, and annoyingly persistent Jack. You remembered the exact look he had given you this afternoon when he thought you were leaving his side.
You're not going to stay?
You thought of the quiet, unexpected way he had handed you his spare key, his confession that he still kept the old photograph on his coffee table, and the comforting weight of his head resting against your shoulder without asking for a single thing in return.
You closed your eyes, letting the memory settle. Gabriel had been entirely right, not just about Jack, but about you, too. You had spent years trying to outrun your grief by training, working, and taking every extra shift available.
You ran every exhausting race and took on every impossible medical case, acting as if staying constantly busy meant you never had to stop long enough to actually miss the people you lost.
And somehow, Jack had done the exact same thing. You had taken entirely different roads, but you had both arrived at the same lonely destination. Alone.
You let out a slow, quiet breath into the stillness of the room. "...Maybe..." You whispered it so softly that even you almost didn't hear it. "...Maybe we don't have to anymore."
You carefully tucked the letter back inside its envelope. This time, you didn't hide the box at the very bottom of the dark drawer under layers of old gear. You closed the drawer and left it sitting right on top, out in the open.
********
The next morning, you stepped into the hospital lobby with your usual cup of coffee clutched tightly in your hand. It didn't even take five seconds for the trap to spring.
"There she is."
Dana's voice echoed across the corridor. Of course. You let out a long, heavy sigh and adjusted your grip on your cup before facing her. "...Good morning?"
Princess looked up from behind the nurses' station, her lips curving into a grin that immediately made you deeply suspicious. "So."
"So?" you countered, keeping your expression blank.
"How was your day off?"
"Quiet."
Robby let out a loud snort, not even pretending to look at the chart in his hands. "Sure it was."
You narrowed your eyes at him, stepping closer to the desk. "What exactly does that mean?"
Dana leaned her elbows against the laminate counter, her eyes gleaming with pure delight. "It means..." She looked around the hallway dramatically, dropping her voice to a theatrical whisper. "...we all know you spent it with Abbott."
You blinked once, the realization hitting you with a dull thud. "...News really does travel fast in this place."
Princess laughed, tapping her phone screen. "Jack literally posted you on his Instagram story."
You closed your eyes for a brief moment of pure defeat. "I knew I should've confiscated his phone."
Robby chuckled, pointing the tip of his pen directly at you. "So... how was the sleepover?"
"It was fine," you said flatly.
Dana raised an eyebrow, leaning in closer. "Just fine?"
"Riot snored."
"That's not what I asked."
You took another slow, deliberate sip of your coffee to buy yourself some time. "Then I'm choosing not to answer."
The entire nurses' station groaned in unison.
Another doctor walked past the desk, carrying a stack of patient files under his arm. "You people actually have patients to care for, you know."
Dana didn't even bother to look at him, waving a hand dismissively. "This is important medical sociology."
"It really isn't."
Princess folded her arms over her scrubs, tilting her head. "I just want official confirmation."
"There is absolutely nothing to confirm."
Robby’s smile widened, a mischievous spark in his eyes. "So you’re saying you didn’t sleep in the same bed?"
You stopped, staring dead at him with your most formidable surgeon expression. "...Robby."
"What?"
"I am this close to making a complaint to the HR."
The station erupted into loud laughter, the tension breaking instantly. Even the passing staff couldn't help but smile into their charts.
"You all have way too much free time," you muttered, shaking your head as you turned on your heel and headed toward the elevators.
Behind you, Dana cupped her hands around her mouth and called out into the hallway, "Tell Abbott we miss him!"
You lifted one hand, raising a single finger without turning around to face them. "I won't."
Once you stepped out onto the upper floors, the teasing finally stopped, and the familiar, demanding rhythm of your department took over completely.
The hours slipped by the way they always did in medicine, measuring one patient at a time, one critical decision after another. By mid-afternoon, you had almost forgotten about the morning's gossip.
Then, your pager vibrated violently against your hip at the exact same moment your phone began to ring in your pocket. You pulled it out and answered immediately.
You answered immediately. "Dr. L/N."
"Doc." It was Robby on the other end. His voice sounded entirely different than usual, carrying a steady, measured calmness that stood out against the loud chaos of the emergency room around him. That lack of panic somehow made your stomach drop instantly.
"We've got a major trauma downstairs," he said.
You were already adjusting your phone against your ear, reaching for the back of your chair to grab your white coat. "I'm on my way."
A brief pause hung on the line. "There's something else."
Your hand froze on the fabric of your coat. "What is it?"
"The patient specifically asked for you."
Your eyebrows pulled together, a deep frown forming as you quickly ran through your current patient roster in your head. "...Asked for me?"
"He knew your exact name," Robby confirmed.
Silence stretched over the line for a second. You searched your memory as fast as you could, but there were no scheduled transfers, no complex follow-ups, and absolutely no former patients you were expecting to arrive through the ambulance bay today.
"I don't recognize the name on the intake," Robby continued, his tone shifting into something a bit more guarded. "But whatever this is, he was pretty insistent before he lost consciousness."
The skin on the back of your neck prickled, a sudden tightness gripping your throat. "I'll be down there in two minutes."
You ended the call, snapping your phone shut. Without another word of explanation, you shoved your current patient's chart directly into the hands of the nearest resident standing beside you. "Cover the rest of my rounds. Call me if anyone crashes."
Then you were already moving, your sneakers squeaking against the linoleum as you pushed through the heavy double doors of the ward. You hit the down button on the lift panel repeatedly, your chest tightening further when the numbers slowly clicked down from the top floor. The lift couldn't come fast enough.
You pushed through the heavy double doors leading into the Emergency Department. The closer you got to the central trauma bay, the louder the room became.
"Blood pressure's dropping!" Princess shouted, already hanging another bag of fluids.
"Another large-bore IV!" Whitaker was squeezing past the respiratory therapist with an ultrasound machine.
"Move him on three, watch his neck!" Dana was cutting away the remaining sleeve of the motorcycle jacket while Santos held manual stabilization at his head.
The familiar chaos wrapped around you like an old blanket. Except, the moment you reached the edge of the trauma bay, you stopped dead in your tracks.
"...Michael?" Your voice barely came out.
Robby looked up from the opposite side of the stretcher, his expression immediately softening as he saw you. "I'm glad you're here."
Only then did you look down at the gurney. Michael was completely covered in dirt. Savage road rash stretched across his shoulder and chest where his motorcycle jacket had already been cut away. His helmet lay in two broken pieces on the floor. His left forearm bent at an angle it never should, and blood continued running from a deep laceration across his forehead, soaking the padding beneath his cervical collar.
Despite everything, he was still awake. His eyes found yours, and then, somehow, he smiled. "...Hey, Doc."
Your chest tightened painfully. You were beside him before you even realized you had moved, your hands automatically checking his vitals. "What happened?"
Dana answered while checking the monitor. "Motorcycle jump."
Whitaker glanced up from the ultrasound screen. "He lost control on the landing. Hit the guardrail."
You closed your eyes for half a second. Of course he did.
Michael let out the weakest laugh before immediately wincing in agony. "...Turns out... Grandpa was right."
You wanted to yell at him right then and there. Instead, your medical training took over, and your hands moved automatically through the practiced sequence.
Pupils. Airway. Breathing. Pulse.
His breathing wasn't right. It was far too fast, far too shallow. You looked sharply across the stretcher toward Robby. "What do we know?"
"Not enough," Robby replied, his brow furrowed as he managed the lines. "Trauma scans are being prepared right now. We're still working him up."
Princess glanced toward the monitor, her voice tight. "Pressure's still dropping."
Santos looked over from the head of the bed, maintaining manual stabilization. "He's becoming harder to keep comfortable."
Nobody needed to say it out loud. The room was moving faster now, the clinical urgency shifting into overdrive. Everyone in the bay could feel it.
You gently squeezed Michael's good shoulder, trying to anchor him. "I'll be right outside."
As you turned to step away, his fingers wrapped weakly around your wrist. "...Don't."
You stopped, looking back at him. "...Don't what?"
"...Don't tell Grandpa. Please."
You stared at him, your heart aching. "...Michael."
"I mean it." His breathing caught, a flash of pure panic breaking through his fading adrenaline. "I don't want him worrying."
For just a second, the reckless teenager completely disappeared. All you saw was a scared kid. All you saw was Clark's grandson.
You swallowed hard against the lump in your throat. "...I'll be right back."
He slowly let go of your wrist, his hand falling back to the mattress.
The moment you stepped outside the frantic noise of the trauma bay, you reached into your scrubs for your phone. The first person you called was Jack.
He answered almost immediately, his voice gravelly with sleep. "Morning."
"...Jack."
That was all it took. The raw tone of your voice changed his demeanor instantly. "...What happened?"
"...It's Michael."
A heavy silence dropped over the line. Then, Jack spoke. "...Where?"
There were no questions, no hesitation, and no demands for details. Just a sharp, directive query. On his end of the line, you could already hear drawers opening and the frantic jingle of keys. Then came the sharp, familiar click of his prosthetic leg moving at a dead sprint against his hardwood floor.
"The Pitt," you replied.
"I'm coming." The line went dead.
You immediately dialed Clark's number. The phone rang twice before the old man's deep voice answered. "...Kid?"
You closed your eyes, leaning your head against the cool hospital wall. "...Michael's at the Pitt."
A silence followed, long and heavy enough to hurt. Then Clark quietly asked the only question that mattered. "...How bad?"
A/N: Hello, everyone! Sorry for not updating Jack Abbot - Keep Up last week. I had another business trip, and this week I have another one too. It was so sudden. I only found out after lunch.
To make up for it, I made Chapter 7 longer. I hope you guys enjoy it!
Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a Comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️
The moment you arrived at the hospital a nurse was already waiting outside the operating room.
"Doctor."
You walked straight toward her. "What's the situation?"
"Thirty-eight-year-old male. Motor vehicle collision. Internal bleeding. Dr. Garcia is already inside."
"Vitals?"
"Stable after transfusion."
"Let's go."
You scrubbed in quickly while the circulating nurse helped you into your sterile gown and gloves, and a moment later you stepped into the OR. Garcia glanced up briefly from the surgical field.
"Took you a while."
"His place is kind of far."
That was all you said before your attention shifted entirely to the patient.
"Clamp. Suction. Retractor."
The room settled into its familiar rhythm. Garcia had already controlled most of the bleeding. Together you located the remaining vessel, repaired it, inspected the abdomen one final time, and began closing. The surgery went smoothly, the kind that felt almost routine after the ones that didn't.
As the nurses transferred the patient to recovery you peeled off your gloves and moved to the scrub sink beside Garcia. She noticed you checking the clock almost immediately.
"In a hurry?"
"I'm going down to the ER for a while."
"Really."
You looked at her. "Really."
Garcia smirked. "Uh-huh."
"I'm talking to Robby."
"Of course you are."
You narrowed your eyes. "What?"
"Nothing." She dried her hands with the serenity of someone who had already won the conversation. "Tell Abbot he's being dramatic."
You grabbed your badge. "I'll tell him you miss him."
Garcia looked genuinely offended. "I absolutely do not."
You chuckled and pushed through the OR doors. "See you later."
Then you headed downstairs toward the ER.
You stepped into the Pitt and the usual chaos met you immediately. Monitors beeping from every direction, paramedics rushing another patient through the ambulance bay, nurses weaving between stretchers with the practiced ease of people who had done it a thousand times and would do it a thousand more. A battlefield. Just another normal day.
At the attending station Dana looked up first. "Well, look who decided to visit."
"I was passing by."
"Mhm." She smiled with the particular warmth of someone who knew exactly what passing by meant in this context. "Passing by."
Before you could respond Robby looked up from his computer. "Helloooo." Then went straight back to typing.
You leaned over the counter. "Can I ask you a favor?"
Robby's fingers stopped on the keyboard. He looked up slowly. "Whyyy?"
"Could you give Abbot one more day off?"
He studied you for a second, something turning over behind his eyes. "Because?"
"Because tomorrow is my day off."
A smile escaped before you could stop it, small and entirely self-betraying. Robby had to press his lips together to keep his own from spreading too wide. If playing cupid meant Jack Abbot finally stopped moping around the ER like a man with unfinished business, he would do it without a single reservation.
"Of course," he said immediately. "Absolutely. Shen and Cruz can manage."
"Give them a chance to lead," you agreed, tapping the counter lightly.
"You got it."
You gave them both a small nod and headed back toward the elevator. The moment you disappeared around the corner Dana stepped closer to Robby, a smile already taking over her face.
"Sooo?"
Robby watched the elevator doors close before he answered. Then he shrugged, easy and unbothered. "I just want my friend to be happy."
Dana laughed softly and folded her arms. "You call it helping. I call it finally getting those two to stop dancing around each other."
Robby smiled to himself and went back to his keyboard. "About time," he said quietly.
*****
Jack had been reading for nearly an hour. The phantom pain had finally settled into a dull ache instead of the sharp relentless pulse that had haunted him all morning. Maybe it was the medication. Maybe it was finally getting some sleep.
His eyes drifted toward the front door.
Maybe it was because you'd stopped by.
The apartment was quiet. Until a key turned in the lock.
Jack looked up from his book. He set it aside, slipped on his prosthetic, and walked toward the door.
It opened, and the familiar scent of antiseptic reached him before you did.
"You're—"
Something barreled into his legs before he could finish.
"Woof!"
Jack looked down and laughed, low and genuine. "Hey, buddy." Riot's tail wagged so hard his entire body shook with it, his paws scrabbling against the floor in his enthusiasm to be as close to Jack as physically possible.
You stepped inside and closed the door behind you. "He's sleeping over. Make sure you're not lonely." You reached down and scratched behind Riot's ears.
Jack smiled. "I think he's more worried about you than me."
"He has separation anxiety," you said, already turning back toward the hallway.
"You're not going to stay?"
You stopped. Turned around. "You want me to stay?"
Jack cleared his throat. "Well." He glanced down at Riot with the expression of a man constructing a reasonable argument in real time. "Riot kind of whines at night."
"You just said he has separation anxiety."
Both Jack and Riot looked up at you at exactly the same time, wearing identical expressions of patient expectation.
You sighed dramatically. Then leaned slightly to your left and pulled a duffel bag off your shoulder.
Jack blinked. "Wait. You prepared?"
You smirked. "I never said I was leaving."
Then you walked past him into the apartment like that explained everything. Jack stood there for a second, then closed the door behind you, chuckling quietly to himself.
"What do you want for dinner?"
You looked back over your shoulder. "Anything that isn't hospital food."
"I think I can manage that."
By the time evening settled outside, takeout containers covered the coffee table and Riot had already finished his dinner and relocated to the rug, sprawled out with one of his toys and the boneless contentment of an animal whose world was exactly as it should be. The television played quietly in the background.
Jack looked up from his food. "Robby gave me another day off."
"I know." You took another bite. "I asked him to."
He frowned. "Why?"
"Because tomorrow is also my day off."
Silence. Jack stared at his dinner for a moment, then muttered mostly to himself, "Should I put in for sick leave more often?"
You looked at him over the rim of your drink. "I can still call Robby and tell him you're feeling much better."
Jack immediately shook his head. "Never mind."
The corner of your mouth lifted. "Thought so."
He smiled to himself and went back to his food. The takeout was decent, Riot was snoring softly on the rug, and the television was saying something neither of you were particularly listening to. Outside, the city moved through its evening the way it always did.
Inside, for the first time in a long while, the apartment didn't feel empty.
******
After dinner the apartment gradually grew quiet. Riot yawned first, which started a chain reaction. You stretched your arms above your head and looked toward the living room.
"I'll sleep on the couch."
"Nope."
You blinked. "Why not?"
Jack scratched the back of his neck, suddenly finding the floor far more interesting than your face. "Because." He cleared his throat. "My bed is big enough." A pause. He looked up for half a second. "For the three of us."
Silence.
He immediately regretted how that had sounded. "I mean." He pointed at Riot, who had already wandered into the bedroom and was circling the foot of the bed with the focused intention of an animal who had already made his decision. "Riot slept beside me last time he was here."
"Oh." That was all you managed.
Jack rubbed the back of his neck again. "Just like the old days, right?" He gave you a small, almost shy smile, the kind that didn't show up often enough to be taken for granted.
"Yeah," you said softly. "Just like the old days."
You hoped he couldn't hear how hard your heart was suddenly beating.
FLASHBACK
The desert finally cooled after sunset. For the first time all day the air was almost pleasant, the kind of temperature that made you forget for twenty minutes how brutal the hours before it had been.
You were halfway across camp chasing a small blur of black fur. "Riot!"
The puppy ignored you completely and ran straight toward the familiar figure lying just beyond the barracks.
Jack.
He always ended his day there, flat on his back with his hands behind his head, looking up at the stars before turning in. It had become its own kind of ritual.
Tiny Riot launched himself directly onto Jack's chest.
"Oof." Jack laughed, low and easy. "Hey, buddy." The puppy licked his chin with great enthusiasm while Jack scratched behind his ears, and then he finally noticed you slowing to a stop beside them.
"Lose something?"
"I think he lost me," you said.
Jack chuckled. "Sounds about right."
You folded your arms. "I've been chasing him for ten minutes."
Riot barked, with the energy of an animal who considered this a personal achievement. Jack looked up at you. "You can sit."
You hesitated. "I don't want to interrupt."
"You'd be interrupting me staring at stars."
"Sounds important."
"It is."
That made you laugh. You lowered yourself onto the ground beside him and the warm sand shifted beneath you as you looked up. The night sky stretched endlessly above you both, more stars than you ever saw back home, the kind of sky that made problems feel a different size than they had in the tent.
"So." You broke the silence first. "What do you think about every night?"
Jack didn't answer immediately. "Nothing."
You turned your head. "You're lying."
"Mostly tomorrow," he admitted.
"Fair." You looked back up at the sky. Neither of you spoke for a while, and the silence wasn't awkward. It never really was with him, which was its own kind of thing you hadn't figured out what to do with yet.
"Well, well."
Diaz's voice cut through the quiet. Both of you turned. He was standing a few feet away with his hands on his hips, looking between you, Jack, and the tiny puppy now stretched contentedly across Jack's chest like he owned it. Then the grin spread across his face.
"Family night."
You rolled your eyes immediately. "We're not a family."
Diaz ignored this completely. He walked over and dropped onto the sand beside Jack with the ease of someone who had decided he was invited. He pointed at Jack. "You. The grumpy dad."
Jack sighed. "I'm already regretting you being here."
Diaz pointed at you. "You. Mom."
"What?"
"And Riot." He reached over and scratched the puppy's head. "The child."
Riot barked happily.
"There. He agrees."
"He absolutely does not," you muttered.
Diaz looked between the two of you with the satisfied expression of a man presenting a well-researched conclusion. "You know what's funny?"
Neither of you answered.
"You two always end up in the same place after every mission." He nodded toward the space between you. "Every single time."
Jack folded his hands back behind his head. "Coincidence."
"Mhm." Diaz nodded with great drama. "And the dog just happened to adopt both of you."
"Coincidence," Jack said again.
Diaz laughed. "Keep telling yourselves that."
You grabbed a handful of sand and threw it at him. It barely reached his boots. He looked down at it.
"That's all you've got?"
"I was aiming for your mouth."
Jack snorted.
Diaz clutched his chest. "See?" He pointed at you. "Violence." Then at Jack. "Silence." Then he patted Riot one more time and looked at all three of you with the settled satisfaction of someone whose point had just been made for him.
"Family night," he said quietly, mostly to himself.
Nobody argued with him that time.
******
PRESENT TIME
Jack woke before sunrise.
For a brief moment he stayed still, letting the dream settle. Not the explosion. Not the blood. Before that. The quiet nights, you and Diaz and tiny Riot, small enough to fit comfortably in one arm, happily chewing on Jack's sleeve while the three of you lay beneath a sky full of more stars than any of you had time to count.
Funny. Back then all three of you had slept on hard ground without a single complaint.
Now Riot had claimed half the mattress and you were asleep beside him under a warm blanket, your breathing slow and even, your face completely relaxed in a way it rarely was during waking hours.
Life was strange.
Jack smiled to himself and quietly climbed out of bed.
A shower sounded like a good idea.
The sound of running water eventually stirred Riot awake. One oversized ear twitched. Then the other. He yawned dramatically, stretched his entire body from nose to tail, and then climbed across the mattress toward you with the purposeful energy of an animal who had decided you had slept long enough.
His cold nose nudged your cheek.
"Five more minutes," you mumbled.
"Woof."
"No."
Another nudge, more insistent this time.
"Traitor," you muttered into the pillow.
The bathroom door opened. Steam drifted out into the bedroom. Jack stepped through it with a towel slung around his neck and another wrapped low around his waist, rubbing damp hair with one hand, still half in his own head.
Still half asleep, your eyes wandered in his direction.
Your brain took an extra second to catch up with what your eyes were doing.
Jack caught you staring. A slow grin appeared, unhurried and deeply satisfied. "Enjoying the view?"
"What?" You blinked. Then registered exactly where your eyes had settled and looked away immediately. "Oh, please. I saw you like this all the time in the army."
Jack raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" He tilted his head slightly. "So you've been noticing my body this whole time."
You grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at him. "How long are you planning to stand there half naked?"
He caught the pillow without effort. "I've been living alone for years." A shrug, entirely unrepentant. "I forgot people usually expect a warning."
Still quietly laughing to himself, he tossed the pillow back onto the bed, pulled a clean shirt from the wardrobe, and disappeared back into the bathroom to finish getting dressed.
The moment the door clicked shut you buried your face in both hands.
"Oh my God."
Your ears felt warm. Riot put his head in your lap, looked up at you with his big brown eyes, and wagged his tail once.
"Not a word," you told him.
He wagged again.
Inside the bathroom, Jack pulled his shirt over his head and looked at himself in the mirror for a moment. The smile refused to leave his face no matter how much he tried to dial it back into something more reasonable.
For once, getting teased hadn't been nearly as fun as doing the teasing.
*****
An hour later the three of you were walking through downtown Pittsburgh. Morning sunlight reflected off the glass buildings while Riot trotted ahead, occasionally glancing back to confirm both of you were still following, which you were.
Jack walked a few steps behind, quietly. He pulled out his phone and raised it.
Click.
You hadn't noticed. You were too busy watching Riot investigate every tree along the path with the focused dedication of a professional. Jack looked at the photo. You, Riot, morning sun, the coffee shop a few steps ahead. Good enough. He opened Instagram.
Story: A day off well spent. The photo underneath it.
You hadn't noticed at all. You were far too busy watching Riot investigate every single tree along the sidewalk with the intense seriousness of a homicide detective on a major case.
Jack slowed his pace a fraction, letting a little distance grow between you. He pulled out his phone, lifting the screen to frame the shot. The morning sunlight was hitting perfectly, catching you walking right beside Riot with your coffee clutched in your hand, the local café just ahead. It was perfect. He snapped the picture, opened Instagram, and after thinking for a quick second, he typed out a caption: Morning walk with the family.
He hit post and slipped his phone back into his coat pocket. It buzzed almost immediately against his hip.
"Well, that was fast," he muttered to himself, pulling the device back out.
The notification was from a group chat titled The Pitt Crew, and the messages were already flying across the screen.
Princess: OH MY GOD.
Santos: JACK POSTED HER.
Whitaker: HE NEVER POSTS PEOPLE.
Princess: EXCEPT HIS DOG.
Shen: Correction.
Shen: Their dog.
Dana: Cute picture.
Robby: Morning, Jack.
Garcia: I see someone is enjoying his sick leave.
Princess: THEY WENT FOR COFFEE TOGETHER.
Santos: THIS ISN'T A DATE???
Shen: If that's not a date, then I'm a pediatrician.
Princess: YOU GUYS HAD A WHOLE SLEEPOVER DIDN'T YOU???
Jack didn't even hesitate. He tapped the text box and sent a single word.
Jack: Yes.
The chat group exploded instantly.
Princess: ????????????????
Whitaker: HE SAID YES SO CASUALLY.
Santos: I'M LOSING MY MIND.
Garcia: Called it.
Dana: I'm happy for you two.
Robby: Don't make me approve sick leave too often, Abbott.
Jack smiled to himself, a genuine chuckle escaping his throat, before he quietly locked the screen. Mission accomplished.
"What?" you asked, glancing over your shoulder at him. "You've been smiling at your phone for the last minute."
Jack quickly slipped the device back into his pocket, falling back into step right beside you. "...Nothing."
He kept his face completely blank, but he knew that somewhere inside the emergency department, Princess had probably stopped working entirely just to process the fact that Jack Abbott had voluntarily admitted to a sleepover.
You knew he did something but you needed caffeine to interrogate him. So you stepped into the cafe. "Hi."
The barista smiled. "Morning. What can I get you?"
"Two lattes."
"Sure." He glanced at you again with the particular friendliness of someone who had decided to be more helpful than strictly necessary. "I don't think I've seen you here before."
"I've been busy."
"Hopefully we'll see you more often."
Before you could answer, Jack appeared beside you. Without a word he rested his hand lightly against the small of your back. Not enough to pull you closer. Just enough to be obvious about something.
The barista noticed immediately.
Jack looked at you with complete seriousness. "Honey."
You froze.
"Our son is waiting outside."
Your brain short-circuited entirely. You turned slowly toward the barista. He looked equally confused, glancing between the two of you and the door beyond which a very large German Shepherd was visible through the glass.
The silence lasted exactly three seconds.
Then the barista slid the drinks across the counter with the energy of someone who had decided not to ask. "Here's your two lattes."
"Thank you." You grabbed both cups and escaped the café before anything else could happen.
Outside, Riot greeted you both with an enthusiastic bark. You looked at Jack.
"You could've just said dog."
Jack stopped walking. A pause. "Oh."
He looked genuinely like he had just realized something. "You're right. I didn't think of that."
You clicked your tongue. Sometimes he was unbelievably childish for a man his age.
Jack took a long sip of his coffee. "I'll never go there again."
"You were the problem."
"I know."
"You were grumpy."
"I'm always grumpy."
"You were worse than usual."
Jack shrugged with complete serenity. "My therapist told me I find comfort in darkness." He sipped his coffee again. "Her words."
You laughed despite yourself. "You actually listened to your therapist."
"I occasionally surprise people."
Your phone vibrated before you could respond. Clark. You answered. "Morning."
"I called the hospital." His voice was alert in that particular way that meant he already knew something. "They told me both you and Abbot have the day off."
"That's right."
"Perfect." He didn't give you time to ask why. "Come to my place. Now."
The call ended.
Jack glanced over. "Who was that?"
"Clark." You slipped the phone back into your pocket. "He wants us at his place."
Jack looked at Riot, then back at the street ahead with a smile already settling onto his face. "Oh." He reached down and scratched behind Riot's ears. "This is gonna be fun."
“Woof!” Riot barked like he completely agreed.
*******
Clark's house sat on the edge of town. Or rather, estate. You slowed the car as the wrought iron gate opened automatically, your eyes following the long driveway up toward the house.
"I knew Clark was rich," you said slowly. "But this?"
Jack looked out the window without much surprise. "He buys land every time he has extra money." He nodded toward an empty field visible beyond the tree line. "Says it's the safest investment."
"He's terrifying."
"I've been saying that for years."
By the time you parked, the front door had already opened. Clark stepped outside with his coffee mug in hand, unhurried, the way a man moved when he owned the ground he was standing on.
"There you are."
Riot was out of the car before anyone else, sprinting across the driveway with the full commitment of an animal reuniting with someone important.
"Woof!"
Clark crouched with a grin that took ten years off his face. "And you too, little guy." He scratched behind Riot's ears while the dog tried to climb into his lap. "Good to see you, soldier."
Jack climbed out and stretched. "What are we doing here, old man?"
Clark looked him up and down. "Grumpy in the morning?"
"I mentioned that to him," you offered.
Clark glanced at you. "So you did." Then his eyes moved between the two of you with the slow assessment of someone taking inventory. "How did the three of you end up together?"
Jack answered before you could. "They slept at my place."
Silence.
You turned toward Jack slowly. His expression was completely neutral, which meant he had not yet processed what he had just said out loud to a man who noticed everything.
Clark stared at both of you for exactly two seconds.
Then he burst out laughing. A loud, genuine laugh, the kind that came from somewhere deep and didn't apologize for itself. He slapped Jack's shoulder hard enough to mean it. "Finally!"
You covered your face with both hands. "Oh my God."
Jack frowned. "What?"
Clark was still laughing, wiping the corner of his eye with his thumb. "Nothing, nothing."
"I meant." Jack pointed at you. "And the dog." He gestured at Riot, who was sitting at Clark's feet looking extremely pleased with the current energy. "All three of us. In the apartment."
Clark nodded slowly, composing himself with great effort. "Oh, I know what you meant. Eventually."
He turned back toward the house, shoulders still shaking, coffee mug raised like a toast to no one in particular.
Jack stood in the driveway looking at the back of his head. Then at you.
You looked at him over your hands.
Neither of you said anything.
Riot wagged his tail.
Clark's smile slowly faded. "It's about my grandson."
You frowned. "What about him?"
"An idiot." He took a sip of his coffee. "He's making videos. The dangerous kind. Climbing buildings, hanging off bridges, jumping between rooftops. Anything people apparently call content these days."
"I've seen a few of them," you admitted. "He has more followers than doctor J."
Jack turned toward you. "You knew about this but you didn't know about my recent updates?"
"What updates?"
He looked at you with mild offense. You pulled out your phone, frowning. Truthfully, ever since Jack's Instagram story had sent half the hospital into full detective mode, you had muted most of your notifications. The daily Pitt group chat was already enough to manage. You preferred not looking at your phone unless absolutely necessary.
You opened Instagram.
Your eyes widened. "Jack."
He looked completely innocent. "Hm?"
"You tagged me."
"So?"
"You posted my picture."
"So?"
"And." You scrolled. "There are four hundred comments."
Jack shrugged. "I didn't count."
"Jack!"
Clark took a long sip of his coffee. "Ah." He nodded to himself with the satisfaction of someone watching something he had predicted arrive exactly on schedule. "There it is. Another married couple argument."
Jack answered immediately. "We're not married."
"You keep saying that," Clark said pleasantly.
Before either of you could continue, a voice came from the front porch.
"Grandpa?"
All three of you turned.
A teenage boy walked out of the house. Tall, curly dark hair, a hoodie despite the warmth of the morning, a camera hanging around his neck like it belonged there. He moved with the easy confidence of someone who had never once entered a room quietly in his life.
Clark sighed. "My idiot grandson. Michael."
Michael walked over with a grin already in place and offered his hand first. "So you guys are the famous army people."
You shook it. "Nice to meet you."
Jack did the same. "You must've done something impressive if Clark dragged both of us out here."
Michael laughed and casually wrapped an arm around Clark's shoulders. "Aww, Grandpa." He bumped him once. "I prefer creative problem solver."
Clark looked at the sky briefly. "I prefer future heart attack."
Michael grinned. "Relax." Another easy bump of his shoulder. "I'm too pretty to die."
Silence.
Jack's smile disappeared. Your expression went still. Clark looked slowly between the two of you, reading the quiet that had settled over both of you in the span of one sentence.
Because that was exactly something Gabriel Diaz would have said. The phrasing, the delivery, the complete and unearned confidence of it. Every single time, without fail, said with that same grin like the universe had personally guaranteed him an exemption.
Michael noticed the shift immediately, his smile fading slightly. "Did I say something wrong?"
Clark placed a hand on his grandson's shoulder. "No," he said quietly. "You just reminded us of someone."
Michael looked between you and Jack, reading the room the way young people did when they understood more than adults expected them to. He didn't push. He just nodded once and let it sit.
Riot chose that moment to shove his nose into Michael's hand, which broke the spell faster than anything else could have.
Michael looked down. "Oh, he's huge."
"His name is Riot," you said.
Michael crouched immediately, and Riot, who had excellent judgment about people, wagged his tail and leaned into him without hesitation.
Clark cleared his throat. "He's planning to jump his dirt bike across the old service bridge over Miller Creek." He pointed toward a wooded area beyond the property line. "The county closed it years ago."
You frowned. "Because it's unstable?"
"Exactly."
Michael waved a hand. "I'm not riding on the bridge." He smiled with the confidence of someone who had never once considered consequences a personal concern. "I'm jumping over the broken section."
You stared at him. "That somehow sounds worse."
"There'll be professionals there."
Clark snorted. "Professional idiots."
"They know what they're doing."
Jack folded his arms. "If you're looking for the fastest route to the trauma bay," he said calmly, "that's a solid plan."
Michael laughed. "You guys make it sound like I'm guaranteed to crash."
"No," Jack said. "We're saying you'll crash eventually. The question is whether you want to do it on your terms or the bridge's terms."
"Optimistic."
"Experienced."
Michael lifted both hands in surrender and looked around at the three of you with theatrical defeat. "I've officially been outnumbered." Then his eyes landed on Riot sitting patiently at the edge of the driveway, and his entire face changed.
"Whoa." He pulled the camera from around his neck immediately. "Now that's content." He crouched beside Riot, who tilted his head with the regal patience of an animal accustomed to being admired. Michael started recording, angling the lens carefully.
"Morning, everyone." He turned the camera toward Riot. "I just met the CEO of emotional support."
Clark clicked his tongue. "You see? Nothing gets through that thick skull." He watched his grandson talk earnestly to a German Shepherd on camera. "I don't know where he gets it from."
Jack watched quietly for a moment, then said, "He got it from you."
Clark looked genuinely offended. "I have never done anything that stupid in my life."
You and Jack turned toward him at exactly the same time. "Really?"
Clark opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked between the two of you, then at Michael still filming Riot with complete artistic commitment, then back at you.
"I walked into that one," he said.
"Completely," Jack agreed.
Clark took a long sip of his coffee and said nothing further, which was its own kind of answer.
******
Michael led them around the side of the house to where his setup was laid out with the organized precision of someone who had thought about this for longer than anyone around him was comfortable with.
"Two cameras," he said, pointing. "GoPro mounted on the helmet, second angle from the side. Drone for the overhead shot." He moved along the lineup. "Spotter positioned at the far end of the bridge. Medical kit, fully stocked. Fire extinguisher. Helmet, obviously." He paused for effect. "And I hired two licensed motocross riders to consult on the jump trajectory."
You and Jack looked at each other.
Then back at the setup.
Then at each other again.
"Still a terrible idea," you both said at exactly the same time.
Michael blinked. "Seriously? Even with all of that?"
Jack shrugged. "Preparation doesn't make a bad decision good."
You nodded. "It just makes it organized."
Michael stared at the two of you. "Do you practice being like this or does it just happen naturally?"
"Experience," Jack said.
"Years of it," you confirmed.
Michael exhaled dramatically and turned back to his equipment. "I just need one video. One that actually blows up. If it does, I could get sponsored. Monster, Red Bull, Fox, anyone. That's all I need."
Jack deadpanned, "Or UPMC Trauma."
You added, "They'll definitely know your name."
Michael groaned. "You two are impossible." He turned toward Clark, who was standing back with his coffee mug and the expression of a man enjoying this far more than he was letting on. "Grandpa. Are you absolutely sure these two aren't married?"
Clark didn't even look at him. "This isn't about them. It's about you."
Michael sighed like this was deeply unfair.
He walked them back to the driveway when it was time to leave, hands in his hoodie pockets, Riot trotting beside him like they had been friends for years.
Jack stopped at the car door. "One piece of advice."
Michael looked up. "Hm?"
"You're still young. You've got plenty of time to do stupid things. So don't rush all of them into this year."
Michael laughed, genuine and easy. "I'll think about it."
You stepped slightly closer. "Promise me you'll walk away if something feels wrong. Even if the cameras are rolling and everyone's watching. Just walk away."
Michael looked at you for a second, something in his expression shifting into something more honest than the performance he'd been giving all morning. "You sound like Grandpa."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
He smiled. "I'll be careful."
You both nodded. You both also knew exactly what teenagers meant when they said that, which was roughly the same thing soldiers meant when they said easy mission. But you let it stand, because some things needed to be said out loud even when everyone in the conversation understood their limitations.
Michael scratched Riot behind the ears one last time and headed back toward the house. Clark lifted his mug from the porch in a small farewell salute.
************
The drive back was quiet. Just the radio, low enough to be background noise, and trees passing steadily outside the windows.
Then, softly, you said, "He reminds me of Diaz."
Jack didn't answer immediately. He kept his eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console.
"Yeah," he said finally. "I saw it too."
A pause settled between you, unhurried and familiar.
"The jokes," Jack said. "The confidence. The way he talks like he's figured something out that everyone else missed."
"The way he thinks he's invincible," you added quietly.
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Scared the hell out of me," Jack said.
You nodded slowly. Outside the window the trees kept passing, steady and indifferent, and neither of you spoke again for a long time. The radio filled the space and that was enough.
************
A few hours after leaving Clark's house, you finally made it back to your apartment. The place was quiet. It was too quiet. Riot was fast asleep near the couch, completely exhausted from all the excitement of the evening, his chest rising and falling rhythmically.
For some reason, your eyes drifted toward the desk in the corner of the room, specifically toward the bottom drawer.
The drawer. The one you almost never opened. The one that held things you simply weren't ready for.
You stared at it, then looked away, trying to shake the sudden impulse. Then your gaze locked back onto it. Years. It had been years, yet somehow, you already knew exactly what was inside.
Slowly, you crossed the room and pulled the drawer open. The old wooden box was exactly where you had left it, with dust resting lightly across the surface of the lid. Your fingers hesitated in the air, trembling slightly, before you finally lifted it out. Inside sat old photographs, a few faded military patches, a silver collar pin, and a single envelope. Your name was written across the front in Gabriel's unmistakable handwriting.
The mere sight of it still hurt. You swallowed hard, pulling out a chair and sitting down as the apartment suddenly felt very small and very quiet. You carefully broke the seal, unfolded the crisp paper, and began to read.
If you're reading this... well. Congratulations. I'm dead.
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh, a breathless sound breaking the quiet. Of course. Of course that was exactly how he started it.
Which, if we're being honest, is a terrible deal for me. So I'd appreciate it if you're appropriately devastated for at least a month. Longer if you actually liked me.
You rolled your eyes despite yourself, your vision already blurring as tears welled in the corners of your eyes.
First things first. Abbott still owes me twenty bucks. Death does NOT erase debt. Tell him I'll haunt him every payday until he coughs it up.
A real laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. You could practically hear Gabriel's voice saying the words aloud in the room.
Actually... you know what my biggest regret is? Not taking enough pictures. I always said "later." Then one day... there wasn't one. So if life teaches you anything... take the stupid picture. Even if your hair looks terrible. Even if Abbott is making one of those grumpy faces. Especially then.
Your chest tightened painfully because suddenly you thought about the photograph sitting on Jack's coffee table, the one he still kept, the one you almost never allowed yourself to think about anymore.
Second biggest regret? Never getting to annoy you and Abbott after you two finally admitted whatever the hell this thing is between you.
You immediately groaned, burying your face in your free hand. "Oh my God."
Yeah. Don't look so surprised. I knew. Clark knew. Half the camp knew. You two had the emotional communication skills of wet cardboard. You argued like an old married couple, then stared at each other when the other wasn't looking. It was painful. Seriously. Just kiss already. Or yell. Honestly, I don't think either of you knows the difference.
You covered your burning face completely, your voice cracking. "Idiot."
Anyway... I know you. Which means if something happened to me... you're probably blaming yourself.
The brief smile vanished from your face.
So let me save you some time. No. You don't get to do that. You hear me? You don't.
The written words hit harder than you ever expected because somehow, he still knew you. Even then, even before everything actually happened.
You gave me more time than I should've had. Out here... most of us don't get miracles. I did. Because of you. You fought for me when everyone else would've accepted the outcome. Even when it wasn't enough... you still fought.
The tears came freely before you even realized it, one hot drop and then another falling directly onto the paper, wrinkling the ink.
So don't spend the rest of your life treating yourself like punishment. You already carried enough. Go live. Run those ridiculous races you keep talking about. Keep making Abbott roll his eyes. And when he inevitably says something stupid... yell at him. You seem weirdly good at that.
A broken laugh escaped you, wiping a wet cheek with your shoulder because he wasn't wrong.
Take care of Riot. Actually... spoil him. He deserves it. Just don't let him get fat. Clark will blame you.
You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, then kept reading.
One more thing. If years from now... Abbott still looks at you the way he does now... for the love of God... just marry the man.
Your breath caught in your throat.
Life's already too short. Don't waste whatever time you've got pretending you don't feel something. You both deserve something good after all this. And if Abbott somehow manages to screw it up... tell him I can still haunt him. Twenty bucks first. Then haunting. Forever your favorite extremely annoying, non-blood-related big brother, Gabriel Diaz.
At the very bottom, written in much smaller handwriting, was one final line.
P.S. If you're crying while reading this, that's embarrassing. Drink some water.
You stared at the tiny script, then laughed. You actually laughed right through your tears, exactly the way Gabriel would have wanted you to. And for the very first time in years, the crushing weight of the guilt felt just a little bit lighter.
You folded the letter carefully, almost reverently, handling the paper as if creasing it the wrong way would mean losing him all over again. The apartment fell completely quiet, with only Riot's soft, rhythmic breathing filling the space. Your thumb brushed across Gabriel's signature one last time, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at your lips.
"...Idiot," you murmured, your voice cracking anyway. For years, you had carried the crushing weight of guilt, believing it was the only way to honor his memory. But looking down at the worn paper, you realized you might have been completely wrong.
Your eyes drifted toward the dark window, watching the city lights flicker outside. Without meaning to, another face materialized in your thoughts.
Jack. Grumpy, sarcastic, and annoyingly persistent Jack. You remembered the exact look he had given you this afternoon when he thought you were leaving his side.
You're not going to stay?
You thought of the quiet, unexpected way he had handed you his spare key, his confession that he still kept the old photograph on his coffee table, and the comforting weight of his head resting against your shoulder without asking for a single thing in return.
You closed your eyes, letting the memory settle. Gabriel had been entirely right, not just about Jack, but about you, too. You had spent years trying to outrun your grief by training, working, and taking every extra shift available.
You ran every exhausting race and took on every impossible medical case, acting as if staying constantly busy meant you never had to stop long enough to actually miss the people you lost.
And somehow, Jack had done the exact same thing. You had taken entirely different roads, but you had both arrived at the same lonely destination. Alone.
You let out a slow, quiet breath into the stillness of the room. "...Maybe..." You whispered it so softly that even you almost didn't hear it. "...Maybe we don't have to anymore."
You carefully tucked the letter back inside its envelope. This time, you didn't hide the box at the very bottom of the dark drawer under layers of old gear. You closed the drawer and left it sitting right on top, out in the open.
********
The next morning, you stepped into the hospital lobby with your usual cup of coffee clutched tightly in your hand. It didn't even take five seconds for the trap to spring.
"There she is."
Dana's voice echoed across the corridor. Of course. You let out a long, heavy sigh and adjusted your grip on your cup before facing her. "...Good morning?"
Princess looked up from behind the nurses' station, her lips curving into a grin that immediately made you deeply suspicious. "So."
"So?" you countered, keeping your expression blank.
"How was your day off?"
"Quiet."
Robby let out a loud snort, not even pretending to look at the chart in his hands. "Sure it was."
You narrowed your eyes at him, stepping closer to the desk. "What exactly does that mean?"
Dana leaned her elbows against the laminate counter, her eyes gleaming with pure delight. "It means..." She looked around the hallway dramatically, dropping her voice to a theatrical whisper. "...we all know you spent it with Abbott."
You blinked once, the realization hitting you with a dull thud. "...News really does travel fast in this place."
Princess laughed, tapping her phone screen. "Jack literally posted you on his Instagram story."
You closed your eyes for a brief moment of pure defeat. "I knew I should've confiscated his phone."
Robby chuckled, pointing the tip of his pen directly at you. "So... how was the sleepover?"
"It was fine," you said flatly.
Dana raised an eyebrow, leaning in closer. "Just fine?"
"Riot snored."
"That's not what I asked."
You took another slow, deliberate sip of your coffee to buy yourself some time. "Then I'm choosing not to answer."
The entire nurses' station groaned in unison.
Another doctor walked past the desk, carrying a stack of patient files under his arm. "You people actually have patients to care for, you know."
Dana didn't even bother to look at him, waving a hand dismissively. "This is important medical sociology."
"It really isn't."
Princess folded her arms over her scrubs, tilting her head. "I just want official confirmation."
"There is absolutely nothing to confirm."
Robby’s smile widened, a mischievous spark in his eyes. "So you’re saying you didn’t sleep in the same bed?"
You stopped, staring dead at him with your most formidable surgeon expression. "...Robby."
"What?"
"I am this close to making a complaint to the HR."
The station erupted into loud laughter, the tension breaking instantly. Even the passing staff couldn't help but smile into their charts.
"You all have way too much free time," you muttered, shaking your head as you turned on your heel and headed toward the elevators.
Behind you, Dana cupped her hands around her mouth and called out into the hallway, "Tell Abbott we miss him!"
You lifted one hand, raising a single finger without turning around to face them. "I won't."
Once you stepped out onto the upper floors, the teasing finally stopped, and the familiar, demanding rhythm of your department took over completely.
The hours slipped by the way they always did in medicine, measuring one patient at a time, one critical decision after another. By mid-afternoon, you had almost forgotten about the morning's gossip.
Then, your pager vibrated violently against your hip at the exact same moment your phone began to ring in your pocket. You pulled it out and answered immediately.
You answered immediately. "Dr. L/N."
"Doc." It was Robby on the other end. His voice sounded entirely different than usual, carrying a steady, measured calmness that stood out against the loud chaos of the emergency room around him. That lack of panic somehow made your stomach drop instantly.
"We've got a major trauma downstairs," he said.
You were already adjusting your phone against your ear, reaching for the back of your chair to grab your white coat. "I'm on my way."
A brief pause hung on the line. "There's something else."
Your hand froze on the fabric of your coat. "What is it?"
"The patient specifically asked for you."
Your eyebrows pulled together, a deep frown forming as you quickly ran through your current patient roster in your head. "...Asked for me?"
"He knew your exact name," Robby confirmed.
Silence stretched over the line for a second. You searched your memory as fast as you could, but there were no scheduled transfers, no complex follow-ups, and absolutely no former patients you were expecting to arrive through the ambulance bay today.
"I don't recognize the name on the intake," Robby continued, his tone shifting into something a bit more guarded. "But whatever this is, he was pretty insistent before he lost consciousness."
The skin on the back of your neck prickled, a sudden tightness gripping your throat. "I'll be down there in two minutes."
You ended the call, snapping your phone shut. Without another word of explanation, you shoved your current patient's chart directly into the hands of the nearest resident standing beside you. "Cover the rest of my rounds. Call me if anyone crashes."
Then you were already moving, your sneakers squeaking against the linoleum as you pushed through the heavy double doors of the ward. You hit the down button on the lift panel repeatedly, your chest tightening further when the numbers slowly clicked down from the top floor. The lift couldn't come fast enough.
You pushed through the heavy double doors leading into the Emergency Department. The closer you got to the central trauma bay, the louder the room became.
"Blood pressure's dropping!" Princess shouted, already hanging another bag of fluids.
"Another large-bore IV!" Whitaker was squeezing past the respiratory therapist with an ultrasound machine.
"Move him on three, watch his neck!" Dana was cutting away the remaining sleeve of the motorcycle jacket while Santos held manual stabilization at his head.
The familiar chaos wrapped around you like an old blanket. Except, the moment you reached the edge of the trauma bay, you stopped dead in your tracks.
"...Michael?" Your voice barely came out.
Robby looked up from the opposite side of the stretcher, his expression immediately softening as he saw you. "I'm glad you're here."
Only then did you look down at the gurney. Michael was completely covered in dirt. Savage road rash stretched across his shoulder and chest where his motorcycle jacket had already been cut away. His helmet lay in two broken pieces on the floor. His left forearm bent at an angle it never should, and blood continued running from a deep laceration across his forehead, soaking the padding beneath his cervical collar.
Despite everything, he was still awake. His eyes found yours, and then, somehow, he smiled. "...Hey, Doc."
Your chest tightened painfully. You were beside him before you even realized you had moved, your hands automatically checking his vitals. "What happened?"
Dana answered while checking the monitor. "Motorcycle jump."
Whitaker glanced up from the ultrasound screen. "He lost control on the landing. Hit the guardrail."
You closed your eyes for half a second. Of course he did.
Michael let out the weakest laugh before immediately wincing in agony. "...Turns out... Grandpa was right."
You wanted to yell at him right then and there. Instead, your medical training took over, and your hands moved automatically through the practiced sequence.
Pupils. Airway. Breathing. Pulse.
His breathing wasn't right. It was far too fast, far too shallow. You looked sharply across the stretcher toward Robby. "What do we know?"
"Not enough," Robby replied, his brow furrowed as he managed the lines. "Trauma scans are being prepared right now. We're still working him up."
Princess glanced toward the monitor, her voice tight. "Pressure's still dropping."
Santos looked over from the head of the bed, maintaining manual stabilization. "He's becoming harder to keep comfortable."
Nobody needed to say it out loud. The room was moving faster now, the clinical urgency shifting into overdrive. Everyone in the bay could feel it.
You gently squeezed Michael's good shoulder, trying to anchor him. "I'll be right outside."
As you turned to step away, his fingers wrapped weakly around your wrist. "...Don't."
You stopped, looking back at him. "...Don't what?"
"...Don't tell Grandpa. Please."
You stared at him, your heart aching. "...Michael."
"I mean it." His breathing caught, a flash of pure panic breaking through his fading adrenaline. "I don't want him worrying."
For just a second, the reckless teenager completely disappeared. All you saw was a scared kid. All you saw was Clark's grandson.
You swallowed hard against the lump in your throat. "...I'll be right back."
He slowly let go of your wrist, his hand falling back to the mattress.
The moment you stepped outside the frantic noise of the trauma bay, you reached into your scrubs for your phone. The first person you called was Jack.
He answered almost immediately, his voice gravelly with sleep. "Morning."
"...Jack."
That was all it took. The raw tone of your voice changed his demeanor instantly. "...What happened?"
"...It's Michael."
A heavy silence dropped over the line. Then, Jack spoke. "...Where?"
There were no questions, no hesitation, and no demands for details. Just a sharp, directive query. On his end of the line, you could already hear drawers opening and the frantic jingle of keys. Then came the sharp, familiar click of his prosthetic leg moving at a dead sprint against his hardwood floor.
"The Pitt," you replied.
"I'm coming." The line went dead.
You immediately dialed Clark's number. The phone rang twice before the old man's deep voice answered. "...Kid?"
You closed your eyes, leaning your head against the cool hospital wall. "...Michael's at the Pitt."
A silence followed, long and heavy enough to hurt. Then Clark quietly asked the only question that mattered. "...How bad?"
A/N: Hello, everyone! Sorry for not updating Jack Abbot - Keep Up last week. I had another business trip, and this week I have another one too. It was so sudden. I only found out after lunch.
To make up for it, I made Chapter 7 longer. I hope you guys enjoy it!
Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a Comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️
The moment you arrived at the hospital a nurse was already waiting outside the operating room.
"Doctor."
You walked straight toward her. "What's the situation?"
"Thirty-eight-year-old male. Motor vehicle collision. Internal bleeding. Dr. Garcia is already inside."
"Vitals?"
"Stable after transfusion."
"Let's go."
You scrubbed in quickly while the circulating nurse helped you into your sterile gown and gloves, and a moment later you stepped into the OR. Garcia glanced up briefly from the surgical field.
"Took you a while."
"His place is kind of far."
That was all you said before your attention shifted entirely to the patient.
"Clamp. Suction. Retractor."
The room settled into its familiar rhythm. Garcia had already controlled most of the bleeding. Together you located the remaining vessel, repaired it, inspected the abdomen one final time, and began closing. The surgery went smoothly, the kind that felt almost routine after the ones that didn't.
As the nurses transferred the patient to recovery you peeled off your gloves and moved to the scrub sink beside Garcia. She noticed you checking the clock almost immediately.
"In a hurry?"
"I'm going down to the ER for a while."
"Really."
You looked at her. "Really."
Garcia smirked. "Uh-huh."
"I'm talking to Robby."
"Of course you are."
You narrowed your eyes. "What?"
"Nothing." She dried her hands with the serenity of someone who had already won the conversation. "Tell Abbot he's being dramatic."
You grabbed your badge. "I'll tell him you miss him."
Garcia looked genuinely offended. "I absolutely do not."
You chuckled and pushed through the OR doors. "See you later."
Then you headed downstairs toward the ER.
You stepped into the Pitt and the usual chaos met you immediately. Monitors beeping from every direction, paramedics rushing another patient through the ambulance bay, nurses weaving between stretchers with the practiced ease of people who had done it a thousand times and would do it a thousand more. A battlefield. Just another normal day.
At the attending station Dana looked up first. "Well, look who decided to visit."
"I was passing by."
"Mhm." She smiled with the particular warmth of someone who knew exactly what passing by meant in this context. "Passing by."
Before you could respond Robby looked up from his computer. "Helloooo." Then went straight back to typing.
You leaned over the counter. "Can I ask you a favor?"
Robby's fingers stopped on the keyboard. He looked up slowly. "Whyyy?"
"Could you give Abbot one more day off?"
He studied you for a second, something turning over behind his eyes. "Because?"
"Because tomorrow is my day off."
A smile escaped before you could stop it, small and entirely self-betraying. Robby had to press his lips together to keep his own from spreading too wide. If playing cupid meant Jack Abbot finally stopped moping around the ER like a man with unfinished business, he would do it without a single reservation.
"Of course," he said immediately. "Absolutely. Shen and Cruz can manage."
"Give them a chance to lead," you agreed, tapping the counter lightly.
"You got it."
You gave them both a small nod and headed back toward the elevator. The moment you disappeared around the corner Dana stepped closer to Robby, a smile already taking over her face.
"Sooo?"
Robby watched the elevator doors close before he answered. Then he shrugged, easy and unbothered. "I just want my friend to be happy."
Dana laughed softly and folded her arms. "You call it helping. I call it finally getting those two to stop dancing around each other."
Robby smiled to himself and went back to his keyboard. "About time," he said quietly.
*****
Jack had been reading for nearly an hour. The phantom pain had finally settled into a dull ache instead of the sharp relentless pulse that had haunted him all morning. Maybe it was the medication. Maybe it was finally getting some sleep.
His eyes drifted toward the front door.
Maybe it was because you'd stopped by.
The apartment was quiet. Until a key turned in the lock.
Jack looked up from his book. He set it aside, slipped on his prosthetic, and walked toward the door.
It opened, and the familiar scent of antiseptic reached him before you did.
"You're—"
Something barreled into his legs before he could finish.
"Woof!"
Jack looked down and laughed, low and genuine. "Hey, buddy." Riot's tail wagged so hard his entire body shook with it, his paws scrabbling against the floor in his enthusiasm to be as close to Jack as physically possible.
You stepped inside and closed the door behind you. "He's sleeping over. Make sure you're not lonely." You reached down and scratched behind Riot's ears.
Jack smiled. "I think he's more worried about you than me."
"He has separation anxiety," you said, already turning back toward the hallway.
"You're not going to stay?"
You stopped. Turned around. "You want me to stay?"
Jack cleared his throat. "Well." He glanced down at Riot with the expression of a man constructing a reasonable argument in real time. "Riot kind of whines at night."
"You just said he has separation anxiety."
Both Jack and Riot looked up at you at exactly the same time, wearing identical expressions of patient expectation.
You sighed dramatically. Then leaned slightly to your left and pulled a duffel bag off your shoulder.
Jack blinked. "Wait. You prepared?"
You smirked. "I never said I was leaving."
Then you walked past him into the apartment like that explained everything. Jack stood there for a second, then closed the door behind you, chuckling quietly to himself.
"What do you want for dinner?"
You looked back over your shoulder. "Anything that isn't hospital food."
"I think I can manage that."
By the time evening settled outside, takeout containers covered the coffee table and Riot had already finished his dinner and relocated to the rug, sprawled out with one of his toys and the boneless contentment of an animal whose world was exactly as it should be. The television played quietly in the background.
Jack looked up from his food. "Robby gave me another day off."
"I know." You took another bite. "I asked him to."
He frowned. "Why?"
"Because tomorrow is also my day off."
Silence. Jack stared at his dinner for a moment, then muttered mostly to himself, "Should I put in for sick leave more often?"
You looked at him over the rim of your drink. "I can still call Robby and tell him you're feeling much better."
Jack immediately shook his head. "Never mind."
The corner of your mouth lifted. "Thought so."
He smiled to himself and went back to his food. The takeout was decent, Riot was snoring softly on the rug, and the television was saying something neither of you were particularly listening to. Outside, the city moved through its evening the way it always did.
Inside, for the first time in a long while, the apartment didn't feel empty.
******
After dinner the apartment gradually grew quiet. Riot yawned first, which started a chain reaction. You stretched your arms above your head and looked toward the living room.
"I'll sleep on the couch."
"Nope."
You blinked. "Why not?"
Jack scratched the back of his neck, suddenly finding the floor far more interesting than your face. "Because." He cleared his throat. "My bed is big enough." A pause. He looked up for half a second. "For the three of us."
Silence.
He immediately regretted how that had sounded. "I mean." He pointed at Riot, who had already wandered into the bedroom and was circling the foot of the bed with the focused intention of an animal who had already made his decision. "Riot slept beside me last time he was here."
"Oh." That was all you managed.
Jack rubbed the back of his neck again. "Just like the old days, right?" He gave you a small, almost shy smile, the kind that didn't show up often enough to be taken for granted.
"Yeah," you said softly. "Just like the old days."
You hoped he couldn't hear how hard your heart was suddenly beating.
FLASHBACK
The desert finally cooled after sunset. For the first time all day the air was almost pleasant, the kind of temperature that made you forget for twenty minutes how brutal the hours before it had been.
You were halfway across camp chasing a small blur of black fur. "Riot!"
The puppy ignored you completely and ran straight toward the familiar figure lying just beyond the barracks.
Jack.
He always ended his day there, flat on his back with his hands behind his head, looking up at the stars before turning in. It had become its own kind of ritual.
Tiny Riot launched himself directly onto Jack's chest.
"Oof." Jack laughed, low and easy. "Hey, buddy." The puppy licked his chin with great enthusiasm while Jack scratched behind his ears, and then he finally noticed you slowing to a stop beside them.
"Lose something?"
"I think he lost me," you said.
Jack chuckled. "Sounds about right."
You folded your arms. "I've been chasing him for ten minutes."
Riot barked, with the energy of an animal who considered this a personal achievement. Jack looked up at you. "You can sit."
You hesitated. "I don't want to interrupt."
"You'd be interrupting me staring at stars."
"Sounds important."
"It is."
That made you laugh. You lowered yourself onto the ground beside him and the warm sand shifted beneath you as you looked up. The night sky stretched endlessly above you both, more stars than you ever saw back home, the kind of sky that made problems feel a different size than they had in the tent.
"So." You broke the silence first. "What do you think about every night?"
Jack didn't answer immediately. "Nothing."
You turned your head. "You're lying."
"Mostly tomorrow," he admitted.
"Fair." You looked back up at the sky. Neither of you spoke for a while, and the silence wasn't awkward. It never really was with him, which was its own kind of thing you hadn't figured out what to do with yet.
"Well, well."
Diaz's voice cut through the quiet. Both of you turned. He was standing a few feet away with his hands on his hips, looking between you, Jack, and the tiny puppy now stretched contentedly across Jack's chest like he owned it. Then the grin spread across his face.
"Family night."
You rolled your eyes immediately. "We're not a family."
Diaz ignored this completely. He walked over and dropped onto the sand beside Jack with the ease of someone who had decided he was invited. He pointed at Jack. "You. The grumpy dad."
Jack sighed. "I'm already regretting you being here."
Diaz pointed at you. "You. Mom."
"What?"
"And Riot." He reached over and scratched the puppy's head. "The child."
Riot barked happily.
"There. He agrees."
"He absolutely does not," you muttered.
Diaz looked between the two of you with the satisfied expression of a man presenting a well-researched conclusion. "You know what's funny?"
Neither of you answered.
"You two always end up in the same place after every mission." He nodded toward the space between you. "Every single time."
Jack folded his hands back behind his head. "Coincidence."
"Mhm." Diaz nodded with great drama. "And the dog just happened to adopt both of you."
"Coincidence," Jack said again.
Diaz laughed. "Keep telling yourselves that."
You grabbed a handful of sand and threw it at him. It barely reached his boots. He looked down at it.
"That's all you've got?"
"I was aiming for your mouth."
Jack snorted.
Diaz clutched his chest. "See?" He pointed at you. "Violence." Then at Jack. "Silence." Then he patted Riot one more time and looked at all three of you with the settled satisfaction of someone whose point had just been made for him.
"Family night," he said quietly, mostly to himself.
Nobody argued with him that time.
******
PRESENT TIME
Jack woke before sunrise.
For a brief moment he stayed still, letting the dream settle. Not the explosion. Not the blood. Before that. The quiet nights, you and Diaz and tiny Riot, small enough to fit comfortably in one arm, happily chewing on Jack's sleeve while the three of you lay beneath a sky full of more stars than any of you had time to count.
Funny. Back then all three of you had slept on hard ground without a single complaint.
Now Riot had claimed half the mattress and you were asleep beside him under a warm blanket, your breathing slow and even, your face completely relaxed in a way it rarely was during waking hours.
Life was strange.
Jack smiled to himself and quietly climbed out of bed.
A shower sounded like a good idea.
The sound of running water eventually stirred Riot awake. One oversized ear twitched. Then the other. He yawned dramatically, stretched his entire body from nose to tail, and then climbed across the mattress toward you with the purposeful energy of an animal who had decided you had slept long enough.
His cold nose nudged your cheek.
"Five more minutes," you mumbled.
"Woof."
"No."
Another nudge, more insistent this time.
"Traitor," you muttered into the pillow.
The bathroom door opened. Steam drifted out into the bedroom. Jack stepped through it with a towel slung around his neck and another wrapped low around his waist, rubbing damp hair with one hand, still half in his own head.
Still half asleep, your eyes wandered in his direction.
Your brain took an extra second to catch up with what your eyes were doing.
Jack caught you staring. A slow grin appeared, unhurried and deeply satisfied. "Enjoying the view?"
"What?" You blinked. Then registered exactly where your eyes had settled and looked away immediately. "Oh, please. I saw you like this all the time in the army."
Jack raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" He tilted his head slightly. "So you've been noticing my body this whole time."
You grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at him. "How long are you planning to stand there half naked?"
He caught the pillow without effort. "I've been living alone for years." A shrug, entirely unrepentant. "I forgot people usually expect a warning."
Still quietly laughing to himself, he tossed the pillow back onto the bed, pulled a clean shirt from the wardrobe, and disappeared back into the bathroom to finish getting dressed.
The moment the door clicked shut you buried your face in both hands.
"Oh my God."
Your ears felt warm. Riot put his head in your lap, looked up at you with his big brown eyes, and wagged his tail once.
"Not a word," you told him.
He wagged again.
Inside the bathroom, Jack pulled his shirt over his head and looked at himself in the mirror for a moment. The smile refused to leave his face no matter how much he tried to dial it back into something more reasonable.
For once, getting teased hadn't been nearly as fun as doing the teasing.
*****
An hour later the three of you were walking through downtown Pittsburgh. Morning sunlight reflected off the glass buildings while Riot trotted ahead, occasionally glancing back to confirm both of you were still following, which you were.
Jack walked a few steps behind, quietly. He pulled out his phone and raised it.
Click.
You hadn't noticed. You were too busy watching Riot investigate every tree along the path with the focused dedication of a professional. Jack looked at the photo. You, Riot, morning sun, the coffee shop a few steps ahead. Good enough. He opened Instagram.
Story: A day off well spent. The photo underneath it.
You hadn't noticed at all. You were far too busy watching Riot investigate every single tree along the sidewalk with the intense seriousness of a homicide detective on a major case.
Jack slowed his pace a fraction, letting a little distance grow between you. He pulled out his phone, lifting the screen to frame the shot. The morning sunlight was hitting perfectly, catching you walking right beside Riot with your coffee clutched in your hand, the local café just ahead. It was perfect. He snapped the picture, opened Instagram, and after thinking for a quick second, he typed out a caption: Morning walk with the family.
He hit post and slipped his phone back into his coat pocket. It buzzed almost immediately against his hip.
"Well, that was fast," he muttered to himself, pulling the device back out.
The notification was from a group chat titled The Pitt Crew, and the messages were already flying across the screen.
Princess: OH MY GOD.
Santos: JACK POSTED HER.
Whitaker: HE NEVER POSTS PEOPLE.
Princess: EXCEPT HIS DOG.
Shen: Correction.
Shen: Their dog.
Dana: Cute picture.
Robby: Morning, Jack.
Garcia: I see someone is enjoying his sick leave.
Princess: THEY WENT FOR COFFEE TOGETHER.
Santos: THIS ISN'T A DATE???
Shen: If that's not a date, then I'm a pediatrician.
Princess: YOU GUYS HAD A WHOLE SLEEPOVER DIDN'T YOU???
Jack didn't even hesitate. He tapped the text box and sent a single word.
Jack: Yes.
The chat group exploded instantly.
Princess: ????????????????
Whitaker: HE SAID YES SO CASUALLY.
Santos: I'M LOSING MY MIND.
Garcia: Called it.
Dana: I'm happy for you two.
Robby: Don't make me approve sick leave too often, Abbott.
Jack smiled to himself, a genuine chuckle escaping his throat, before he quietly locked the screen. Mission accomplished.
"What?" you asked, glancing over your shoulder at him. "You've been smiling at your phone for the last minute."
Jack quickly slipped the device back into his pocket, falling back into step right beside you. "...Nothing."
He kept his face completely blank, but he knew that somewhere inside the emergency department, Princess had probably stopped working entirely just to process the fact that Jack Abbott had voluntarily admitted to a sleepover.
You knew he did something but you needed caffeine to interrogate him. So you stepped into the cafe. "Hi."
The barista smiled. "Morning. What can I get you?"
"Two lattes."
"Sure." He glanced at you again with the particular friendliness of someone who had decided to be more helpful than strictly necessary. "I don't think I've seen you here before."
"I've been busy."
"Hopefully we'll see you more often."
Before you could answer, Jack appeared beside you. Without a word he rested his hand lightly against the small of your back. Not enough to pull you closer. Just enough to be obvious about something.
The barista noticed immediately.
Jack looked at you with complete seriousness. "Honey."
You froze.
"Our son is waiting outside."
Your brain short-circuited entirely. You turned slowly toward the barista. He looked equally confused, glancing between the two of you and the door beyond which a very large German Shepherd was visible through the glass.
The silence lasted exactly three seconds.
Then the barista slid the drinks across the counter with the energy of someone who had decided not to ask. "Here's your two lattes."
"Thank you." You grabbed both cups and escaped the café before anything else could happen.
Outside, Riot greeted you both with an enthusiastic bark. You looked at Jack.
"You could've just said dog."
Jack stopped walking. A pause. "Oh."
He looked genuinely like he had just realized something. "You're right. I didn't think of that."
You clicked your tongue. Sometimes he was unbelievably childish for a man his age.
Jack took a long sip of his coffee. "I'll never go there again."
"You were the problem."
"I know."
"You were grumpy."
"I'm always grumpy."
"You were worse than usual."
Jack shrugged with complete serenity. "My therapist told me I find comfort in darkness." He sipped his coffee again. "Her words."
You laughed despite yourself. "You actually listened to your therapist."
"I occasionally surprise people."
Your phone vibrated before you could respond. Clark. You answered. "Morning."
"I called the hospital." His voice was alert in that particular way that meant he already knew something. "They told me both you and Abbot have the day off."
"That's right."
"Perfect." He didn't give you time to ask why. "Come to my place. Now."
The call ended.
Jack glanced over. "Who was that?"
"Clark." You slipped the phone back into your pocket. "He wants us at his place."
Jack looked at Riot, then back at the street ahead with a smile already settling onto his face. "Oh." He reached down and scratched behind Riot's ears. "This is gonna be fun."
“Woof!” Riot barked like he completely agreed.
*******
Clark's house sat on the edge of town. Or rather, estate. You slowed the car as the wrought iron gate opened automatically, your eyes following the long driveway up toward the house.
"I knew Clark was rich," you said slowly. "But this?"
Jack looked out the window without much surprise. "He buys land every time he has extra money." He nodded toward an empty field visible beyond the tree line. "Says it's the safest investment."
"He's terrifying."
"I've been saying that for years."
By the time you parked, the front door had already opened. Clark stepped outside with his coffee mug in hand, unhurried, the way a man moved when he owned the ground he was standing on.
"There you are."
Riot was out of the car before anyone else, sprinting across the driveway with the full commitment of an animal reuniting with someone important.
"Woof!"
Clark crouched with a grin that took ten years off his face. "And you too, little guy." He scratched behind Riot's ears while the dog tried to climb into his lap. "Good to see you, soldier."
Jack climbed out and stretched. "What are we doing here, old man?"
Clark looked him up and down. "Grumpy in the morning?"
"I mentioned that to him," you offered.
Clark glanced at you. "So you did." Then his eyes moved between the two of you with the slow assessment of someone taking inventory. "How did the three of you end up together?"
Jack answered before you could. "They slept at my place."
Silence.
You turned toward Jack slowly. His expression was completely neutral, which meant he had not yet processed what he had just said out loud to a man who noticed everything.
Clark stared at both of you for exactly two seconds.
Then he burst out laughing. A loud, genuine laugh, the kind that came from somewhere deep and didn't apologize for itself. He slapped Jack's shoulder hard enough to mean it. "Finally!"
You covered your face with both hands. "Oh my God."
Jack frowned. "What?"
Clark was still laughing, wiping the corner of his eye with his thumb. "Nothing, nothing."
"I meant." Jack pointed at you. "And the dog." He gestured at Riot, who was sitting at Clark's feet looking extremely pleased with the current energy. "All three of us. In the apartment."
Clark nodded slowly, composing himself with great effort. "Oh, I know what you meant. Eventually."
He turned back toward the house, shoulders still shaking, coffee mug raised like a toast to no one in particular.
Jack stood in the driveway looking at the back of his head. Then at you.
You looked at him over your hands.
Neither of you said anything.
Riot wagged his tail.
Clark's smile slowly faded. "It's about my grandson."
You frowned. "What about him?"
"An idiot." He took a sip of his coffee. "He's making videos. The dangerous kind. Climbing buildings, hanging off bridges, jumping between rooftops. Anything people apparently call content these days."
"I've seen a few of them," you admitted. "He has more followers than doctor J."
Jack turned toward you. "You knew about this but you didn't know about my recent updates?"
"What updates?"
He looked at you with mild offense. You pulled out your phone, frowning. Truthfully, ever since Jack's Instagram story had sent half the hospital into full detective mode, you had muted most of your notifications. The daily Pitt group chat was already enough to manage. You preferred not looking at your phone unless absolutely necessary.
You opened Instagram.
Your eyes widened. "Jack."
He looked completely innocent. "Hm?"
"You tagged me."
"So?"
"You posted my picture."
"So?"
"And." You scrolled. "There are four hundred comments."
Jack shrugged. "I didn't count."
"Jack!"
Clark took a long sip of his coffee. "Ah." He nodded to himself with the satisfaction of someone watching something he had predicted arrive exactly on schedule. "There it is. Another married couple argument."
Jack answered immediately. "We're not married."
"You keep saying that," Clark said pleasantly.
Before either of you could continue, a voice came from the front porch.
"Grandpa?"
All three of you turned.
A teenage boy walked out of the house. Tall, curly dark hair, a hoodie despite the warmth of the morning, a camera hanging around his neck like it belonged there. He moved with the easy confidence of someone who had never once entered a room quietly in his life.
Clark sighed. "My idiot grandson. Michael."
Michael walked over with a grin already in place and offered his hand first. "So you guys are the famous army people."
You shook it. "Nice to meet you."
Jack did the same. "You must've done something impressive if Clark dragged both of us out here."
Michael laughed and casually wrapped an arm around Clark's shoulders. "Aww, Grandpa." He bumped him once. "I prefer creative problem solver."
Clark looked at the sky briefly. "I prefer future heart attack."
Michael grinned. "Relax." Another easy bump of his shoulder. "I'm too pretty to die."
Silence.
Jack's smile disappeared. Your expression went still. Clark looked slowly between the two of you, reading the quiet that had settled over both of you in the span of one sentence.
Because that was exactly something Gabriel Diaz would have said. The phrasing, the delivery, the complete and unearned confidence of it. Every single time, without fail, said with that same grin like the universe had personally guaranteed him an exemption.
Michael noticed the shift immediately, his smile fading slightly. "Did I say something wrong?"
Clark placed a hand on his grandson's shoulder. "No," he said quietly. "You just reminded us of someone."
Michael looked between you and Jack, reading the room the way young people did when they understood more than adults expected them to. He didn't push. He just nodded once and let it sit.
Riot chose that moment to shove his nose into Michael's hand, which broke the spell faster than anything else could have.
Michael looked down. "Oh, he's huge."
"His name is Riot," you said.
Michael crouched immediately, and Riot, who had excellent judgment about people, wagged his tail and leaned into him without hesitation.
Clark cleared his throat. "He's planning to jump his dirt bike across the old service bridge over Miller Creek." He pointed toward a wooded area beyond the property line. "The county closed it years ago."
You frowned. "Because it's unstable?"
"Exactly."
Michael waved a hand. "I'm not riding on the bridge." He smiled with the confidence of someone who had never once considered consequences a personal concern. "I'm jumping over the broken section."
You stared at him. "That somehow sounds worse."
"There'll be professionals there."
Clark snorted. "Professional idiots."
"They know what they're doing."
Jack folded his arms. "If you're looking for the fastest route to the trauma bay," he said calmly, "that's a solid plan."
Michael laughed. "You guys make it sound like I'm guaranteed to crash."
"No," Jack said. "We're saying you'll crash eventually. The question is whether you want to do it on your terms or the bridge's terms."
"Optimistic."
"Experienced."
Michael lifted both hands in surrender and looked around at the three of you with theatrical defeat. "I've officially been outnumbered." Then his eyes landed on Riot sitting patiently at the edge of the driveway, and his entire face changed.
"Whoa." He pulled the camera from around his neck immediately. "Now that's content." He crouched beside Riot, who tilted his head with the regal patience of an animal accustomed to being admired. Michael started recording, angling the lens carefully.
"Morning, everyone." He turned the camera toward Riot. "I just met the CEO of emotional support."
Clark clicked his tongue. "You see? Nothing gets through that thick skull." He watched his grandson talk earnestly to a German Shepherd on camera. "I don't know where he gets it from."
Jack watched quietly for a moment, then said, "He got it from you."
Clark looked genuinely offended. "I have never done anything that stupid in my life."
You and Jack turned toward him at exactly the same time. "Really?"
Clark opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked between the two of you, then at Michael still filming Riot with complete artistic commitment, then back at you.
"I walked into that one," he said.
"Completely," Jack agreed.
Clark took a long sip of his coffee and said nothing further, which was its own kind of answer.
******
Michael led them around the side of the house to where his setup was laid out with the organized precision of someone who had thought about this for longer than anyone around him was comfortable with.
"Two cameras," he said, pointing. "GoPro mounted on the helmet, second angle from the side. Drone for the overhead shot." He moved along the lineup. "Spotter positioned at the far end of the bridge. Medical kit, fully stocked. Fire extinguisher. Helmet, obviously." He paused for effect. "And I hired two licensed motocross riders to consult on the jump trajectory."
You and Jack looked at each other.
Then back at the setup.
Then at each other again.
"Still a terrible idea," you both said at exactly the same time.
Michael blinked. "Seriously? Even with all of that?"
Jack shrugged. "Preparation doesn't make a bad decision good."
You nodded. "It just makes it organized."
Michael stared at the two of you. "Do you practice being like this or does it just happen naturally?"
"Experience," Jack said.
"Years of it," you confirmed.
Michael exhaled dramatically and turned back to his equipment. "I just need one video. One that actually blows up. If it does, I could get sponsored. Monster, Red Bull, Fox, anyone. That's all I need."
Jack deadpanned, "Or UPMC Trauma."
You added, "They'll definitely know your name."
Michael groaned. "You two are impossible." He turned toward Clark, who was standing back with his coffee mug and the expression of a man enjoying this far more than he was letting on. "Grandpa. Are you absolutely sure these two aren't married?"
Clark didn't even look at him. "This isn't about them. It's about you."
Michael sighed like this was deeply unfair.
He walked them back to the driveway when it was time to leave, hands in his hoodie pockets, Riot trotting beside him like they had been friends for years.
Jack stopped at the car door. "One piece of advice."
Michael looked up. "Hm?"
"You're still young. You've got plenty of time to do stupid things. So don't rush all of them into this year."
Michael laughed, genuine and easy. "I'll think about it."
You stepped slightly closer. "Promise me you'll walk away if something feels wrong. Even if the cameras are rolling and everyone's watching. Just walk away."
Michael looked at you for a second, something in his expression shifting into something more honest than the performance he'd been giving all morning. "You sound like Grandpa."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
He smiled. "I'll be careful."
You both nodded. You both also knew exactly what teenagers meant when they said that, which was roughly the same thing soldiers meant when they said easy mission. But you let it stand, because some things needed to be said out loud even when everyone in the conversation understood their limitations.
Michael scratched Riot behind the ears one last time and headed back toward the house. Clark lifted his mug from the porch in a small farewell salute.
************
The drive back was quiet. Just the radio, low enough to be background noise, and trees passing steadily outside the windows.
Then, softly, you said, "He reminds me of Diaz."
Jack didn't answer immediately. He kept his eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console.
"Yeah," he said finally. "I saw it too."
A pause settled between you, unhurried and familiar.
"The jokes," Jack said. "The confidence. The way he talks like he's figured something out that everyone else missed."
"The way he thinks he's invincible," you added quietly.
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Scared the hell out of me," Jack said.
You nodded slowly. Outside the window the trees kept passing, steady and indifferent, and neither of you spoke again for a long time. The radio filled the space and that was enough.
************
A few hours after leaving Clark's house, you finally made it back to your apartment. The place was quiet. It was too quiet. Riot was fast asleep near the couch, completely exhausted from all the excitement of the evening, his chest rising and falling rhythmically.
For some reason, your eyes drifted toward the desk in the corner of the room, specifically toward the bottom drawer.
The drawer. The one you almost never opened. The one that held things you simply weren't ready for.
You stared at it, then looked away, trying to shake the sudden impulse. Then your gaze locked back onto it. Years. It had been years, yet somehow, you already knew exactly what was inside.
Slowly, you crossed the room and pulled the drawer open. The old wooden box was exactly where you had left it, with dust resting lightly across the surface of the lid. Your fingers hesitated in the air, trembling slightly, before you finally lifted it out. Inside sat old photographs, a few faded military patches, a silver collar pin, and a single envelope. Your name was written across the front in Gabriel's unmistakable handwriting.
The mere sight of it still hurt. You swallowed hard, pulling out a chair and sitting down as the apartment suddenly felt very small and very quiet. You carefully broke the seal, unfolded the crisp paper, and began to read.
If you're reading this... well. Congratulations. I'm dead.
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh, a breathless sound breaking the quiet. Of course. Of course that was exactly how he started it.
Which, if we're being honest, is a terrible deal for me. So I'd appreciate it if you're appropriately devastated for at least a month. Longer if you actually liked me.
You rolled your eyes despite yourself, your vision already blurring as tears welled in the corners of your eyes.
First things first. Abbott still owes me twenty bucks. Death does NOT erase debt. Tell him I'll haunt him every payday until he coughs it up.
A real laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. You could practically hear Gabriel's voice saying the words aloud in the room.
Actually... you know what my biggest regret is? Not taking enough pictures. I always said "later." Then one day... there wasn't one. So if life teaches you anything... take the stupid picture. Even if your hair looks terrible. Even if Abbott is making one of those grumpy faces. Especially then.
Your chest tightened painfully because suddenly you thought about the photograph sitting on Jack's coffee table, the one he still kept, the one you almost never allowed yourself to think about anymore.
Second biggest regret? Never getting to annoy you and Abbott after you two finally admitted whatever the hell this thing is between you.
You immediately groaned, burying your face in your free hand. "Oh my God."
Yeah. Don't look so surprised. I knew. Clark knew. Half the camp knew. You two had the emotional communication skills of wet cardboard. You argued like an old married couple, then stared at each other when the other wasn't looking. It was painful. Seriously. Just kiss already. Or yell. Honestly, I don't think either of you knows the difference.
You covered your burning face completely, your voice cracking. "Idiot."
Anyway... I know you. Which means if something happened to me... you're probably blaming yourself.
The brief smile vanished from your face.
So let me save you some time. No. You don't get to do that. You hear me? You don't.
The written words hit harder than you ever expected because somehow, he still knew you. Even then, even before everything actually happened.
You gave me more time than I should've had. Out here... most of us don't get miracles. I did. Because of you. You fought for me when everyone else would've accepted the outcome. Even when it wasn't enough... you still fought.
The tears came freely before you even realized it, one hot drop and then another falling directly onto the paper, wrinkling the ink.
So don't spend the rest of your life treating yourself like punishment. You already carried enough. Go live. Run those ridiculous races you keep talking about. Keep making Abbott roll his eyes. And when he inevitably says something stupid... yell at him. You seem weirdly good at that.
A broken laugh escaped you, wiping a wet cheek with your shoulder because he wasn't wrong.
Take care of Riot. Actually... spoil him. He deserves it. Just don't let him get fat. Clark will blame you.
You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, then kept reading.
One more thing. If years from now... Abbott still looks at you the way he does now... for the love of God... just marry the man.
Your breath caught in your throat.
Life's already too short. Don't waste whatever time you've got pretending you don't feel something. You both deserve something good after all this. And if Abbott somehow manages to screw it up... tell him I can still haunt him. Twenty bucks first. Then haunting. Forever your favorite extremely annoying, non-blood-related big brother, Gabriel Diaz.
At the very bottom, written in much smaller handwriting, was one final line.
P.S. If you're crying while reading this, that's embarrassing. Drink some water.
You stared at the tiny script, then laughed. You actually laughed right through your tears, exactly the way Gabriel would have wanted you to. And for the very first time in years, the crushing weight of the guilt felt just a little bit lighter.
You folded the letter carefully, almost reverently, handling the paper as if creasing it the wrong way would mean losing him all over again. The apartment fell completely quiet, with only Riot's soft, rhythmic breathing filling the space. Your thumb brushed across Gabriel's signature one last time, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at your lips.
"...Idiot," you murmured, your voice cracking anyway. For years, you had carried the crushing weight of guilt, believing it was the only way to honor his memory. But looking down at the worn paper, you realized you might have been completely wrong.
Your eyes drifted toward the dark window, watching the city lights flicker outside. Without meaning to, another face materialized in your thoughts.
Jack. Grumpy, sarcastic, and annoyingly persistent Jack. You remembered the exact look he had given you this afternoon when he thought you were leaving his side.
You're not going to stay?
You thought of the quiet, unexpected way he had handed you his spare key, his confession that he still kept the old photograph on his coffee table, and the comforting weight of his head resting against your shoulder without asking for a single thing in return.
You closed your eyes, letting the memory settle. Gabriel had been entirely right, not just about Jack, but about you, too. You had spent years trying to outrun your grief by training, working, and taking every extra shift available.
You ran every exhausting race and took on every impossible medical case, acting as if staying constantly busy meant you never had to stop long enough to actually miss the people you lost.
And somehow, Jack had done the exact same thing. You had taken entirely different roads, but you had both arrived at the same lonely destination. Alone.
You let out a slow, quiet breath into the stillness of the room. "...Maybe..." You whispered it so softly that even you almost didn't hear it. "...Maybe we don't have to anymore."
You carefully tucked the letter back inside its envelope. This time, you didn't hide the box at the very bottom of the dark drawer under layers of old gear. You closed the drawer and left it sitting right on top, out in the open.
********
The next morning, you stepped into the hospital lobby with your usual cup of coffee clutched tightly in your hand. It didn't even take five seconds for the trap to spring.
"There she is."
Dana's voice echoed across the corridor. Of course. You let out a long, heavy sigh and adjusted your grip on your cup before facing her. "...Good morning?"
Princess looked up from behind the nurses' station, her lips curving into a grin that immediately made you deeply suspicious. "So."
"So?" you countered, keeping your expression blank.
"How was your day off?"
"Quiet."
Robby let out a loud snort, not even pretending to look at the chart in his hands. "Sure it was."
You narrowed your eyes at him, stepping closer to the desk. "What exactly does that mean?"
Dana leaned her elbows against the laminate counter, her eyes gleaming with pure delight. "It means..." She looked around the hallway dramatically, dropping her voice to a theatrical whisper. "...we all know you spent it with Abbott."
You blinked once, the realization hitting you with a dull thud. "...News really does travel fast in this place."
Princess laughed, tapping her phone screen. "Jack literally posted you on his Instagram story."
You closed your eyes for a brief moment of pure defeat. "I knew I should've confiscated his phone."
Robby chuckled, pointing the tip of his pen directly at you. "So... how was the sleepover?"
"It was fine," you said flatly.
Dana raised an eyebrow, leaning in closer. "Just fine?"
"Riot snored."
"That's not what I asked."
You took another slow, deliberate sip of your coffee to buy yourself some time. "Then I'm choosing not to answer."
The entire nurses' station groaned in unison.
Another doctor walked past the desk, carrying a stack of patient files under his arm. "You people actually have patients to care for, you know."
Dana didn't even bother to look at him, waving a hand dismissively. "This is important medical sociology."
"It really isn't."
Princess folded her arms over her scrubs, tilting her head. "I just want official confirmation."
"There is absolutely nothing to confirm."
Robby’s smile widened, a mischievous spark in his eyes. "So you’re saying you didn’t sleep in the same bed?"
You stopped, staring dead at him with your most formidable surgeon expression. "...Robby."
"What?"
"I am this close to making a complaint to the HR."
The station erupted into loud laughter, the tension breaking instantly. Even the passing staff couldn't help but smile into their charts.
"You all have way too much free time," you muttered, shaking your head as you turned on your heel and headed toward the elevators.
Behind you, Dana cupped her hands around her mouth and called out into the hallway, "Tell Abbott we miss him!"
You lifted one hand, raising a single finger without turning around to face them. "I won't."
Once you stepped out onto the upper floors, the teasing finally stopped, and the familiar, demanding rhythm of your department took over completely.
The hours slipped by the way they always did in medicine, measuring one patient at a time, one critical decision after another. By mid-afternoon, you had almost forgotten about the morning's gossip.
Then, your pager vibrated violently against your hip at the exact same moment your phone began to ring in your pocket. You pulled it out and answered immediately.
You answered immediately. "Dr. L/N."
"Doc." It was Robby on the other end. His voice sounded entirely different than usual, carrying a steady, measured calmness that stood out against the loud chaos of the emergency room around him. That lack of panic somehow made your stomach drop instantly.
"We've got a major trauma downstairs," he said.
You were already adjusting your phone against your ear, reaching for the back of your chair to grab your white coat. "I'm on my way."
A brief pause hung on the line. "There's something else."
Your hand froze on the fabric of your coat. "What is it?"
"The patient specifically asked for you."
Your eyebrows pulled together, a deep frown forming as you quickly ran through your current patient roster in your head. "...Asked for me?"
"He knew your exact name," Robby confirmed.
Silence stretched over the line for a second. You searched your memory as fast as you could, but there were no scheduled transfers, no complex follow-ups, and absolutely no former patients you were expecting to arrive through the ambulance bay today.
"I don't recognize the name on the intake," Robby continued, his tone shifting into something a bit more guarded. "But whatever this is, he was pretty insistent before he lost consciousness."
The skin on the back of your neck prickled, a sudden tightness gripping your throat. "I'll be down there in two minutes."
You ended the call, snapping your phone shut. Without another word of explanation, you shoved your current patient's chart directly into the hands of the nearest resident standing beside you. "Cover the rest of my rounds. Call me if anyone crashes."
Then you were already moving, your sneakers squeaking against the linoleum as you pushed through the heavy double doors of the ward. You hit the down button on the lift panel repeatedly, your chest tightening further when the numbers slowly clicked down from the top floor. The lift couldn't come fast enough.
You pushed through the heavy double doors leading into the Emergency Department. The closer you got to the central trauma bay, the louder the room became.
"Blood pressure's dropping!" Princess shouted, already hanging another bag of fluids.
"Another large-bore IV!" Whitaker was squeezing past the respiratory therapist with an ultrasound machine.
"Move him on three, watch his neck!" Dana was cutting away the remaining sleeve of the motorcycle jacket while Santos held manual stabilization at his head.
The familiar chaos wrapped around you like an old blanket. Except, the moment you reached the edge of the trauma bay, you stopped dead in your tracks.
"...Michael?" Your voice barely came out.
Robby looked up from the opposite side of the stretcher, his expression immediately softening as he saw you. "I'm glad you're here."
Only then did you look down at the gurney. Michael was completely covered in dirt. Savage road rash stretched across his shoulder and chest where his motorcycle jacket had already been cut away. His helmet lay in two broken pieces on the floor. His left forearm bent at an angle it never should, and blood continued running from a deep laceration across his forehead, soaking the padding beneath his cervical collar.
Despite everything, he was still awake. His eyes found yours, and then, somehow, he smiled. "...Hey, Doc."
Your chest tightened painfully. You were beside him before you even realized you had moved, your hands automatically checking his vitals. "What happened?"
Dana answered while checking the monitor. "Motorcycle jump."
Whitaker glanced up from the ultrasound screen. "He lost control on the landing. Hit the guardrail."
You closed your eyes for half a second. Of course he did.
Michael let out the weakest laugh before immediately wincing in agony. "...Turns out... Grandpa was right."
You wanted to yell at him right then and there. Instead, your medical training took over, and your hands moved automatically through the practiced sequence.
Pupils. Airway. Breathing. Pulse.
His breathing wasn't right. It was far too fast, far too shallow. You looked sharply across the stretcher toward Robby. "What do we know?"
"Not enough," Robby replied, his brow furrowed as he managed the lines. "Trauma scans are being prepared right now. We're still working him up."
Princess glanced toward the monitor, her voice tight. "Pressure's still dropping."
Santos looked over from the head of the bed, maintaining manual stabilization. "He's becoming harder to keep comfortable."
Nobody needed to say it out loud. The room was moving faster now, the clinical urgency shifting into overdrive. Everyone in the bay could feel it.
You gently squeezed Michael's good shoulder, trying to anchor him. "I'll be right outside."
As you turned to step away, his fingers wrapped weakly around your wrist. "...Don't."
You stopped, looking back at him. "...Don't what?"
"...Don't tell Grandpa. Please."
You stared at him, your heart aching. "...Michael."
"I mean it." His breathing caught, a flash of pure panic breaking through his fading adrenaline. "I don't want him worrying."
For just a second, the reckless teenager completely disappeared. All you saw was a scared kid. All you saw was Clark's grandson.
You swallowed hard against the lump in your throat. "...I'll be right back."
He slowly let go of your wrist, his hand falling back to the mattress.
The moment you stepped outside the frantic noise of the trauma bay, you reached into your scrubs for your phone. The first person you called was Jack.
He answered almost immediately, his voice gravelly with sleep. "Morning."
"...Jack."
That was all it took. The raw tone of your voice changed his demeanor instantly. "...What happened?"
"...It's Michael."
A heavy silence dropped over the line. Then, Jack spoke. "...Where?"
There were no questions, no hesitation, and no demands for details. Just a sharp, directive query. On his end of the line, you could already hear drawers opening and the frantic jingle of keys. Then came the sharp, familiar click of his prosthetic leg moving at a dead sprint against his hardwood floor.
"The Pitt," you replied.
"I'm coming." The line went dead.
You immediately dialed Clark's number. The phone rang twice before the old man's deep voice answered. "...Kid?"
You closed your eyes, leaning your head against the cool hospital wall. "...Michael's at the Pitt."
A silence followed, long and heavy enough to hurt. Then Clark quietly asked the only question that mattered. "...How bad?"
A/N: Hello, everyone! Sorry for not updating Jack Abbot - Keep Up last week. I had another business trip, and this week I have another one too. It was so sudden. I only found out after lunch.
To make up for it, I made Chapter 7 longer. I hope you guys enjoy it!
THE CREW IS BACK, Y'ALL!!! I could never get enough of them 🥹🩷
Okay, before we get into anything else—Jack being an absolute menace to society with his shitposting on IG is so funny to me. Somebody take this man's phone away from him 😂
Also, the immediate father-son energy between Riot and Jack when they were both begging the reader to stay? Absolute 10/10. The three of them so quickly becoming an official family unit is just so endearing, lol.
These Diaz flashbacks always go through me like a clean shot 😭 He really was just their adoptive son and annoying little brother all at once. And having already read his penultimate chapter, everything after carries this bittersweet weight that I feel every time. That letter was so incredibly heartening—and so terribly, perfectly him (or at least the him I've gotten to know over the course of this story). What I really love is that it didn't read much like a goodbye at all,more like an assurance that the reader does, and will continue to, carry him with her in whatever form that takes. Even beyond the grave, he's so tapped into what she might feel reading it—bantering the way they always did, nagging her to take better care of herself, because he knows her well enough to know she needs to hear it.
ALSO, SOMEONE THIS SIMILAR TO DIAZ SHOWING UP IN THE PITT IS NOT OKAY!! I swear these three aren't the only ones having a heart attack right now!!! And they literally just met Michael on top of that!! The trauma grind truly never stops for them 😭😭😭
@finco99 !!! ❤️ I swear your comments are like a second chapter for me every time.
Jack absolutely should not have access to Instagram. No one in that hospital is safe if he has Wi-Fi. 😂
And I’m so happy the little family dynamic came across the way I imagined it. Riot and Jack really share one brain cell whenever they’re worried about her.
Your thoughts on Diaz’s letter honestly made me emotional. That’s exactly what I wanted it to feel like—not a goodbye, but one last conversation. Even after everything, he’d still be teasing her, reminding her to eat, and making sure she keeps living. The idea that she’ll carry him with her, instead of only mourning him, was the heart of that letter.
ABOUT MICHAEL 😭 They really can’t catch a break, can they?
As always, thank you for leaving these wonderful comments. I look forward to them every single chapter. ❤️
every time you post an update of Keep Up I swear jack and reader consume my brain for like days after 😭
anyways sorry if you’ve addressed this or if it’s been asked already and I just missed it! but what age did you have in mind when you wrote reader and her backstory, especially in the flashbacks I always find myself wondering how old she was then and how many years they served together
Ahhh ❤️❤️❤️ First of all, thank you. Knowing these two stay in your head for days after an update honestly makes me so happy.
And yes, I actually left the reader’s age ambiguous on purpose because I wanted everyone to be able to imagine her a little differently. But since you asked, here’s what I had in mind while writing:
Reader was 27–28 during the army flashbacks, and she’s 35 in the present timeline.
Jack is 43 in the present, so there’s about an 8-year age gap between them.
Diaz: around 30–31 when he died (a few years older than her in the war, fitting the “annoying big brother” dynamic rather than being literally old enough to be one).
As for how long they served together, they knew each other for around a year before everything happened. Long enough to become each other’s safe place, but also short enough that it still feels cruel how much the war took from them.
I’m actually really happy you asked this because I never realized I’d never shared it before. 🤍
Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a Comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️
The moment you arrived at the hospital a nurse was already waiting outside the operating room.
"Doctor."
You walked straight toward her. "What's the situation?"
"Thirty-eight-year-old male. Motor vehicle collision. Internal bleeding. Dr. Garcia is already inside."
"Vitals?"
"Stable after transfusion."
"Let's go."
You scrubbed in quickly while the circulating nurse helped you into your sterile gown and gloves, and a moment later you stepped into the OR. Garcia glanced up briefly from the surgical field.
"Took you a while."
"His place is kind of far."
That was all you said before your attention shifted entirely to the patient.
"Clamp. Suction. Retractor."
The room settled into its familiar rhythm. Garcia had already controlled most of the bleeding. Together you located the remaining vessel, repaired it, inspected the abdomen one final time, and began closing. The surgery went smoothly, the kind that felt almost routine after the ones that didn't.
As the nurses transferred the patient to recovery you peeled off your gloves and moved to the scrub sink beside Garcia. She noticed you checking the clock almost immediately.
"In a hurry?"
"I'm going down to the ER for a while."
"Really."
You looked at her. "Really."
Garcia smirked. "Uh-huh."
"I'm talking to Robby."
"Of course you are."
You narrowed your eyes. "What?"
"Nothing." She dried her hands with the serenity of someone who had already won the conversation. "Tell Abbot he's being dramatic."
You grabbed your badge. "I'll tell him you miss him."
Garcia looked genuinely offended. "I absolutely do not."
You chuckled and pushed through the OR doors. "See you later."
Then you headed downstairs toward the ER.
You stepped into the Pitt and the usual chaos met you immediately. Monitors beeping from every direction, paramedics rushing another patient through the ambulance bay, nurses weaving between stretchers with the practiced ease of people who had done it a thousand times and would do it a thousand more. A battlefield. Just another normal day.
At the attending station Dana looked up first. "Well, look who decided to visit."
"I was passing by."
"Mhm." She smiled with the particular warmth of someone who knew exactly what passing by meant in this context. "Passing by."
Before you could respond Robby looked up from his computer. "Helloooo." Then went straight back to typing.
You leaned over the counter. "Can I ask you a favor?"
Robby's fingers stopped on the keyboard. He looked up slowly. "Whyyy?"
"Could you give Abbot one more day off?"
He studied you for a second, something turning over behind his eyes. "Because?"
"Because tomorrow is my day off."
A smile escaped before you could stop it, small and entirely self-betraying. Robby had to press his lips together to keep his own from spreading too wide. If playing cupid meant Jack Abbot finally stopped moping around the ER like a man with unfinished business, he would do it without a single reservation.
"Of course," he said immediately. "Absolutely. Shen and Cruz can manage."
"Give them a chance to lead," you agreed, tapping the counter lightly.
"You got it."
You gave them both a small nod and headed back toward the elevator. The moment you disappeared around the corner Dana stepped closer to Robby, a smile already taking over her face.
"Sooo?"
Robby watched the elevator doors close before he answered. Then he shrugged, easy and unbothered. "I just want my friend to be happy."
Dana laughed softly and folded her arms. "You call it helping. I call it finally getting those two to stop dancing around each other."
Robby smiled to himself and went back to his keyboard. "About time," he said quietly.
*****
Jack had been reading for nearly an hour. The phantom pain had finally settled into a dull ache instead of the sharp relentless pulse that had haunted him all morning. Maybe it was the medication. Maybe it was finally getting some sleep.
His eyes drifted toward the front door.
Maybe it was because you'd stopped by.
The apartment was quiet. Until a key turned in the lock.
Jack looked up from his book. He set it aside, slipped on his prosthetic, and walked toward the door.
It opened, and the familiar scent of antiseptic reached him before you did.
"You're—"
Something barreled into his legs before he could finish.
"Woof!"
Jack looked down and laughed, low and genuine. "Hey, buddy." Riot's tail wagged so hard his entire body shook with it, his paws scrabbling against the floor in his enthusiasm to be as close to Jack as physically possible.
You stepped inside and closed the door behind you. "He's sleeping over. Make sure you're not lonely." You reached down and scratched behind Riot's ears.
Jack smiled. "I think he's more worried about you than me."
"He has separation anxiety," you said, already turning back toward the hallway.
"You're not going to stay?"
You stopped. Turned around. "You want me to stay?"
Jack cleared his throat. "Well." He glanced down at Riot with the expression of a man constructing a reasonable argument in real time. "Riot kind of whines at night."
"You just said he has separation anxiety."
Both Jack and Riot looked up at you at exactly the same time, wearing identical expressions of patient expectation.
You sighed dramatically. Then leaned slightly to your left and pulled a duffel bag off your shoulder.
Jack blinked. "Wait. You prepared?"
You smirked. "I never said I was leaving."
Then you walked past him into the apartment like that explained everything. Jack stood there for a second, then closed the door behind you, chuckling quietly to himself.
"What do you want for dinner?"
You looked back over your shoulder. "Anything that isn't hospital food."
"I think I can manage that."
By the time evening settled outside, takeout containers covered the coffee table and Riot had already finished his dinner and relocated to the rug, sprawled out with one of his toys and the boneless contentment of an animal whose world was exactly as it should be. The television played quietly in the background.
Jack looked up from his food. "Robby gave me another day off."
"I know." You took another bite. "I asked him to."
He frowned. "Why?"
"Because tomorrow is also my day off."
Silence. Jack stared at his dinner for a moment, then muttered mostly to himself, "Should I put in for sick leave more often?"
You looked at him over the rim of your drink. "I can still call Robby and tell him you're feeling much better."
Jack immediately shook his head. "Never mind."
The corner of your mouth lifted. "Thought so."
He smiled to himself and went back to his food. The takeout was decent, Riot was snoring softly on the rug, and the television was saying something neither of you were particularly listening to. Outside, the city moved through its evening the way it always did.
Inside, for the first time in a long while, the apartment didn't feel empty.
******
After dinner the apartment gradually grew quiet. Riot yawned first, which started a chain reaction. You stretched your arms above your head and looked toward the living room.
"I'll sleep on the couch."
"Nope."
You blinked. "Why not?"
Jack scratched the back of his neck, suddenly finding the floor far more interesting than your face. "Because." He cleared his throat. "My bed is big enough." A pause. He looked up for half a second. "For the three of us."
Silence.
He immediately regretted how that had sounded. "I mean." He pointed at Riot, who had already wandered into the bedroom and was circling the foot of the bed with the focused intention of an animal who had already made his decision. "Riot slept beside me last time he was here."
"Oh." That was all you managed.
Jack rubbed the back of his neck again. "Just like the old days, right?" He gave you a small, almost shy smile, the kind that didn't show up often enough to be taken for granted.
"Yeah," you said softly. "Just like the old days."
You hoped he couldn't hear how hard your heart was suddenly beating.
FLASHBACK
The desert finally cooled after sunset. For the first time all day the air was almost pleasant, the kind of temperature that made you forget for twenty minutes how brutal the hours before it had been.
You were halfway across camp chasing a small blur of black fur. "Riot!"
The puppy ignored you completely and ran straight toward the familiar figure lying just beyond the barracks.
Jack.
He always ended his day there, flat on his back with his hands behind his head, looking up at the stars before turning in. It had become its own kind of ritual.
Tiny Riot launched himself directly onto Jack's chest.
"Oof." Jack laughed, low and easy. "Hey, buddy." The puppy licked his chin with great enthusiasm while Jack scratched behind his ears, and then he finally noticed you slowing to a stop beside them.
"Lose something?"
"I think he lost me," you said.
Jack chuckled. "Sounds about right."
You folded your arms. "I've been chasing him for ten minutes."
Riot barked, with the energy of an animal who considered this a personal achievement. Jack looked up at you. "You can sit."
You hesitated. "I don't want to interrupt."
"You'd be interrupting me staring at stars."
"Sounds important."
"It is."
That made you laugh. You lowered yourself onto the ground beside him and the warm sand shifted beneath you as you looked up. The night sky stretched endlessly above you both, more stars than you ever saw back home, the kind of sky that made problems feel a different size than they had in the tent.
"So." You broke the silence first. "What do you think about every night?"
Jack didn't answer immediately. "Nothing."
You turned your head. "You're lying."
"Mostly tomorrow," he admitted.
"Fair." You looked back up at the sky. Neither of you spoke for a while, and the silence wasn't awkward. It never really was with him, which was its own kind of thing you hadn't figured out what to do with yet.
"Well, well."
Diaz's voice cut through the quiet. Both of you turned. He was standing a few feet away with his hands on his hips, looking between you, Jack, and the tiny puppy now stretched contentedly across Jack's chest like he owned it. Then the grin spread across his face.
"Family night."
You rolled your eyes immediately. "We're not a family."
Diaz ignored this completely. He walked over and dropped onto the sand beside Jack with the ease of someone who had decided he was invited. He pointed at Jack. "You. The grumpy dad."
Jack sighed. "I'm already regretting you being here."
Diaz pointed at you. "You. Mom."
"What?"
"And Riot." He reached over and scratched the puppy's head. "The child."
Riot barked happily.
"There. He agrees."
"He absolutely does not," you muttered.
Diaz looked between the two of you with the satisfied expression of a man presenting a well-researched conclusion. "You know what's funny?"
Neither of you answered.
"You two always end up in the same place after every mission." He nodded toward the space between you. "Every single time."
Jack folded his hands back behind his head. "Coincidence."
"Mhm." Diaz nodded with great drama. "And the dog just happened to adopt both of you."
"Coincidence," Jack said again.
Diaz laughed. "Keep telling yourselves that."
You grabbed a handful of sand and threw it at him. It barely reached his boots. He looked down at it.
"That's all you've got?"
"I was aiming for your mouth."
Jack snorted.
Diaz clutched his chest. "See?" He pointed at you. "Violence." Then at Jack. "Silence." Then he patted Riot one more time and looked at all three of you with the settled satisfaction of someone whose point had just been made for him.
"Family night," he said quietly, mostly to himself.
Nobody argued with him that time.
******
PRESENT TIME
Jack woke before sunrise.
For a brief moment he stayed still, letting the dream settle. Not the explosion. Not the blood. Before that. The quiet nights, you and Diaz and tiny Riot, small enough to fit comfortably in one arm, happily chewing on Jack's sleeve while the three of you lay beneath a sky full of more stars than any of you had time to count.
Funny. Back then all three of you had slept on hard ground without a single complaint.
Now Riot had claimed half the mattress and you were asleep beside him under a warm blanket, your breathing slow and even, your face completely relaxed in a way it rarely was during waking hours.
Life was strange.
Jack smiled to himself and quietly climbed out of bed.
A shower sounded like a good idea.
The sound of running water eventually stirred Riot awake. One oversized ear twitched. Then the other. He yawned dramatically, stretched his entire body from nose to tail, and then climbed across the mattress toward you with the purposeful energy of an animal who had decided you had slept long enough.
His cold nose nudged your cheek.
"Five more minutes," you mumbled.
"Woof."
"No."
Another nudge, more insistent this time.
"Traitor," you muttered into the pillow.
The bathroom door opened. Steam drifted out into the bedroom. Jack stepped through it with a towel slung around his neck and another wrapped low around his waist, rubbing damp hair with one hand, still half in his own head.
Still half asleep, your eyes wandered in his direction.
Your brain took an extra second to catch up with what your eyes were doing.
Jack caught you staring. A slow grin appeared, unhurried and deeply satisfied. "Enjoying the view?"
"What?" You blinked. Then registered exactly where your eyes had settled and looked away immediately. "Oh, please. I saw you like this all the time in the army."
Jack raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" He tilted his head slightly. "So you've been noticing my body this whole time."
You grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at him. "How long are you planning to stand there half naked?"
He caught the pillow without effort. "I've been living alone for years." A shrug, entirely unrepentant. "I forgot people usually expect a warning."
Still quietly laughing to himself, he tossed the pillow back onto the bed, pulled a clean shirt from the wardrobe, and disappeared back into the bathroom to finish getting dressed.
The moment the door clicked shut you buried your face in both hands.
"Oh my God."
Your ears felt warm. Riot put his head in your lap, looked up at you with his big brown eyes, and wagged his tail once.
"Not a word," you told him.
He wagged again.
Inside the bathroom, Jack pulled his shirt over his head and looked at himself in the mirror for a moment. The smile refused to leave his face no matter how much he tried to dial it back into something more reasonable.
For once, getting teased hadn't been nearly as fun as doing the teasing.
*****
An hour later the three of you were walking through downtown Pittsburgh. Morning sunlight reflected off the glass buildings while Riot trotted ahead, occasionally glancing back to confirm both of you were still following, which you were.
Jack walked a few steps behind, quietly. He pulled out his phone and raised it.
Click.
You hadn't noticed. You were too busy watching Riot investigate every tree along the path with the focused dedication of a professional. Jack looked at the photo. You, Riot, morning sun, the coffee shop a few steps ahead. Good enough. He opened Instagram.
Story: A day off well spent. The photo underneath it.
You hadn't noticed at all. You were far too busy watching Riot investigate every single tree along the sidewalk with the intense seriousness of a homicide detective on a major case.
Jack slowed his pace a fraction, letting a little distance grow between you. He pulled out his phone, lifting the screen to frame the shot. The morning sunlight was hitting perfectly, catching you walking right beside Riot with your coffee clutched in your hand, the local café just ahead. It was perfect. He snapped the picture, opened Instagram, and after thinking for a quick second, he typed out a caption: Morning walk with the family.
He hit post and slipped his phone back into his coat pocket. It buzzed almost immediately against his hip.
"Well, that was fast," he muttered to himself, pulling the device back out.
The notification was from a group chat titled The Pitt Crew, and the messages were already flying across the screen.
Princess: OH MY GOD.
Santos: JACK POSTED HER.
Whitaker: HE NEVER POSTS PEOPLE.
Princess: EXCEPT HIS DOG.
Shen: Correction.
Shen: Their dog.
Dana: Cute picture.
Robby: Morning, Jack.
Garcia: I see someone is enjoying his sick leave.
Princess: THEY WENT FOR COFFEE TOGETHER.
Santos: THIS ISN'T A DATE???
Shen: If that's not a date, then I'm a pediatrician.
Princess: YOU GUYS HAD A WHOLE SLEEPOVER DIDN'T YOU???
Jack didn't even hesitate. He tapped the text box and sent a single word.
Jack: Yes.
The chat group exploded instantly.
Princess: ????????????????
Whitaker: HE SAID YES SO CASUALLY.
Santos: I'M LOSING MY MIND.
Garcia: Called it.
Dana: I'm happy for you two.
Robby: Don't make me approve sick leave too often, Abbott.
Jack smiled to himself, a genuine chuckle escaping his throat, before he quietly locked the screen. Mission accomplished.
"What?" you asked, glancing over your shoulder at him. "You've been smiling at your phone for the last minute."
Jack quickly slipped the device back into his pocket, falling back into step right beside you. "...Nothing."
He kept his face completely blank, but he knew that somewhere inside the emergency department, Princess had probably stopped working entirely just to process the fact that Jack Abbott had voluntarily admitted to a sleepover.
You knew he did something but you needed caffeine to interrogate him. So you stepped into the cafe. "Hi."
The barista smiled. "Morning. What can I get you?"
"Two lattes."
"Sure." He glanced at you again with the particular friendliness of someone who had decided to be more helpful than strictly necessary. "I don't think I've seen you here before."
"I've been busy."
"Hopefully we'll see you more often."
Before you could answer, Jack appeared beside you. Without a word he rested his hand lightly against the small of your back. Not enough to pull you closer. Just enough to be obvious about something.
The barista noticed immediately.
Jack looked at you with complete seriousness. "Honey."
You froze.
"Our son is waiting outside."
Your brain short-circuited entirely. You turned slowly toward the barista. He looked equally confused, glancing between the two of you and the door beyond which a very large German Shepherd was visible through the glass.
The silence lasted exactly three seconds.
Then the barista slid the drinks across the counter with the energy of someone who had decided not to ask. "Here's your two lattes."
"Thank you." You grabbed both cups and escaped the café before anything else could happen.
Outside, Riot greeted you both with an enthusiastic bark. You looked at Jack.
"You could've just said dog."
Jack stopped walking. A pause. "Oh."
He looked genuinely like he had just realized something. "You're right. I didn't think of that."
You clicked your tongue. Sometimes he was unbelievably childish for a man his age.
Jack took a long sip of his coffee. "I'll never go there again."
"You were the problem."
"I know."
"You were grumpy."
"I'm always grumpy."
"You were worse than usual."
Jack shrugged with complete serenity. "My therapist told me I find comfort in darkness." He sipped his coffee again. "Her words."
You laughed despite yourself. "You actually listened to your therapist."
"I occasionally surprise people."
Your phone vibrated before you could respond. Clark. You answered. "Morning."
"I called the hospital." His voice was alert in that particular way that meant he already knew something. "They told me both you and Abbot have the day off."
"That's right."
"Perfect." He didn't give you time to ask why. "Come to my place. Now."
The call ended.
Jack glanced over. "Who was that?"
"Clark." You slipped the phone back into your pocket. "He wants us at his place."
Jack looked at Riot, then back at the street ahead with a smile already settling onto his face. "Oh." He reached down and scratched behind Riot's ears. "This is gonna be fun."
“Woof!” Riot barked like he completely agreed.
*******
Clark's house sat on the edge of town. Or rather, estate. You slowed the car as the wrought iron gate opened automatically, your eyes following the long driveway up toward the house.
"I knew Clark was rich," you said slowly. "But this?"
Jack looked out the window without much surprise. "He buys land every time he has extra money." He nodded toward an empty field visible beyond the tree line. "Says it's the safest investment."
"He's terrifying."
"I've been saying that for years."
By the time you parked, the front door had already opened. Clark stepped outside with his coffee mug in hand, unhurried, the way a man moved when he owned the ground he was standing on.
"There you are."
Riot was out of the car before anyone else, sprinting across the driveway with the full commitment of an animal reuniting with someone important.
"Woof!"
Clark crouched with a grin that took ten years off his face. "And you too, little guy." He scratched behind Riot's ears while the dog tried to climb into his lap. "Good to see you, soldier."
Jack climbed out and stretched. "What are we doing here, old man?"
Clark looked him up and down. "Grumpy in the morning?"
"I mentioned that to him," you offered.
Clark glanced at you. "So you did." Then his eyes moved between the two of you with the slow assessment of someone taking inventory. "How did the three of you end up together?"
Jack answered before you could. "They slept at my place."
Silence.
You turned toward Jack slowly. His expression was completely neutral, which meant he had not yet processed what he had just said out loud to a man who noticed everything.
Clark stared at both of you for exactly two seconds.
Then he burst out laughing. A loud, genuine laugh, the kind that came from somewhere deep and didn't apologize for itself. He slapped Jack's shoulder hard enough to mean it. "Finally!"
You covered your face with both hands. "Oh my God."
Jack frowned. "What?"
Clark was still laughing, wiping the corner of his eye with his thumb. "Nothing, nothing."
"I meant." Jack pointed at you. "And the dog." He gestured at Riot, who was sitting at Clark's feet looking extremely pleased with the current energy. "All three of us. In the apartment."
Clark nodded slowly, composing himself with great effort. "Oh, I know what you meant. Eventually."
He turned back toward the house, shoulders still shaking, coffee mug raised like a toast to no one in particular.
Jack stood in the driveway looking at the back of his head. Then at you.
You looked at him over your hands.
Neither of you said anything.
Riot wagged his tail.
Clark's smile slowly faded. "It's about my grandson."
You frowned. "What about him?"
"An idiot." He took a sip of his coffee. "He's making videos. The dangerous kind. Climbing buildings, hanging off bridges, jumping between rooftops. Anything people apparently call content these days."
"I've seen a few of them," you admitted. "He has more followers than doctor J."
Jack turned toward you. "You knew about this but you didn't know about my recent updates?"
"What updates?"
He looked at you with mild offense. You pulled out your phone, frowning. Truthfully, ever since Jack's Instagram story had sent half the hospital into full detective mode, you had muted most of your notifications. The daily Pitt group chat was already enough to manage. You preferred not looking at your phone unless absolutely necessary.
You opened Instagram.
Your eyes widened. "Jack."
He looked completely innocent. "Hm?"
"You tagged me."
"So?"
"You posted my picture."
"So?"
"And." You scrolled. "There are four hundred comments."
Jack shrugged. "I didn't count."
"Jack!"
Clark took a long sip of his coffee. "Ah." He nodded to himself with the satisfaction of someone watching something he had predicted arrive exactly on schedule. "There it is. Another married couple argument."
Jack answered immediately. "We're not married."
"You keep saying that," Clark said pleasantly.
Before either of you could continue, a voice came from the front porch.
"Grandpa?"
All three of you turned.
A teenage boy walked out of the house. Tall, curly dark hair, a hoodie despite the warmth of the morning, a camera hanging around his neck like it belonged there. He moved with the easy confidence of someone who had never once entered a room quietly in his life.
Clark sighed. "My idiot grandson. Michael."
Michael walked over with a grin already in place and offered his hand first. "So you guys are the famous army people."
You shook it. "Nice to meet you."
Jack did the same. "You must've done something impressive if Clark dragged both of us out here."
Michael laughed and casually wrapped an arm around Clark's shoulders. "Aww, Grandpa." He bumped him once. "I prefer creative problem solver."
Clark looked at the sky briefly. "I prefer future heart attack."
Michael grinned. "Relax." Another easy bump of his shoulder. "I'm too pretty to die."
Silence.
Jack's smile disappeared. Your expression went still. Clark looked slowly between the two of you, reading the quiet that had settled over both of you in the span of one sentence.
Because that was exactly something Gabriel Diaz would have said. The phrasing, the delivery, the complete and unearned confidence of it. Every single time, without fail, said with that same grin like the universe had personally guaranteed him an exemption.
Michael noticed the shift immediately, his smile fading slightly. "Did I say something wrong?"
Clark placed a hand on his grandson's shoulder. "No," he said quietly. "You just reminded us of someone."
Michael looked between you and Jack, reading the room the way young people did when they understood more than adults expected them to. He didn't push. He just nodded once and let it sit.
Riot chose that moment to shove his nose into Michael's hand, which broke the spell faster than anything else could have.
Michael looked down. "Oh, he's huge."
"His name is Riot," you said.
Michael crouched immediately, and Riot, who had excellent judgment about people, wagged his tail and leaned into him without hesitation.
Clark cleared his throat. "He's planning to jump his dirt bike across the old service bridge over Miller Creek." He pointed toward a wooded area beyond the property line. "The county closed it years ago."
You frowned. "Because it's unstable?"
"Exactly."
Michael waved a hand. "I'm not riding on the bridge." He smiled with the confidence of someone who had never once considered consequences a personal concern. "I'm jumping over the broken section."
You stared at him. "That somehow sounds worse."
"There'll be professionals there."
Clark snorted. "Professional idiots."
"They know what they're doing."
Jack folded his arms. "If you're looking for the fastest route to the trauma bay," he said calmly, "that's a solid plan."
Michael laughed. "You guys make it sound like I'm guaranteed to crash."
"No," Jack said. "We're saying you'll crash eventually. The question is whether you want to do it on your terms or the bridge's terms."
"Optimistic."
"Experienced."
Michael lifted both hands in surrender and looked around at the three of you with theatrical defeat. "I've officially been outnumbered." Then his eyes landed on Riot sitting patiently at the edge of the driveway, and his entire face changed.
"Whoa." He pulled the camera from around his neck immediately. "Now that's content." He crouched beside Riot, who tilted his head with the regal patience of an animal accustomed to being admired. Michael started recording, angling the lens carefully.
"Morning, everyone." He turned the camera toward Riot. "I just met the CEO of emotional support."
Clark clicked his tongue. "You see? Nothing gets through that thick skull." He watched his grandson talk earnestly to a German Shepherd on camera. "I don't know where he gets it from."
Jack watched quietly for a moment, then said, "He got it from you."
Clark looked genuinely offended. "I have never done anything that stupid in my life."
You and Jack turned toward him at exactly the same time. "Really?"
Clark opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked between the two of you, then at Michael still filming Riot with complete artistic commitment, then back at you.
"I walked into that one," he said.
"Completely," Jack agreed.
Clark took a long sip of his coffee and said nothing further, which was its own kind of answer.
******
Michael led them around the side of the house to where his setup was laid out with the organized precision of someone who had thought about this for longer than anyone around him was comfortable with.
"Two cameras," he said, pointing. "GoPro mounted on the helmet, second angle from the side. Drone for the overhead shot." He moved along the lineup. "Spotter positioned at the far end of the bridge. Medical kit, fully stocked. Fire extinguisher. Helmet, obviously." He paused for effect. "And I hired two licensed motocross riders to consult on the jump trajectory."
You and Jack looked at each other.
Then back at the setup.
Then at each other again.
"Still a terrible idea," you both said at exactly the same time.
Michael blinked. "Seriously? Even with all of that?"
Jack shrugged. "Preparation doesn't make a bad decision good."
You nodded. "It just makes it organized."
Michael stared at the two of you. "Do you practice being like this or does it just happen naturally?"
"Experience," Jack said.
"Years of it," you confirmed.
Michael exhaled dramatically and turned back to his equipment. "I just need one video. One that actually blows up. If it does, I could get sponsored. Monster, Red Bull, Fox, anyone. That's all I need."
Jack deadpanned, "Or UPMC Trauma."
You added, "They'll definitely know your name."
Michael groaned. "You two are impossible." He turned toward Clark, who was standing back with his coffee mug and the expression of a man enjoying this far more than he was letting on. "Grandpa. Are you absolutely sure these two aren't married?"
Clark didn't even look at him. "This isn't about them. It's about you."
Michael sighed like this was deeply unfair.
He walked them back to the driveway when it was time to leave, hands in his hoodie pockets, Riot trotting beside him like they had been friends for years.
Jack stopped at the car door. "One piece of advice."
Michael looked up. "Hm?"
"You're still young. You've got plenty of time to do stupid things. So don't rush all of them into this year."
Michael laughed, genuine and easy. "I'll think about it."
You stepped slightly closer. "Promise me you'll walk away if something feels wrong. Even if the cameras are rolling and everyone's watching. Just walk away."
Michael looked at you for a second, something in his expression shifting into something more honest than the performance he'd been giving all morning. "You sound like Grandpa."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
He smiled. "I'll be careful."
You both nodded. You both also knew exactly what teenagers meant when they said that, which was roughly the same thing soldiers meant when they said easy mission. But you let it stand, because some things needed to be said out loud even when everyone in the conversation understood their limitations.
Michael scratched Riot behind the ears one last time and headed back toward the house. Clark lifted his mug from the porch in a small farewell salute.
************
The drive back was quiet. Just the radio, low enough to be background noise, and trees passing steadily outside the windows.
Then, softly, you said, "He reminds me of Diaz."
Jack didn't answer immediately. He kept his eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console.
"Yeah," he said finally. "I saw it too."
A pause settled between you, unhurried and familiar.
"The jokes," Jack said. "The confidence. The way he talks like he's figured something out that everyone else missed."
"The way he thinks he's invincible," you added quietly.
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Scared the hell out of me," Jack said.
You nodded slowly. Outside the window the trees kept passing, steady and indifferent, and neither of you spoke again for a long time. The radio filled the space and that was enough.
************
A few hours after leaving Clark's house, you finally made it back to your apartment. The place was quiet. It was too quiet. Riot was fast asleep near the couch, completely exhausted from all the excitement of the evening, his chest rising and falling rhythmically.
For some reason, your eyes drifted toward the desk in the corner of the room, specifically toward the bottom drawer.
The drawer. The one you almost never opened. The one that held things you simply weren't ready for.
You stared at it, then looked away, trying to shake the sudden impulse. Then your gaze locked back onto it. Years. It had been years, yet somehow, you already knew exactly what was inside.
Slowly, you crossed the room and pulled the drawer open. The old wooden box was exactly where you had left it, with dust resting lightly across the surface of the lid. Your fingers hesitated in the air, trembling slightly, before you finally lifted it out. Inside sat old photographs, a few faded military patches, a silver collar pin, and a single envelope. Your name was written across the front in Gabriel's unmistakable handwriting.
The mere sight of it still hurt. You swallowed hard, pulling out a chair and sitting down as the apartment suddenly felt very small and very quiet. You carefully broke the seal, unfolded the crisp paper, and began to read.
If you're reading this... well. Congratulations. I'm dead.
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh, a breathless sound breaking the quiet. Of course. Of course that was exactly how he started it.
Which, if we're being honest, is a terrible deal for me. So I'd appreciate it if you're appropriately devastated for at least a month. Longer if you actually liked me.
You rolled your eyes despite yourself, your vision already blurring as tears welled in the corners of your eyes.
First things first. Abbott still owes me twenty bucks. Death does NOT erase debt. Tell him I'll haunt him every payday until he coughs it up.
A real laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. You could practically hear Gabriel's voice saying the words aloud in the room.
Actually... you know what my biggest regret is? Not taking enough pictures. I always said "later." Then one day... there wasn't one. So if life teaches you anything... take the stupid picture. Even if your hair looks terrible. Even if Abbott is making one of those grumpy faces. Especially then.
Your chest tightened painfully because suddenly you thought about the photograph sitting on Jack's coffee table, the one he still kept, the one you almost never allowed yourself to think about anymore.
Second biggest regret? Never getting to annoy you and Abbott after you two finally admitted whatever the hell this thing is between you.
You immediately groaned, burying your face in your free hand. "Oh my God."
Yeah. Don't look so surprised. I knew. Clark knew. Half the camp knew. You two had the emotional communication skills of wet cardboard. You argued like an old married couple, then stared at each other when the other wasn't looking. It was painful. Seriously. Just kiss already. Or yell. Honestly, I don't think either of you knows the difference.
You covered your burning face completely, your voice cracking. "Idiot."
Anyway... I know you. Which means if something happened to me... you're probably blaming yourself.
The brief smile vanished from your face.
So let me save you some time. No. You don't get to do that. You hear me? You don't.
The written words hit harder than you ever expected because somehow, he still knew you. Even then, even before everything actually happened.
You gave me more time than I should've had. Out here... most of us don't get miracles. I did. Because of you. You fought for me when everyone else would've accepted the outcome. Even when it wasn't enough... you still fought.
The tears came freely before you even realized it, one hot drop and then another falling directly onto the paper, wrinkling the ink.
So don't spend the rest of your life treating yourself like punishment. You already carried enough. Go live. Run those ridiculous races you keep talking about. Keep making Abbott roll his eyes. And when he inevitably says something stupid... yell at him. You seem weirdly good at that.
A broken laugh escaped you, wiping a wet cheek with your shoulder because he wasn't wrong.
Take care of Riot. Actually... spoil him. He deserves it. Just don't let him get fat. Clark will blame you.
You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, then kept reading.
One more thing. If years from now... Abbott still looks at you the way he does now... for the love of God... just marry the man.
Your breath caught in your throat.
Life's already too short. Don't waste whatever time you've got pretending you don't feel something. You both deserve something good after all this. And if Abbott somehow manages to screw it up... tell him I can still haunt him. Twenty bucks first. Then haunting. Forever your favorite extremely annoying, non-blood-related big brother, Gabriel Diaz.
At the very bottom, written in much smaller handwriting, was one final line.
P.S. If you're crying while reading this, that's embarrassing. Drink some water.
You stared at the tiny script, then laughed. You actually laughed right through your tears, exactly the way Gabriel would have wanted you to. And for the very first time in years, the crushing weight of the guilt felt just a little bit lighter.
You folded the letter carefully, almost reverently, handling the paper as if creasing it the wrong way would mean losing him all over again. The apartment fell completely quiet, with only Riot's soft, rhythmic breathing filling the space. Your thumb brushed across Gabriel's signature one last time, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at your lips.
"...Idiot," you murmured, your voice cracking anyway. For years, you had carried the crushing weight of guilt, believing it was the only way to honor his memory. But looking down at the worn paper, you realized you might have been completely wrong.
Your eyes drifted toward the dark window, watching the city lights flicker outside. Without meaning to, another face materialized in your thoughts.
Jack. Grumpy, sarcastic, and annoyingly persistent Jack. You remembered the exact look he had given you this afternoon when he thought you were leaving his side.
You're not going to stay?
You thought of the quiet, unexpected way he had handed you his spare key, his confession that he still kept the old photograph on his coffee table, and the comforting weight of his head resting against your shoulder without asking for a single thing in return.
You closed your eyes, letting the memory settle. Gabriel had been entirely right, not just about Jack, but about you, too. You had spent years trying to outrun your grief by training, working, and taking every extra shift available.
You ran every exhausting race and took on every impossible medical case, acting as if staying constantly busy meant you never had to stop long enough to actually miss the people you lost.
And somehow, Jack had done the exact same thing. You had taken entirely different roads, but you had both arrived at the same lonely destination. Alone.
You let out a slow, quiet breath into the stillness of the room. "...Maybe..." You whispered it so softly that even you almost didn't hear it. "...Maybe we don't have to anymore."
You carefully tucked the letter back inside its envelope. This time, you didn't hide the box at the very bottom of the dark drawer under layers of old gear. You closed the drawer and left it sitting right on top, out in the open.
********
The next morning, you stepped into the hospital lobby with your usual cup of coffee clutched tightly in your hand. It didn't even take five seconds for the trap to spring.
"There she is."
Dana's voice echoed across the corridor. Of course. You let out a long, heavy sigh and adjusted your grip on your cup before facing her. "...Good morning?"
Princess looked up from behind the nurses' station, her lips curving into a grin that immediately made you deeply suspicious. "So."
"So?" you countered, keeping your expression blank.
"How was your day off?"
"Quiet."
Robby let out a loud snort, not even pretending to look at the chart in his hands. "Sure it was."
You narrowed your eyes at him, stepping closer to the desk. "What exactly does that mean?"
Dana leaned her elbows against the laminate counter, her eyes gleaming with pure delight. "It means..." She looked around the hallway dramatically, dropping her voice to a theatrical whisper. "...we all know you spent it with Abbott."
You blinked once, the realization hitting you with a dull thud. "...News really does travel fast in this place."
Princess laughed, tapping her phone screen. "Jack literally posted you on his Instagram story."
You closed your eyes for a brief moment of pure defeat. "I knew I should've confiscated his phone."
Robby chuckled, pointing the tip of his pen directly at you. "So... how was the sleepover?"
"It was fine," you said flatly.
Dana raised an eyebrow, leaning in closer. "Just fine?"
"Riot snored."
"That's not what I asked."
You took another slow, deliberate sip of your coffee to buy yourself some time. "Then I'm choosing not to answer."
The entire nurses' station groaned in unison.
Another doctor walked past the desk, carrying a stack of patient files under his arm. "You people actually have patients to care for, you know."
Dana didn't even bother to look at him, waving a hand dismissively. "This is important medical sociology."
"It really isn't."
Princess folded her arms over her scrubs, tilting her head. "I just want official confirmation."
"There is absolutely nothing to confirm."
Robby’s smile widened, a mischievous spark in his eyes. "So you’re saying you didn’t sleep in the same bed?"
You stopped, staring dead at him with your most formidable surgeon expression. "...Robby."
"What?"
"I am this close to making a complaint to the HR."
The station erupted into loud laughter, the tension breaking instantly. Even the passing staff couldn't help but smile into their charts.
"You all have way too much free time," you muttered, shaking your head as you turned on your heel and headed toward the elevators.
Behind you, Dana cupped her hands around her mouth and called out into the hallway, "Tell Abbott we miss him!"
You lifted one hand, raising a single finger without turning around to face them. "I won't."
Once you stepped out onto the upper floors, the teasing finally stopped, and the familiar, demanding rhythm of your department took over completely.
The hours slipped by the way they always did in medicine, measuring one patient at a time, one critical decision after another. By mid-afternoon, you had almost forgotten about the morning's gossip.
Then, your pager vibrated violently against your hip at the exact same moment your phone began to ring in your pocket. You pulled it out and answered immediately.
You answered immediately. "Dr. L/N."
"Doc." It was Robby on the other end. His voice sounded entirely different than usual, carrying a steady, measured calmness that stood out against the loud chaos of the emergency room around him. That lack of panic somehow made your stomach drop instantly.
"We've got a major trauma downstairs," he said.
You were already adjusting your phone against your ear, reaching for the back of your chair to grab your white coat. "I'm on my way."
A brief pause hung on the line. "There's something else."
Your hand froze on the fabric of your coat. "What is it?"
"The patient specifically asked for you."
Your eyebrows pulled together, a deep frown forming as you quickly ran through your current patient roster in your head. "...Asked for me?"
"He knew your exact name," Robby confirmed.
Silence stretched over the line for a second. You searched your memory as fast as you could, but there were no scheduled transfers, no complex follow-ups, and absolutely no former patients you were expecting to arrive through the ambulance bay today.
"I don't recognize the name on the intake," Robby continued, his tone shifting into something a bit more guarded. "But whatever this is, he was pretty insistent before he lost consciousness."
The skin on the back of your neck prickled, a sudden tightness gripping your throat. "I'll be down there in two minutes."
You ended the call, snapping your phone shut. Without another word of explanation, you shoved your current patient's chart directly into the hands of the nearest resident standing beside you. "Cover the rest of my rounds. Call me if anyone crashes."
Then you were already moving, your sneakers squeaking against the linoleum as you pushed through the heavy double doors of the ward. You hit the down button on the lift panel repeatedly, your chest tightening further when the numbers slowly clicked down from the top floor. The lift couldn't come fast enough.
You pushed through the heavy double doors leading into the Emergency Department. The closer you got to the central trauma bay, the louder the room became.
"Blood pressure's dropping!" Princess shouted, already hanging another bag of fluids.
"Another large-bore IV!" Whitaker was squeezing past the respiratory therapist with an ultrasound machine.
"Move him on three, watch his neck!" Dana was cutting away the remaining sleeve of the motorcycle jacket while Santos held manual stabilization at his head.
The familiar chaos wrapped around you like an old blanket. Except, the moment you reached the edge of the trauma bay, you stopped dead in your tracks.
"...Michael?" Your voice barely came out.
Robby looked up from the opposite side of the stretcher, his expression immediately softening as he saw you. "I'm glad you're here."
Only then did you look down at the gurney. Michael was completely covered in dirt. Savage road rash stretched across his shoulder and chest where his motorcycle jacket had already been cut away. His helmet lay in two broken pieces on the floor. His left forearm bent at an angle it never should, and blood continued running from a deep laceration across his forehead, soaking the padding beneath his cervical collar.
Despite everything, he was still awake. His eyes found yours, and then, somehow, he smiled. "...Hey, Doc."
Your chest tightened painfully. You were beside him before you even realized you had moved, your hands automatically checking his vitals. "What happened?"
Dana answered while checking the monitor. "Motorcycle jump."
Whitaker glanced up from the ultrasound screen. "He lost control on the landing. Hit the guardrail."
You closed your eyes for half a second. Of course he did.
Michael let out the weakest laugh before immediately wincing in agony. "...Turns out... Grandpa was right."
You wanted to yell at him right then and there. Instead, your medical training took over, and your hands moved automatically through the practiced sequence.
Pupils. Airway. Breathing. Pulse.
His breathing wasn't right. It was far too fast, far too shallow. You looked sharply across the stretcher toward Robby. "What do we know?"
"Not enough," Robby replied, his brow furrowed as he managed the lines. "Trauma scans are being prepared right now. We're still working him up."
Princess glanced toward the monitor, her voice tight. "Pressure's still dropping."
Santos looked over from the head of the bed, maintaining manual stabilization. "He's becoming harder to keep comfortable."
Nobody needed to say it out loud. The room was moving faster now, the clinical urgency shifting into overdrive. Everyone in the bay could feel it.
You gently squeezed Michael's good shoulder, trying to anchor him. "I'll be right outside."
As you turned to step away, his fingers wrapped weakly around your wrist. "...Don't."
You stopped, looking back at him. "...Don't what?"
"...Don't tell Grandpa. Please."
You stared at him, your heart aching. "...Michael."
"I mean it." His breathing caught, a flash of pure panic breaking through his fading adrenaline. "I don't want him worrying."
For just a second, the reckless teenager completely disappeared. All you saw was a scared kid. All you saw was Clark's grandson.
You swallowed hard against the lump in your throat. "...I'll be right back."
He slowly let go of your wrist, his hand falling back to the mattress.
The moment you stepped outside the frantic noise of the trauma bay, you reached into your scrubs for your phone. The first person you called was Jack.
He answered almost immediately, his voice gravelly with sleep. "Morning."
"...Jack."
That was all it took. The raw tone of your voice changed his demeanor instantly. "...What happened?"
"...It's Michael."
A heavy silence dropped over the line. Then, Jack spoke. "...Where?"
There were no questions, no hesitation, and no demands for details. Just a sharp, directive query. On his end of the line, you could already hear drawers opening and the frantic jingle of keys. Then came the sharp, familiar click of his prosthetic leg moving at a dead sprint against his hardwood floor.
"The Pitt," you replied.
"I'm coming." The line went dead.
You immediately dialed Clark's number. The phone rang twice before the old man's deep voice answered. "...Kid?"
You closed your eyes, leaning your head against the cool hospital wall. "...Michael's at the Pitt."
A silence followed, long and heavy enough to hurt. Then Clark quietly asked the only question that mattered. "...How bad?"
A/N: Hello, everyone! Sorry for not updating Jack Abbot - Keep Up last week. I had another business trip, and this week I have another one too. It was so sudden. I only found out after lunch.
To make up for it, I made Chapter 7 longer. I hope you guys enjoy it!
Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a Comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️
The moment you arrived at the hospital a nurse was already waiting outside the operating room.
"Doctor."
You walked straight toward her. "What's the situation?"
"Thirty-eight-year-old male. Motor vehicle collision. Internal bleeding. Dr. Garcia is already inside."
"Vitals?"
"Stable after transfusion."
"Let's go."
You scrubbed in quickly while the circulating nurse helped you into your sterile gown and gloves, and a moment later you stepped into the OR. Garcia glanced up briefly from the surgical field.
"Took you a while."
"His place is kind of far."
That was all you said before your attention shifted entirely to the patient.
"Clamp. Suction. Retractor."
The room settled into its familiar rhythm. Garcia had already controlled most of the bleeding. Together you located the remaining vessel, repaired it, inspected the abdomen one final time, and began closing. The surgery went smoothly, the kind that felt almost routine after the ones that didn't.
As the nurses transferred the patient to recovery you peeled off your gloves and moved to the scrub sink beside Garcia. She noticed you checking the clock almost immediately.
"In a hurry?"
"I'm going down to the ER for a while."
"Really."
You looked at her. "Really."
Garcia smirked. "Uh-huh."
"I'm talking to Robby."
"Of course you are."
You narrowed your eyes. "What?"
"Nothing." She dried her hands with the serenity of someone who had already won the conversation. "Tell Abbot he's being dramatic."
You grabbed your badge. "I'll tell him you miss him."
Garcia looked genuinely offended. "I absolutely do not."
You chuckled and pushed through the OR doors. "See you later."
Then you headed downstairs toward the ER.
You stepped into the Pitt and the usual chaos met you immediately. Monitors beeping from every direction, paramedics rushing another patient through the ambulance bay, nurses weaving between stretchers with the practiced ease of people who had done it a thousand times and would do it a thousand more. A battlefield. Just another normal day.
At the attending station Dana looked up first. "Well, look who decided to visit."
"I was passing by."
"Mhm." She smiled with the particular warmth of someone who knew exactly what passing by meant in this context. "Passing by."
Before you could respond Robby looked up from his computer. "Helloooo." Then went straight back to typing.
You leaned over the counter. "Can I ask you a favor?"
Robby's fingers stopped on the keyboard. He looked up slowly. "Whyyy?"
"Could you give Abbot one more day off?"
He studied you for a second, something turning over behind his eyes. "Because?"
"Because tomorrow is my day off."
A smile escaped before you could stop it, small and entirely self-betraying. Robby had to press his lips together to keep his own from spreading too wide. If playing cupid meant Jack Abbot finally stopped moping around the ER like a man with unfinished business, he would do it without a single reservation.
"Of course," he said immediately. "Absolutely. Shen and Cruz can manage."
"Give them a chance to lead," you agreed, tapping the counter lightly.
"You got it."
You gave them both a small nod and headed back toward the elevator. The moment you disappeared around the corner Dana stepped closer to Robby, a smile already taking over her face.
"Sooo?"
Robby watched the elevator doors close before he answered. Then he shrugged, easy and unbothered. "I just want my friend to be happy."
Dana laughed softly and folded her arms. "You call it helping. I call it finally getting those two to stop dancing around each other."
Robby smiled to himself and went back to his keyboard. "About time," he said quietly.
*****
Jack had been reading for nearly an hour. The phantom pain had finally settled into a dull ache instead of the sharp relentless pulse that had haunted him all morning. Maybe it was the medication. Maybe it was finally getting some sleep.
His eyes drifted toward the front door.
Maybe it was because you'd stopped by.
The apartment was quiet. Until a key turned in the lock.
Jack looked up from his book. He set it aside, slipped on his prosthetic, and walked toward the door.
It opened, and the familiar scent of antiseptic reached him before you did.
"You're—"
Something barreled into his legs before he could finish.
"Woof!"
Jack looked down and laughed, low and genuine. "Hey, buddy." Riot's tail wagged so hard his entire body shook with it, his paws scrabbling against the floor in his enthusiasm to be as close to Jack as physically possible.
You stepped inside and closed the door behind you. "He's sleeping over. Make sure you're not lonely." You reached down and scratched behind Riot's ears.
Jack smiled. "I think he's more worried about you than me."
"He has separation anxiety," you said, already turning back toward the hallway.
"You're not going to stay?"
You stopped. Turned around. "You want me to stay?"
Jack cleared his throat. "Well." He glanced down at Riot with the expression of a man constructing a reasonable argument in real time. "Riot kind of whines at night."
"You just said he has separation anxiety."
Both Jack and Riot looked up at you at exactly the same time, wearing identical expressions of patient expectation.
You sighed dramatically. Then leaned slightly to your left and pulled a duffel bag off your shoulder.
Jack blinked. "Wait. You prepared?"
You smirked. "I never said I was leaving."
Then you walked past him into the apartment like that explained everything. Jack stood there for a second, then closed the door behind you, chuckling quietly to himself.
"What do you want for dinner?"
You looked back over your shoulder. "Anything that isn't hospital food."
"I think I can manage that."
By the time evening settled outside, takeout containers covered the coffee table and Riot had already finished his dinner and relocated to the rug, sprawled out with one of his toys and the boneless contentment of an animal whose world was exactly as it should be. The television played quietly in the background.
Jack looked up from his food. "Robby gave me another day off."
"I know." You took another bite. "I asked him to."
He frowned. "Why?"
"Because tomorrow is also my day off."
Silence. Jack stared at his dinner for a moment, then muttered mostly to himself, "Should I put in for sick leave more often?"
You looked at him over the rim of your drink. "I can still call Robby and tell him you're feeling much better."
Jack immediately shook his head. "Never mind."
The corner of your mouth lifted. "Thought so."
He smiled to himself and went back to his food. The takeout was decent, Riot was snoring softly on the rug, and the television was saying something neither of you were particularly listening to. Outside, the city moved through its evening the way it always did.
Inside, for the first time in a long while, the apartment didn't feel empty.
******
After dinner the apartment gradually grew quiet. Riot yawned first, which started a chain reaction. You stretched your arms above your head and looked toward the living room.
"I'll sleep on the couch."
"Nope."
You blinked. "Why not?"
Jack scratched the back of his neck, suddenly finding the floor far more interesting than your face. "Because." He cleared his throat. "My bed is big enough." A pause. He looked up for half a second. "For the three of us."
Silence.
He immediately regretted how that had sounded. "I mean." He pointed at Riot, who had already wandered into the bedroom and was circling the foot of the bed with the focused intention of an animal who had already made his decision. "Riot slept beside me last time he was here."
"Oh." That was all you managed.
Jack rubbed the back of his neck again. "Just like the old days, right?" He gave you a small, almost shy smile, the kind that didn't show up often enough to be taken for granted.
"Yeah," you said softly. "Just like the old days."
You hoped he couldn't hear how hard your heart was suddenly beating.
FLASHBACK
The desert finally cooled after sunset. For the first time all day the air was almost pleasant, the kind of temperature that made you forget for twenty minutes how brutal the hours before it had been.
You were halfway across camp chasing a small blur of black fur. "Riot!"
The puppy ignored you completely and ran straight toward the familiar figure lying just beyond the barracks.
Jack.
He always ended his day there, flat on his back with his hands behind his head, looking up at the stars before turning in. It had become its own kind of ritual.
Tiny Riot launched himself directly onto Jack's chest.
"Oof." Jack laughed, low and easy. "Hey, buddy." The puppy licked his chin with great enthusiasm while Jack scratched behind his ears, and then he finally noticed you slowing to a stop beside them.
"Lose something?"
"I think he lost me," you said.
Jack chuckled. "Sounds about right."
You folded your arms. "I've been chasing him for ten minutes."
Riot barked, with the energy of an animal who considered this a personal achievement. Jack looked up at you. "You can sit."
You hesitated. "I don't want to interrupt."
"You'd be interrupting me staring at stars."
"Sounds important."
"It is."
That made you laugh. You lowered yourself onto the ground beside him and the warm sand shifted beneath you as you looked up. The night sky stretched endlessly above you both, more stars than you ever saw back home, the kind of sky that made problems feel a different size than they had in the tent.
"So." You broke the silence first. "What do you think about every night?"
Jack didn't answer immediately. "Nothing."
You turned your head. "You're lying."
"Mostly tomorrow," he admitted.
"Fair." You looked back up at the sky. Neither of you spoke for a while, and the silence wasn't awkward. It never really was with him, which was its own kind of thing you hadn't figured out what to do with yet.
"Well, well."
Diaz's voice cut through the quiet. Both of you turned. He was standing a few feet away with his hands on his hips, looking between you, Jack, and the tiny puppy now stretched contentedly across Jack's chest like he owned it. Then the grin spread across his face.
"Family night."
You rolled your eyes immediately. "We're not a family."
Diaz ignored this completely. He walked over and dropped onto the sand beside Jack with the ease of someone who had decided he was invited. He pointed at Jack. "You. The grumpy dad."
Jack sighed. "I'm already regretting you being here."
Diaz pointed at you. "You. Mom."
"What?"
"And Riot." He reached over and scratched the puppy's head. "The child."
Riot barked happily.
"There. He agrees."
"He absolutely does not," you muttered.
Diaz looked between the two of you with the satisfied expression of a man presenting a well-researched conclusion. "You know what's funny?"
Neither of you answered.
"You two always end up in the same place after every mission." He nodded toward the space between you. "Every single time."
Jack folded his hands back behind his head. "Coincidence."
"Mhm." Diaz nodded with great drama. "And the dog just happened to adopt both of you."
"Coincidence," Jack said again.
Diaz laughed. "Keep telling yourselves that."
You grabbed a handful of sand and threw it at him. It barely reached his boots. He looked down at it.
"That's all you've got?"
"I was aiming for your mouth."
Jack snorted.
Diaz clutched his chest. "See?" He pointed at you. "Violence." Then at Jack. "Silence." Then he patted Riot one more time and looked at all three of you with the settled satisfaction of someone whose point had just been made for him.
"Family night," he said quietly, mostly to himself.
Nobody argued with him that time.
******
PRESENT TIME
Jack woke before sunrise.
For a brief moment he stayed still, letting the dream settle. Not the explosion. Not the blood. Before that. The quiet nights, you and Diaz and tiny Riot, small enough to fit comfortably in one arm, happily chewing on Jack's sleeve while the three of you lay beneath a sky full of more stars than any of you had time to count.
Funny. Back then all three of you had slept on hard ground without a single complaint.
Now Riot had claimed half the mattress and you were asleep beside him under a warm blanket, your breathing slow and even, your face completely relaxed in a way it rarely was during waking hours.
Life was strange.
Jack smiled to himself and quietly climbed out of bed.
A shower sounded like a good idea.
The sound of running water eventually stirred Riot awake. One oversized ear twitched. Then the other. He yawned dramatically, stretched his entire body from nose to tail, and then climbed across the mattress toward you with the purposeful energy of an animal who had decided you had slept long enough.
His cold nose nudged your cheek.
"Five more minutes," you mumbled.
"Woof."
"No."
Another nudge, more insistent this time.
"Traitor," you muttered into the pillow.
The bathroom door opened. Steam drifted out into the bedroom. Jack stepped through it with a towel slung around his neck and another wrapped low around his waist, rubbing damp hair with one hand, still half in his own head.
Still half asleep, your eyes wandered in his direction.
Your brain took an extra second to catch up with what your eyes were doing.
Jack caught you staring. A slow grin appeared, unhurried and deeply satisfied. "Enjoying the view?"
"What?" You blinked. Then registered exactly where your eyes had settled and looked away immediately. "Oh, please. I saw you like this all the time in the army."
Jack raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" He tilted his head slightly. "So you've been noticing my body this whole time."
You grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at him. "How long are you planning to stand there half naked?"
He caught the pillow without effort. "I've been living alone for years." A shrug, entirely unrepentant. "I forgot people usually expect a warning."
Still quietly laughing to himself, he tossed the pillow back onto the bed, pulled a clean shirt from the wardrobe, and disappeared back into the bathroom to finish getting dressed.
The moment the door clicked shut you buried your face in both hands.
"Oh my God."
Your ears felt warm. Riot put his head in your lap, looked up at you with his big brown eyes, and wagged his tail once.
"Not a word," you told him.
He wagged again.
Inside the bathroom, Jack pulled his shirt over his head and looked at himself in the mirror for a moment. The smile refused to leave his face no matter how much he tried to dial it back into something more reasonable.
For once, getting teased hadn't been nearly as fun as doing the teasing.
*****
An hour later the three of you were walking through downtown Pittsburgh. Morning sunlight reflected off the glass buildings while Riot trotted ahead, occasionally glancing back to confirm both of you were still following, which you were.
Jack walked a few steps behind, quietly. He pulled out his phone and raised it.
Click.
You hadn't noticed. You were too busy watching Riot investigate every tree along the path with the focused dedication of a professional. Jack looked at the photo. You, Riot, morning sun, the coffee shop a few steps ahead. Good enough. He opened Instagram.
Story: A day off well spent. The photo underneath it.
You hadn't noticed at all. You were far too busy watching Riot investigate every single tree along the sidewalk with the intense seriousness of a homicide detective on a major case.
Jack slowed his pace a fraction, letting a little distance grow between you. He pulled out his phone, lifting the screen to frame the shot. The morning sunlight was hitting perfectly, catching you walking right beside Riot with your coffee clutched in your hand, the local café just ahead. It was perfect. He snapped the picture, opened Instagram, and after thinking for a quick second, he typed out a caption: Morning walk with the family.
He hit post and slipped his phone back into his coat pocket. It buzzed almost immediately against his hip.
"Well, that was fast," he muttered to himself, pulling the device back out.
The notification was from a group chat titled The Pitt Crew, and the messages were already flying across the screen.
Princess: OH MY GOD.
Santos: JACK POSTED HER.
Whitaker: HE NEVER POSTS PEOPLE.
Princess: EXCEPT HIS DOG.
Shen: Correction.
Shen: Their dog.
Dana: Cute picture.
Robby: Morning, Jack.
Garcia: I see someone is enjoying his sick leave.
Princess: THEY WENT FOR COFFEE TOGETHER.
Santos: THIS ISN'T A DATE???
Shen: If that's not a date, then I'm a pediatrician.
Princess: YOU GUYS HAD A WHOLE SLEEPOVER DIDN'T YOU???
Jack didn't even hesitate. He tapped the text box and sent a single word.
Jack: Yes.
The chat group exploded instantly.
Princess: ????????????????
Whitaker: HE SAID YES SO CASUALLY.
Santos: I'M LOSING MY MIND.
Garcia: Called it.
Dana: I'm happy for you two.
Robby: Don't make me approve sick leave too often, Abbott.
Jack smiled to himself, a genuine chuckle escaping his throat, before he quietly locked the screen. Mission accomplished.
"What?" you asked, glancing over your shoulder at him. "You've been smiling at your phone for the last minute."
Jack quickly slipped the device back into his pocket, falling back into step right beside you. "...Nothing."
He kept his face completely blank, but he knew that somewhere inside the emergency department, Princess had probably stopped working entirely just to process the fact that Jack Abbott had voluntarily admitted to a sleepover.
You knew he did something but you needed caffeine to interrogate him. So you stepped into the cafe. "Hi."
The barista smiled. "Morning. What can I get you?"
"Two lattes."
"Sure." He glanced at you again with the particular friendliness of someone who had decided to be more helpful than strictly necessary. "I don't think I've seen you here before."
"I've been busy."
"Hopefully we'll see you more often."
Before you could answer, Jack appeared beside you. Without a word he rested his hand lightly against the small of your back. Not enough to pull you closer. Just enough to be obvious about something.
The barista noticed immediately.
Jack looked at you with complete seriousness. "Honey."
You froze.
"Our son is waiting outside."
Your brain short-circuited entirely. You turned slowly toward the barista. He looked equally confused, glancing between the two of you and the door beyond which a very large German Shepherd was visible through the glass.
The silence lasted exactly three seconds.
Then the barista slid the drinks across the counter with the energy of someone who had decided not to ask. "Here's your two lattes."
"Thank you." You grabbed both cups and escaped the café before anything else could happen.
Outside, Riot greeted you both with an enthusiastic bark. You looked at Jack.
"You could've just said dog."
Jack stopped walking. A pause. "Oh."
He looked genuinely like he had just realized something. "You're right. I didn't think of that."
You clicked your tongue. Sometimes he was unbelievably childish for a man his age.
Jack took a long sip of his coffee. "I'll never go there again."
"You were the problem."
"I know."
"You were grumpy."
"I'm always grumpy."
"You were worse than usual."
Jack shrugged with complete serenity. "My therapist told me I find comfort in darkness." He sipped his coffee again. "Her words."
You laughed despite yourself. "You actually listened to your therapist."
"I occasionally surprise people."
Your phone vibrated before you could respond. Clark. You answered. "Morning."
"I called the hospital." His voice was alert in that particular way that meant he already knew something. "They told me both you and Abbot have the day off."
"That's right."
"Perfect." He didn't give you time to ask why. "Come to my place. Now."
The call ended.
Jack glanced over. "Who was that?"
"Clark." You slipped the phone back into your pocket. "He wants us at his place."
Jack looked at Riot, then back at the street ahead with a smile already settling onto his face. "Oh." He reached down and scratched behind Riot's ears. "This is gonna be fun."
“Woof!” Riot barked like he completely agreed.
*******
Clark's house sat on the edge of town. Or rather, estate. You slowed the car as the wrought iron gate opened automatically, your eyes following the long driveway up toward the house.
"I knew Clark was rich," you said slowly. "But this?"
Jack looked out the window without much surprise. "He buys land every time he has extra money." He nodded toward an empty field visible beyond the tree line. "Says it's the safest investment."
"He's terrifying."
"I've been saying that for years."
By the time you parked, the front door had already opened. Clark stepped outside with his coffee mug in hand, unhurried, the way a man moved when he owned the ground he was standing on.
"There you are."
Riot was out of the car before anyone else, sprinting across the driveway with the full commitment of an animal reuniting with someone important.
"Woof!"
Clark crouched with a grin that took ten years off his face. "And you too, little guy." He scratched behind Riot's ears while the dog tried to climb into his lap. "Good to see you, soldier."
Jack climbed out and stretched. "What are we doing here, old man?"
Clark looked him up and down. "Grumpy in the morning?"
"I mentioned that to him," you offered.
Clark glanced at you. "So you did." Then his eyes moved between the two of you with the slow assessment of someone taking inventory. "How did the three of you end up together?"
Jack answered before you could. "They slept at my place."
Silence.
You turned toward Jack slowly. His expression was completely neutral, which meant he had not yet processed what he had just said out loud to a man who noticed everything.
Clark stared at both of you for exactly two seconds.
Then he burst out laughing. A loud, genuine laugh, the kind that came from somewhere deep and didn't apologize for itself. He slapped Jack's shoulder hard enough to mean it. "Finally!"
You covered your face with both hands. "Oh my God."
Jack frowned. "What?"
Clark was still laughing, wiping the corner of his eye with his thumb. "Nothing, nothing."
"I meant." Jack pointed at you. "And the dog." He gestured at Riot, who was sitting at Clark's feet looking extremely pleased with the current energy. "All three of us. In the apartment."
Clark nodded slowly, composing himself with great effort. "Oh, I know what you meant. Eventually."
He turned back toward the house, shoulders still shaking, coffee mug raised like a toast to no one in particular.
Jack stood in the driveway looking at the back of his head. Then at you.
You looked at him over your hands.
Neither of you said anything.
Riot wagged his tail.
Clark's smile slowly faded. "It's about my grandson."
You frowned. "What about him?"
"An idiot." He took a sip of his coffee. "He's making videos. The dangerous kind. Climbing buildings, hanging off bridges, jumping between rooftops. Anything people apparently call content these days."
"I've seen a few of them," you admitted. "He has more followers than doctor J."
Jack turned toward you. "You knew about this but you didn't know about my recent updates?"
"What updates?"
He looked at you with mild offense. You pulled out your phone, frowning. Truthfully, ever since Jack's Instagram story had sent half the hospital into full detective mode, you had muted most of your notifications. The daily Pitt group chat was already enough to manage. You preferred not looking at your phone unless absolutely necessary.
You opened Instagram.
Your eyes widened. "Jack."
He looked completely innocent. "Hm?"
"You tagged me."
"So?"
"You posted my picture."
"So?"
"And." You scrolled. "There are four hundred comments."
Jack shrugged. "I didn't count."
"Jack!"
Clark took a long sip of his coffee. "Ah." He nodded to himself with the satisfaction of someone watching something he had predicted arrive exactly on schedule. "There it is. Another married couple argument."
Jack answered immediately. "We're not married."
"You keep saying that," Clark said pleasantly.
Before either of you could continue, a voice came from the front porch.
"Grandpa?"
All three of you turned.
A teenage boy walked out of the house. Tall, curly dark hair, a hoodie despite the warmth of the morning, a camera hanging around his neck like it belonged there. He moved with the easy confidence of someone who had never once entered a room quietly in his life.
Clark sighed. "My idiot grandson. Michael."
Michael walked over with a grin already in place and offered his hand first. "So you guys are the famous army people."
You shook it. "Nice to meet you."
Jack did the same. "You must've done something impressive if Clark dragged both of us out here."
Michael laughed and casually wrapped an arm around Clark's shoulders. "Aww, Grandpa." He bumped him once. "I prefer creative problem solver."
Clark looked at the sky briefly. "I prefer future heart attack."
Michael grinned. "Relax." Another easy bump of his shoulder. "I'm too pretty to die."
Silence.
Jack's smile disappeared. Your expression went still. Clark looked slowly between the two of you, reading the quiet that had settled over both of you in the span of one sentence.
Because that was exactly something Gabriel Diaz would have said. The phrasing, the delivery, the complete and unearned confidence of it. Every single time, without fail, said with that same grin like the universe had personally guaranteed him an exemption.
Michael noticed the shift immediately, his smile fading slightly. "Did I say something wrong?"
Clark placed a hand on his grandson's shoulder. "No," he said quietly. "You just reminded us of someone."
Michael looked between you and Jack, reading the room the way young people did when they understood more than adults expected them to. He didn't push. He just nodded once and let it sit.
Riot chose that moment to shove his nose into Michael's hand, which broke the spell faster than anything else could have.
Michael looked down. "Oh, he's huge."
"His name is Riot," you said.
Michael crouched immediately, and Riot, who had excellent judgment about people, wagged his tail and leaned into him without hesitation.
Clark cleared his throat. "He's planning to jump his dirt bike across the old service bridge over Miller Creek." He pointed toward a wooded area beyond the property line. "The county closed it years ago."
You frowned. "Because it's unstable?"
"Exactly."
Michael waved a hand. "I'm not riding on the bridge." He smiled with the confidence of someone who had never once considered consequences a personal concern. "I'm jumping over the broken section."
You stared at him. "That somehow sounds worse."
"There'll be professionals there."
Clark snorted. "Professional idiots."
"They know what they're doing."
Jack folded his arms. "If you're looking for the fastest route to the trauma bay," he said calmly, "that's a solid plan."
Michael laughed. "You guys make it sound like I'm guaranteed to crash."
"No," Jack said. "We're saying you'll crash eventually. The question is whether you want to do it on your terms or the bridge's terms."
"Optimistic."
"Experienced."
Michael lifted both hands in surrender and looked around at the three of you with theatrical defeat. "I've officially been outnumbered." Then his eyes landed on Riot sitting patiently at the edge of the driveway, and his entire face changed.
"Whoa." He pulled the camera from around his neck immediately. "Now that's content." He crouched beside Riot, who tilted his head with the regal patience of an animal accustomed to being admired. Michael started recording, angling the lens carefully.
"Morning, everyone." He turned the camera toward Riot. "I just met the CEO of emotional support."
Clark clicked his tongue. "You see? Nothing gets through that thick skull." He watched his grandson talk earnestly to a German Shepherd on camera. "I don't know where he gets it from."
Jack watched quietly for a moment, then said, "He got it from you."
Clark looked genuinely offended. "I have never done anything that stupid in my life."
You and Jack turned toward him at exactly the same time. "Really?"
Clark opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked between the two of you, then at Michael still filming Riot with complete artistic commitment, then back at you.
"I walked into that one," he said.
"Completely," Jack agreed.
Clark took a long sip of his coffee and said nothing further, which was its own kind of answer.
******
Michael led them around the side of the house to where his setup was laid out with the organized precision of someone who had thought about this for longer than anyone around him was comfortable with.
"Two cameras," he said, pointing. "GoPro mounted on the helmet, second angle from the side. Drone for the overhead shot." He moved along the lineup. "Spotter positioned at the far end of the bridge. Medical kit, fully stocked. Fire extinguisher. Helmet, obviously." He paused for effect. "And I hired two licensed motocross riders to consult on the jump trajectory."
You and Jack looked at each other.
Then back at the setup.
Then at each other again.
"Still a terrible idea," you both said at exactly the same time.
Michael blinked. "Seriously? Even with all of that?"
Jack shrugged. "Preparation doesn't make a bad decision good."
You nodded. "It just makes it organized."
Michael stared at the two of you. "Do you practice being like this or does it just happen naturally?"
"Experience," Jack said.
"Years of it," you confirmed.
Michael exhaled dramatically and turned back to his equipment. "I just need one video. One that actually blows up. If it does, I could get sponsored. Monster, Red Bull, Fox, anyone. That's all I need."
Jack deadpanned, "Or UPMC Trauma."
You added, "They'll definitely know your name."
Michael groaned. "You two are impossible." He turned toward Clark, who was standing back with his coffee mug and the expression of a man enjoying this far more than he was letting on. "Grandpa. Are you absolutely sure these two aren't married?"
Clark didn't even look at him. "This isn't about them. It's about you."
Michael sighed like this was deeply unfair.
He walked them back to the driveway when it was time to leave, hands in his hoodie pockets, Riot trotting beside him like they had been friends for years.
Jack stopped at the car door. "One piece of advice."
Michael looked up. "Hm?"
"You're still young. You've got plenty of time to do stupid things. So don't rush all of them into this year."
Michael laughed, genuine and easy. "I'll think about it."
You stepped slightly closer. "Promise me you'll walk away if something feels wrong. Even if the cameras are rolling and everyone's watching. Just walk away."
Michael looked at you for a second, something in his expression shifting into something more honest than the performance he'd been giving all morning. "You sound like Grandpa."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
He smiled. "I'll be careful."
You both nodded. You both also knew exactly what teenagers meant when they said that, which was roughly the same thing soldiers meant when they said easy mission. But you let it stand, because some things needed to be said out loud even when everyone in the conversation understood their limitations.
Michael scratched Riot behind the ears one last time and headed back toward the house. Clark lifted his mug from the porch in a small farewell salute.
************
The drive back was quiet. Just the radio, low enough to be background noise, and trees passing steadily outside the windows.
Then, softly, you said, "He reminds me of Diaz."
Jack didn't answer immediately. He kept his eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console.
"Yeah," he said finally. "I saw it too."
A pause settled between you, unhurried and familiar.
"The jokes," Jack said. "The confidence. The way he talks like he's figured something out that everyone else missed."
"The way he thinks he's invincible," you added quietly.
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Scared the hell out of me," Jack said.
You nodded slowly. Outside the window the trees kept passing, steady and indifferent, and neither of you spoke again for a long time. The radio filled the space and that was enough.
************
A few hours after leaving Clark's house, you finally made it back to your apartment. The place was quiet. It was too quiet. Riot was fast asleep near the couch, completely exhausted from all the excitement of the evening, his chest rising and falling rhythmically.
For some reason, your eyes drifted toward the desk in the corner of the room, specifically toward the bottom drawer.
The drawer. The one you almost never opened. The one that held things you simply weren't ready for.
You stared at it, then looked away, trying to shake the sudden impulse. Then your gaze locked back onto it. Years. It had been years, yet somehow, you already knew exactly what was inside.
Slowly, you crossed the room and pulled the drawer open. The old wooden box was exactly where you had left it, with dust resting lightly across the surface of the lid. Your fingers hesitated in the air, trembling slightly, before you finally lifted it out. Inside sat old photographs, a few faded military patches, a silver collar pin, and a single envelope. Your name was written across the front in Gabriel's unmistakable handwriting.
The mere sight of it still hurt. You swallowed hard, pulling out a chair and sitting down as the apartment suddenly felt very small and very quiet. You carefully broke the seal, unfolded the crisp paper, and began to read.
If you're reading this... well. Congratulations. I'm dead.
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh, a breathless sound breaking the quiet. Of course. Of course that was exactly how he started it.
Which, if we're being honest, is a terrible deal for me. So I'd appreciate it if you're appropriately devastated for at least a month. Longer if you actually liked me.
You rolled your eyes despite yourself, your vision already blurring as tears welled in the corners of your eyes.
First things first. Abbott still owes me twenty bucks. Death does NOT erase debt. Tell him I'll haunt him every payday until he coughs it up.
A real laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. You could practically hear Gabriel's voice saying the words aloud in the room.
Actually... you know what my biggest regret is? Not taking enough pictures. I always said "later." Then one day... there wasn't one. So if life teaches you anything... take the stupid picture. Even if your hair looks terrible. Even if Abbott is making one of those grumpy faces. Especially then.
Your chest tightened painfully because suddenly you thought about the photograph sitting on Jack's coffee table, the one he still kept, the one you almost never allowed yourself to think about anymore.
Second biggest regret? Never getting to annoy you and Abbott after you two finally admitted whatever the hell this thing is between you.
You immediately groaned, burying your face in your free hand. "Oh my God."
Yeah. Don't look so surprised. I knew. Clark knew. Half the camp knew. You two had the emotional communication skills of wet cardboard. You argued like an old married couple, then stared at each other when the other wasn't looking. It was painful. Seriously. Just kiss already. Or yell. Honestly, I don't think either of you knows the difference.
You covered your burning face completely, your voice cracking. "Idiot."
Anyway... I know you. Which means if something happened to me... you're probably blaming yourself.
The brief smile vanished from your face.
So let me save you some time. No. You don't get to do that. You hear me? You don't.
The written words hit harder than you ever expected because somehow, he still knew you. Even then, even before everything actually happened.
You gave me more time than I should've had. Out here... most of us don't get miracles. I did. Because of you. You fought for me when everyone else would've accepted the outcome. Even when it wasn't enough... you still fought.
The tears came freely before you even realized it, one hot drop and then another falling directly onto the paper, wrinkling the ink.
So don't spend the rest of your life treating yourself like punishment. You already carried enough. Go live. Run those ridiculous races you keep talking about. Keep making Abbott roll his eyes. And when he inevitably says something stupid... yell at him. You seem weirdly good at that.
A broken laugh escaped you, wiping a wet cheek with your shoulder because he wasn't wrong.
Take care of Riot. Actually... spoil him. He deserves it. Just don't let him get fat. Clark will blame you.
You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, then kept reading.
One more thing. If years from now... Abbott still looks at you the way he does now... for the love of God... just marry the man.
Your breath caught in your throat.
Life's already too short. Don't waste whatever time you've got pretending you don't feel something. You both deserve something good after all this. And if Abbott somehow manages to screw it up... tell him I can still haunt him. Twenty bucks first. Then haunting. Forever your favorite extremely annoying, non-blood-related big brother, Gabriel Diaz.
At the very bottom, written in much smaller handwriting, was one final line.
P.S. If you're crying while reading this, that's embarrassing. Drink some water.
You stared at the tiny script, then laughed. You actually laughed right through your tears, exactly the way Gabriel would have wanted you to. And for the very first time in years, the crushing weight of the guilt felt just a little bit lighter.
You folded the letter carefully, almost reverently, handling the paper as if creasing it the wrong way would mean losing him all over again. The apartment fell completely quiet, with only Riot's soft, rhythmic breathing filling the space. Your thumb brushed across Gabriel's signature one last time, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at your lips.
"...Idiot," you murmured, your voice cracking anyway. For years, you had carried the crushing weight of guilt, believing it was the only way to honor his memory. But looking down at the worn paper, you realized you might have been completely wrong.
Your eyes drifted toward the dark window, watching the city lights flicker outside. Without meaning to, another face materialized in your thoughts.
Jack. Grumpy, sarcastic, and annoyingly persistent Jack. You remembered the exact look he had given you this afternoon when he thought you were leaving his side.
You're not going to stay?
You thought of the quiet, unexpected way he had handed you his spare key, his confession that he still kept the old photograph on his coffee table, and the comforting weight of his head resting against your shoulder without asking for a single thing in return.
You closed your eyes, letting the memory settle. Gabriel had been entirely right, not just about Jack, but about you, too. You had spent years trying to outrun your grief by training, working, and taking every extra shift available.
You ran every exhausting race and took on every impossible medical case, acting as if staying constantly busy meant you never had to stop long enough to actually miss the people you lost.
And somehow, Jack had done the exact same thing. You had taken entirely different roads, but you had both arrived at the same lonely destination. Alone.
You let out a slow, quiet breath into the stillness of the room. "...Maybe..." You whispered it so softly that even you almost didn't hear it. "...Maybe we don't have to anymore."
You carefully tucked the letter back inside its envelope. This time, you didn't hide the box at the very bottom of the dark drawer under layers of old gear. You closed the drawer and left it sitting right on top, out in the open.
********
The next morning, you stepped into the hospital lobby with your usual cup of coffee clutched tightly in your hand. It didn't even take five seconds for the trap to spring.
"There she is."
Dana's voice echoed across the corridor. Of course. You let out a long, heavy sigh and adjusted your grip on your cup before facing her. "...Good morning?"
Princess looked up from behind the nurses' station, her lips curving into a grin that immediately made you deeply suspicious. "So."
"So?" you countered, keeping your expression blank.
"How was your day off?"
"Quiet."
Robby let out a loud snort, not even pretending to look at the chart in his hands. "Sure it was."
You narrowed your eyes at him, stepping closer to the desk. "What exactly does that mean?"
Dana leaned her elbows against the laminate counter, her eyes gleaming with pure delight. "It means..." She looked around the hallway dramatically, dropping her voice to a theatrical whisper. "...we all know you spent it with Abbott."
You blinked once, the realization hitting you with a dull thud. "...News really does travel fast in this place."
Princess laughed, tapping her phone screen. "Jack literally posted you on his Instagram story."
You closed your eyes for a brief moment of pure defeat. "I knew I should've confiscated his phone."
Robby chuckled, pointing the tip of his pen directly at you. "So... how was the sleepover?"
"It was fine," you said flatly.
Dana raised an eyebrow, leaning in closer. "Just fine?"
"Riot snored."
"That's not what I asked."
You took another slow, deliberate sip of your coffee to buy yourself some time. "Then I'm choosing not to answer."
The entire nurses' station groaned in unison.
Another doctor walked past the desk, carrying a stack of patient files under his arm. "You people actually have patients to care for, you know."
Dana didn't even bother to look at him, waving a hand dismissively. "This is important medical sociology."
"It really isn't."
Princess folded her arms over her scrubs, tilting her head. "I just want official confirmation."
"There is absolutely nothing to confirm."
Robby’s smile widened, a mischievous spark in his eyes. "So you’re saying you didn’t sleep in the same bed?"
You stopped, staring dead at him with your most formidable surgeon expression. "...Robby."
"What?"
"I am this close to making a complaint to the HR."
The station erupted into loud laughter, the tension breaking instantly. Even the passing staff couldn't help but smile into their charts.
"You all have way too much free time," you muttered, shaking your head as you turned on your heel and headed toward the elevators.
Behind you, Dana cupped her hands around her mouth and called out into the hallway, "Tell Abbott we miss him!"
You lifted one hand, raising a single finger without turning around to face them. "I won't."
Once you stepped out onto the upper floors, the teasing finally stopped, and the familiar, demanding rhythm of your department took over completely.
The hours slipped by the way they always did in medicine, measuring one patient at a time, one critical decision after another. By mid-afternoon, you had almost forgotten about the morning's gossip.
Then, your pager vibrated violently against your hip at the exact same moment your phone began to ring in your pocket. You pulled it out and answered immediately.
You answered immediately. "Dr. L/N."
"Doc." It was Robby on the other end. His voice sounded entirely different than usual, carrying a steady, measured calmness that stood out against the loud chaos of the emergency room around him. That lack of panic somehow made your stomach drop instantly.
"We've got a major trauma downstairs," he said.
You were already adjusting your phone against your ear, reaching for the back of your chair to grab your white coat. "I'm on my way."
A brief pause hung on the line. "There's something else."
Your hand froze on the fabric of your coat. "What is it?"
"The patient specifically asked for you."
Your eyebrows pulled together, a deep frown forming as you quickly ran through your current patient roster in your head. "...Asked for me?"
"He knew your exact name," Robby confirmed.
Silence stretched over the line for a second. You searched your memory as fast as you could, but there were no scheduled transfers, no complex follow-ups, and absolutely no former patients you were expecting to arrive through the ambulance bay today.
"I don't recognize the name on the intake," Robby continued, his tone shifting into something a bit more guarded. "But whatever this is, he was pretty insistent before he lost consciousness."
The skin on the back of your neck prickled, a sudden tightness gripping your throat. "I'll be down there in two minutes."
You ended the call, snapping your phone shut. Without another word of explanation, you shoved your current patient's chart directly into the hands of the nearest resident standing beside you. "Cover the rest of my rounds. Call me if anyone crashes."
Then you were already moving, your sneakers squeaking against the linoleum as you pushed through the heavy double doors of the ward. You hit the down button on the lift panel repeatedly, your chest tightening further when the numbers slowly clicked down from the top floor. The lift couldn't come fast enough.
You pushed through the heavy double doors leading into the Emergency Department. The closer you got to the central trauma bay, the louder the room became.
"Blood pressure's dropping!" Princess shouted, already hanging another bag of fluids.
"Another large-bore IV!" Whitaker was squeezing past the respiratory therapist with an ultrasound machine.
"Move him on three, watch his neck!" Dana was cutting away the remaining sleeve of the motorcycle jacket while Santos held manual stabilization at his head.
The familiar chaos wrapped around you like an old blanket. Except, the moment you reached the edge of the trauma bay, you stopped dead in your tracks.
"...Michael?" Your voice barely came out.
Robby looked up from the opposite side of the stretcher, his expression immediately softening as he saw you. "I'm glad you're here."
Only then did you look down at the gurney. Michael was completely covered in dirt. Savage road rash stretched across his shoulder and chest where his motorcycle jacket had already been cut away. His helmet lay in two broken pieces on the floor. His left forearm bent at an angle it never should, and blood continued running from a deep laceration across his forehead, soaking the padding beneath his cervical collar.
Despite everything, he was still awake. His eyes found yours, and then, somehow, he smiled. "...Hey, Doc."
Your chest tightened painfully. You were beside him before you even realized you had moved, your hands automatically checking his vitals. "What happened?"
Dana answered while checking the monitor. "Motorcycle jump."
Whitaker glanced up from the ultrasound screen. "He lost control on the landing. Hit the guardrail."
You closed your eyes for half a second. Of course he did.
Michael let out the weakest laugh before immediately wincing in agony. "...Turns out... Grandpa was right."
You wanted to yell at him right then and there. Instead, your medical training took over, and your hands moved automatically through the practiced sequence.
Pupils. Airway. Breathing. Pulse.
His breathing wasn't right. It was far too fast, far too shallow. You looked sharply across the stretcher toward Robby. "What do we know?"
"Not enough," Robby replied, his brow furrowed as he managed the lines. "Trauma scans are being prepared right now. We're still working him up."
Princess glanced toward the monitor, her voice tight. "Pressure's still dropping."
Santos looked over from the head of the bed, maintaining manual stabilization. "He's becoming harder to keep comfortable."
Nobody needed to say it out loud. The room was moving faster now, the clinical urgency shifting into overdrive. Everyone in the bay could feel it.
You gently squeezed Michael's good shoulder, trying to anchor him. "I'll be right outside."
As you turned to step away, his fingers wrapped weakly around your wrist. "...Don't."
You stopped, looking back at him. "...Don't what?"
"...Don't tell Grandpa. Please."
You stared at him, your heart aching. "...Michael."
"I mean it." His breathing caught, a flash of pure panic breaking through his fading adrenaline. "I don't want him worrying."
For just a second, the reckless teenager completely disappeared. All you saw was a scared kid. All you saw was Clark's grandson.
You swallowed hard against the lump in your throat. "...I'll be right back."
He slowly let go of your wrist, his hand falling back to the mattress.
The moment you stepped outside the frantic noise of the trauma bay, you reached into your scrubs for your phone. The first person you called was Jack.
He answered almost immediately, his voice gravelly with sleep. "Morning."
"...Jack."
That was all it took. The raw tone of your voice changed his demeanor instantly. "...What happened?"
"...It's Michael."
A heavy silence dropped over the line. Then, Jack spoke. "...Where?"
There were no questions, no hesitation, and no demands for details. Just a sharp, directive query. On his end of the line, you could already hear drawers opening and the frantic jingle of keys. Then came the sharp, familiar click of his prosthetic leg moving at a dead sprint against his hardwood floor.
"The Pitt," you replied.
"I'm coming." The line went dead.
You immediately dialed Clark's number. The phone rang twice before the old man's deep voice answered. "...Kid?"
You closed your eyes, leaning your head against the cool hospital wall. "...Michael's at the Pitt."
A silence followed, long and heavy enough to hurt. Then Clark quietly asked the only question that mattered. "...How bad?"
A/N: Hello, everyone! Sorry for not updating Jack Abbot - Keep Up last week. I had another business trip, and this week I have another one too. It was so sudden. I only found out after lunch.
To make up for it, I made Chapter 7 longer. I hope you guys enjoy it!
Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a Comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️
The moment you arrived at the hospital a nurse was already waiting outside the operating room.
"Doctor."
You walked straight toward her. "What's the situation?"
"Thirty-eight-year-old male. Motor vehicle collision. Internal bleeding. Dr. Garcia is already inside."
"Vitals?"
"Stable after transfusion."
"Let's go."
You scrubbed in quickly while the circulating nurse helped you into your sterile gown and gloves, and a moment later you stepped into the OR. Garcia glanced up briefly from the surgical field.
"Took you a while."
"His place is kind of far."
That was all you said before your attention shifted entirely to the patient.
"Clamp. Suction. Retractor."
The room settled into its familiar rhythm. Garcia had already controlled most of the bleeding. Together you located the remaining vessel, repaired it, inspected the abdomen one final time, and began closing. The surgery went smoothly, the kind that felt almost routine after the ones that didn't.
As the nurses transferred the patient to recovery you peeled off your gloves and moved to the scrub sink beside Garcia. She noticed you checking the clock almost immediately.
"In a hurry?"
"I'm going down to the ER for a while."
"Really."
You looked at her. "Really."
Garcia smirked. "Uh-huh."
"I'm talking to Robby."
"Of course you are."
You narrowed your eyes. "What?"
"Nothing." She dried her hands with the serenity of someone who had already won the conversation. "Tell Abbot he's being dramatic."
You grabbed your badge. "I'll tell him you miss him."
Garcia looked genuinely offended. "I absolutely do not."
You chuckled and pushed through the OR doors. "See you later."
Then you headed downstairs toward the ER.
You stepped into the Pitt and the usual chaos met you immediately. Monitors beeping from every direction, paramedics rushing another patient through the ambulance bay, nurses weaving between stretchers with the practiced ease of people who had done it a thousand times and would do it a thousand more. A battlefield. Just another normal day.
At the attending station Dana looked up first. "Well, look who decided to visit."
"I was passing by."
"Mhm." She smiled with the particular warmth of someone who knew exactly what passing by meant in this context. "Passing by."
Before you could respond Robby looked up from his computer. "Helloooo." Then went straight back to typing.
You leaned over the counter. "Can I ask you a favor?"
Robby's fingers stopped on the keyboard. He looked up slowly. "Whyyy?"
"Could you give Abbot one more day off?"
He studied you for a second, something turning over behind his eyes. "Because?"
"Because tomorrow is my day off."
A smile escaped before you could stop it, small and entirely self-betraying. Robby had to press his lips together to keep his own from spreading too wide. If playing cupid meant Jack Abbot finally stopped moping around the ER like a man with unfinished business, he would do it without a single reservation.
"Of course," he said immediately. "Absolutely. Shen and Cruz can manage."
"Give them a chance to lead," you agreed, tapping the counter lightly.
"You got it."
You gave them both a small nod and headed back toward the elevator. The moment you disappeared around the corner Dana stepped closer to Robby, a smile already taking over her face.
"Sooo?"
Robby watched the elevator doors close before he answered. Then he shrugged, easy and unbothered. "I just want my friend to be happy."
Dana laughed softly and folded her arms. "You call it helping. I call it finally getting those two to stop dancing around each other."
Robby smiled to himself and went back to his keyboard. "About time," he said quietly.
*****
Jack had been reading for nearly an hour. The phantom pain had finally settled into a dull ache instead of the sharp relentless pulse that had haunted him all morning. Maybe it was the medication. Maybe it was finally getting some sleep.
His eyes drifted toward the front door.
Maybe it was because you'd stopped by.
The apartment was quiet. Until a key turned in the lock.
Jack looked up from his book. He set it aside, slipped on his prosthetic, and walked toward the door.
It opened, and the familiar scent of antiseptic reached him before you did.
"You're—"
Something barreled into his legs before he could finish.
"Woof!"
Jack looked down and laughed, low and genuine. "Hey, buddy." Riot's tail wagged so hard his entire body shook with it, his paws scrabbling against the floor in his enthusiasm to be as close to Jack as physically possible.
You stepped inside and closed the door behind you. "He's sleeping over. Make sure you're not lonely." You reached down and scratched behind Riot's ears.
Jack smiled. "I think he's more worried about you than me."
"He has separation anxiety," you said, already turning back toward the hallway.
"You're not going to stay?"
You stopped. Turned around. "You want me to stay?"
Jack cleared his throat. "Well." He glanced down at Riot with the expression of a man constructing a reasonable argument in real time. "Riot kind of whines at night."
"You just said he has separation anxiety."
Both Jack and Riot looked up at you at exactly the same time, wearing identical expressions of patient expectation.
You sighed dramatically. Then leaned slightly to your left and pulled a duffel bag off your shoulder.
Jack blinked. "Wait. You prepared?"
You smirked. "I never said I was leaving."
Then you walked past him into the apartment like that explained everything. Jack stood there for a second, then closed the door behind you, chuckling quietly to himself.
"What do you want for dinner?"
You looked back over your shoulder. "Anything that isn't hospital food."
"I think I can manage that."
By the time evening settled outside, takeout containers covered the coffee table and Riot had already finished his dinner and relocated to the rug, sprawled out with one of his toys and the boneless contentment of an animal whose world was exactly as it should be. The television played quietly in the background.
Jack looked up from his food. "Robby gave me another day off."
"I know." You took another bite. "I asked him to."
He frowned. "Why?"
"Because tomorrow is also my day off."
Silence. Jack stared at his dinner for a moment, then muttered mostly to himself, "Should I put in for sick leave more often?"
You looked at him over the rim of your drink. "I can still call Robby and tell him you're feeling much better."
Jack immediately shook his head. "Never mind."
The corner of your mouth lifted. "Thought so."
He smiled to himself and went back to his food. The takeout was decent, Riot was snoring softly on the rug, and the television was saying something neither of you were particularly listening to. Outside, the city moved through its evening the way it always did.
Inside, for the first time in a long while, the apartment didn't feel empty.
******
After dinner the apartment gradually grew quiet. Riot yawned first, which started a chain reaction. You stretched your arms above your head and looked toward the living room.
"I'll sleep on the couch."
"Nope."
You blinked. "Why not?"
Jack scratched the back of his neck, suddenly finding the floor far more interesting than your face. "Because." He cleared his throat. "My bed is big enough." A pause. He looked up for half a second. "For the three of us."
Silence.
He immediately regretted how that had sounded. "I mean." He pointed at Riot, who had already wandered into the bedroom and was circling the foot of the bed with the focused intention of an animal who had already made his decision. "Riot slept beside me last time he was here."
"Oh." That was all you managed.
Jack rubbed the back of his neck again. "Just like the old days, right?" He gave you a small, almost shy smile, the kind that didn't show up often enough to be taken for granted.
"Yeah," you said softly. "Just like the old days."
You hoped he couldn't hear how hard your heart was suddenly beating.
FLASHBACK
The desert finally cooled after sunset. For the first time all day the air was almost pleasant, the kind of temperature that made you forget for twenty minutes how brutal the hours before it had been.
You were halfway across camp chasing a small blur of black fur. "Riot!"
The puppy ignored you completely and ran straight toward the familiar figure lying just beyond the barracks.
Jack.
He always ended his day there, flat on his back with his hands behind his head, looking up at the stars before turning in. It had become its own kind of ritual.
Tiny Riot launched himself directly onto Jack's chest.
"Oof." Jack laughed, low and easy. "Hey, buddy." The puppy licked his chin with great enthusiasm while Jack scratched behind his ears, and then he finally noticed you slowing to a stop beside them.
"Lose something?"
"I think he lost me," you said.
Jack chuckled. "Sounds about right."
You folded your arms. "I've been chasing him for ten minutes."
Riot barked, with the energy of an animal who considered this a personal achievement. Jack looked up at you. "You can sit."
You hesitated. "I don't want to interrupt."
"You'd be interrupting me staring at stars."
"Sounds important."
"It is."
That made you laugh. You lowered yourself onto the ground beside him and the warm sand shifted beneath you as you looked up. The night sky stretched endlessly above you both, more stars than you ever saw back home, the kind of sky that made problems feel a different size than they had in the tent.
"So." You broke the silence first. "What do you think about every night?"
Jack didn't answer immediately. "Nothing."
You turned your head. "You're lying."
"Mostly tomorrow," he admitted.
"Fair." You looked back up at the sky. Neither of you spoke for a while, and the silence wasn't awkward. It never really was with him, which was its own kind of thing you hadn't figured out what to do with yet.
"Well, well."
Diaz's voice cut through the quiet. Both of you turned. He was standing a few feet away with his hands on his hips, looking between you, Jack, and the tiny puppy now stretched contentedly across Jack's chest like he owned it. Then the grin spread across his face.
"Family night."
You rolled your eyes immediately. "We're not a family."
Diaz ignored this completely. He walked over and dropped onto the sand beside Jack with the ease of someone who had decided he was invited. He pointed at Jack. "You. The grumpy dad."
Jack sighed. "I'm already regretting you being here."
Diaz pointed at you. "You. Mom."
"What?"
"And Riot." He reached over and scratched the puppy's head. "The child."
Riot barked happily.
"There. He agrees."
"He absolutely does not," you muttered.
Diaz looked between the two of you with the satisfied expression of a man presenting a well-researched conclusion. "You know what's funny?"
Neither of you answered.
"You two always end up in the same place after every mission." He nodded toward the space between you. "Every single time."
Jack folded his hands back behind his head. "Coincidence."
"Mhm." Diaz nodded with great drama. "And the dog just happened to adopt both of you."
"Coincidence," Jack said again.
Diaz laughed. "Keep telling yourselves that."
You grabbed a handful of sand and threw it at him. It barely reached his boots. He looked down at it.
"That's all you've got?"
"I was aiming for your mouth."
Jack snorted.
Diaz clutched his chest. "See?" He pointed at you. "Violence." Then at Jack. "Silence." Then he patted Riot one more time and looked at all three of you with the settled satisfaction of someone whose point had just been made for him.
"Family night," he said quietly, mostly to himself.
Nobody argued with him that time.
******
PRESENT TIME
Jack woke before sunrise.
For a brief moment he stayed still, letting the dream settle. Not the explosion. Not the blood. Before that. The quiet nights, you and Diaz and tiny Riot, small enough to fit comfortably in one arm, happily chewing on Jack's sleeve while the three of you lay beneath a sky full of more stars than any of you had time to count.
Funny. Back then all three of you had slept on hard ground without a single complaint.
Now Riot had claimed half the mattress and you were asleep beside him under a warm blanket, your breathing slow and even, your face completely relaxed in a way it rarely was during waking hours.
Life was strange.
Jack smiled to himself and quietly climbed out of bed.
A shower sounded like a good idea.
The sound of running water eventually stirred Riot awake. One oversized ear twitched. Then the other. He yawned dramatically, stretched his entire body from nose to tail, and then climbed across the mattress toward you with the purposeful energy of an animal who had decided you had slept long enough.
His cold nose nudged your cheek.
"Five more minutes," you mumbled.
"Woof."
"No."
Another nudge, more insistent this time.
"Traitor," you muttered into the pillow.
The bathroom door opened. Steam drifted out into the bedroom. Jack stepped through it with a towel slung around his neck and another wrapped low around his waist, rubbing damp hair with one hand, still half in his own head.
Still half asleep, your eyes wandered in his direction.
Your brain took an extra second to catch up with what your eyes were doing.
Jack caught you staring. A slow grin appeared, unhurried and deeply satisfied. "Enjoying the view?"
"What?" You blinked. Then registered exactly where your eyes had settled and looked away immediately. "Oh, please. I saw you like this all the time in the army."
Jack raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" He tilted his head slightly. "So you've been noticing my body this whole time."
You grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at him. "How long are you planning to stand there half naked?"
He caught the pillow without effort. "I've been living alone for years." A shrug, entirely unrepentant. "I forgot people usually expect a warning."
Still quietly laughing to himself, he tossed the pillow back onto the bed, pulled a clean shirt from the wardrobe, and disappeared back into the bathroom to finish getting dressed.
The moment the door clicked shut you buried your face in both hands.
"Oh my God."
Your ears felt warm. Riot put his head in your lap, looked up at you with his big brown eyes, and wagged his tail once.
"Not a word," you told him.
He wagged again.
Inside the bathroom, Jack pulled his shirt over his head and looked at himself in the mirror for a moment. The smile refused to leave his face no matter how much he tried to dial it back into something more reasonable.
For once, getting teased hadn't been nearly as fun as doing the teasing.
*****
An hour later the three of you were walking through downtown Pittsburgh. Morning sunlight reflected off the glass buildings while Riot trotted ahead, occasionally glancing back to confirm both of you were still following, which you were.
Jack walked a few steps behind, quietly. He pulled out his phone and raised it.
Click.
You hadn't noticed. You were too busy watching Riot investigate every tree along the path with the focused dedication of a professional. Jack looked at the photo. You, Riot, morning sun, the coffee shop a few steps ahead. Good enough. He opened Instagram.
Story: A day off well spent. The photo underneath it.
You hadn't noticed at all. You were far too busy watching Riot investigate every single tree along the sidewalk with the intense seriousness of a homicide detective on a major case.
Jack slowed his pace a fraction, letting a little distance grow between you. He pulled out his phone, lifting the screen to frame the shot. The morning sunlight was hitting perfectly, catching you walking right beside Riot with your coffee clutched in your hand, the local café just ahead. It was perfect. He snapped the picture, opened Instagram, and after thinking for a quick second, he typed out a caption: Morning walk with the family.
He hit post and slipped his phone back into his coat pocket. It buzzed almost immediately against his hip.
"Well, that was fast," he muttered to himself, pulling the device back out.
The notification was from a group chat titled The Pitt Crew, and the messages were already flying across the screen.
Princess: OH MY GOD.
Santos: JACK POSTED HER.
Whitaker: HE NEVER POSTS PEOPLE.
Princess: EXCEPT HIS DOG.
Shen: Correction.
Shen: Their dog.
Dana: Cute picture.
Robby: Morning, Jack.
Garcia: I see someone is enjoying his sick leave.
Princess: THEY WENT FOR COFFEE TOGETHER.
Santos: THIS ISN'T A DATE???
Shen: If that's not a date, then I'm a pediatrician.
Princess: YOU GUYS HAD A WHOLE SLEEPOVER DIDN'T YOU???
Jack didn't even hesitate. He tapped the text box and sent a single word.
Jack: Yes.
The chat group exploded instantly.
Princess: ????????????????
Whitaker: HE SAID YES SO CASUALLY.
Santos: I'M LOSING MY MIND.
Garcia: Called it.
Dana: I'm happy for you two.
Robby: Don't make me approve sick leave too often, Abbott.
Jack smiled to himself, a genuine chuckle escaping his throat, before he quietly locked the screen. Mission accomplished.
"What?" you asked, glancing over your shoulder at him. "You've been smiling at your phone for the last minute."
Jack quickly slipped the device back into his pocket, falling back into step right beside you. "...Nothing."
He kept his face completely blank, but he knew that somewhere inside the emergency department, Princess had probably stopped working entirely just to process the fact that Jack Abbott had voluntarily admitted to a sleepover.
You knew he did something but you needed caffeine to interrogate him. So you stepped into the cafe. "Hi."
The barista smiled. "Morning. What can I get you?"
"Two lattes."
"Sure." He glanced at you again with the particular friendliness of someone who had decided to be more helpful than strictly necessary. "I don't think I've seen you here before."
"I've been busy."
"Hopefully we'll see you more often."
Before you could answer, Jack appeared beside you. Without a word he rested his hand lightly against the small of your back. Not enough to pull you closer. Just enough to be obvious about something.
The barista noticed immediately.
Jack looked at you with complete seriousness. "Honey."
You froze.
"Our son is waiting outside."
Your brain short-circuited entirely. You turned slowly toward the barista. He looked equally confused, glancing between the two of you and the door beyond which a very large German Shepherd was visible through the glass.
The silence lasted exactly three seconds.
Then the barista slid the drinks across the counter with the energy of someone who had decided not to ask. "Here's your two lattes."
"Thank you." You grabbed both cups and escaped the café before anything else could happen.
Outside, Riot greeted you both with an enthusiastic bark. You looked at Jack.
"You could've just said dog."
Jack stopped walking. A pause. "Oh."
He looked genuinely like he had just realized something. "You're right. I didn't think of that."
You clicked your tongue. Sometimes he was unbelievably childish for a man his age.
Jack took a long sip of his coffee. "I'll never go there again."
"You were the problem."
"I know."
"You were grumpy."
"I'm always grumpy."
"You were worse than usual."
Jack shrugged with complete serenity. "My therapist told me I find comfort in darkness." He sipped his coffee again. "Her words."
You laughed despite yourself. "You actually listened to your therapist."
"I occasionally surprise people."
Your phone vibrated before you could respond. Clark. You answered. "Morning."
"I called the hospital." His voice was alert in that particular way that meant he already knew something. "They told me both you and Abbot have the day off."
"That's right."
"Perfect." He didn't give you time to ask why. "Come to my place. Now."
The call ended.
Jack glanced over. "Who was that?"
"Clark." You slipped the phone back into your pocket. "He wants us at his place."
Jack looked at Riot, then back at the street ahead with a smile already settling onto his face. "Oh." He reached down and scratched behind Riot's ears. "This is gonna be fun."
“Woof!” Riot barked like he completely agreed.
*******
Clark's house sat on the edge of town. Or rather, estate. You slowed the car as the wrought iron gate opened automatically, your eyes following the long driveway up toward the house.
"I knew Clark was rich," you said slowly. "But this?"
Jack looked out the window without much surprise. "He buys land every time he has extra money." He nodded toward an empty field visible beyond the tree line. "Says it's the safest investment."
"He's terrifying."
"I've been saying that for years."
By the time you parked, the front door had already opened. Clark stepped outside with his coffee mug in hand, unhurried, the way a man moved when he owned the ground he was standing on.
"There you are."
Riot was out of the car before anyone else, sprinting across the driveway with the full commitment of an animal reuniting with someone important.
"Woof!"
Clark crouched with a grin that took ten years off his face. "And you too, little guy." He scratched behind Riot's ears while the dog tried to climb into his lap. "Good to see you, soldier."
Jack climbed out and stretched. "What are we doing here, old man?"
Clark looked him up and down. "Grumpy in the morning?"
"I mentioned that to him," you offered.
Clark glanced at you. "So you did." Then his eyes moved between the two of you with the slow assessment of someone taking inventory. "How did the three of you end up together?"
Jack answered before you could. "They slept at my place."
Silence.
You turned toward Jack slowly. His expression was completely neutral, which meant he had not yet processed what he had just said out loud to a man who noticed everything.
Clark stared at both of you for exactly two seconds.
Then he burst out laughing. A loud, genuine laugh, the kind that came from somewhere deep and didn't apologize for itself. He slapped Jack's shoulder hard enough to mean it. "Finally!"
You covered your face with both hands. "Oh my God."
Jack frowned. "What?"
Clark was still laughing, wiping the corner of his eye with his thumb. "Nothing, nothing."
"I meant." Jack pointed at you. "And the dog." He gestured at Riot, who was sitting at Clark's feet looking extremely pleased with the current energy. "All three of us. In the apartment."
Clark nodded slowly, composing himself with great effort. "Oh, I know what you meant. Eventually."
He turned back toward the house, shoulders still shaking, coffee mug raised like a toast to no one in particular.
Jack stood in the driveway looking at the back of his head. Then at you.
You looked at him over your hands.
Neither of you said anything.
Riot wagged his tail.
Clark's smile slowly faded. "It's about my grandson."
You frowned. "What about him?"
"An idiot." He took a sip of his coffee. "He's making videos. The dangerous kind. Climbing buildings, hanging off bridges, jumping between rooftops. Anything people apparently call content these days."
"I've seen a few of them," you admitted. "He has more followers than doctor J."
Jack turned toward you. "You knew about this but you didn't know about my recent updates?"
"What updates?"
He looked at you with mild offense. You pulled out your phone, frowning. Truthfully, ever since Jack's Instagram story had sent half the hospital into full detective mode, you had muted most of your notifications. The daily Pitt group chat was already enough to manage. You preferred not looking at your phone unless absolutely necessary.
You opened Instagram.
Your eyes widened. "Jack."
He looked completely innocent. "Hm?"
"You tagged me."
"So?"
"You posted my picture."
"So?"
"And." You scrolled. "There are four hundred comments."
Jack shrugged. "I didn't count."
"Jack!"
Clark took a long sip of his coffee. "Ah." He nodded to himself with the satisfaction of someone watching something he had predicted arrive exactly on schedule. "There it is. Another married couple argument."
Jack answered immediately. "We're not married."
"You keep saying that," Clark said pleasantly.
Before either of you could continue, a voice came from the front porch.
"Grandpa?"
All three of you turned.
A teenage boy walked out of the house. Tall, curly dark hair, a hoodie despite the warmth of the morning, a camera hanging around his neck like it belonged there. He moved with the easy confidence of someone who had never once entered a room quietly in his life.
Clark sighed. "My idiot grandson. Michael."
Michael walked over with a grin already in place and offered his hand first. "So you guys are the famous army people."
You shook it. "Nice to meet you."
Jack did the same. "You must've done something impressive if Clark dragged both of us out here."
Michael laughed and casually wrapped an arm around Clark's shoulders. "Aww, Grandpa." He bumped him once. "I prefer creative problem solver."
Clark looked at the sky briefly. "I prefer future heart attack."
Michael grinned. "Relax." Another easy bump of his shoulder. "I'm too pretty to die."
Silence.
Jack's smile disappeared. Your expression went still. Clark looked slowly between the two of you, reading the quiet that had settled over both of you in the span of one sentence.
Because that was exactly something Gabriel Diaz would have said. The phrasing, the delivery, the complete and unearned confidence of it. Every single time, without fail, said with that same grin like the universe had personally guaranteed him an exemption.
Michael noticed the shift immediately, his smile fading slightly. "Did I say something wrong?"
Clark placed a hand on his grandson's shoulder. "No," he said quietly. "You just reminded us of someone."
Michael looked between you and Jack, reading the room the way young people did when they understood more than adults expected them to. He didn't push. He just nodded once and let it sit.
Riot chose that moment to shove his nose into Michael's hand, which broke the spell faster than anything else could have.
Michael looked down. "Oh, he's huge."
"His name is Riot," you said.
Michael crouched immediately, and Riot, who had excellent judgment about people, wagged his tail and leaned into him without hesitation.
Clark cleared his throat. "He's planning to jump his dirt bike across the old service bridge over Miller Creek." He pointed toward a wooded area beyond the property line. "The county closed it years ago."
You frowned. "Because it's unstable?"
"Exactly."
Michael waved a hand. "I'm not riding on the bridge." He smiled with the confidence of someone who had never once considered consequences a personal concern. "I'm jumping over the broken section."
You stared at him. "That somehow sounds worse."
"There'll be professionals there."
Clark snorted. "Professional idiots."
"They know what they're doing."
Jack folded his arms. "If you're looking for the fastest route to the trauma bay," he said calmly, "that's a solid plan."
Michael laughed. "You guys make it sound like I'm guaranteed to crash."
"No," Jack said. "We're saying you'll crash eventually. The question is whether you want to do it on your terms or the bridge's terms."
"Optimistic."
"Experienced."
Michael lifted both hands in surrender and looked around at the three of you with theatrical defeat. "I've officially been outnumbered." Then his eyes landed on Riot sitting patiently at the edge of the driveway, and his entire face changed.
"Whoa." He pulled the camera from around his neck immediately. "Now that's content." He crouched beside Riot, who tilted his head with the regal patience of an animal accustomed to being admired. Michael started recording, angling the lens carefully.
"Morning, everyone." He turned the camera toward Riot. "I just met the CEO of emotional support."
Clark clicked his tongue. "You see? Nothing gets through that thick skull." He watched his grandson talk earnestly to a German Shepherd on camera. "I don't know where he gets it from."
Jack watched quietly for a moment, then said, "He got it from you."
Clark looked genuinely offended. "I have never done anything that stupid in my life."
You and Jack turned toward him at exactly the same time. "Really?"
Clark opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked between the two of you, then at Michael still filming Riot with complete artistic commitment, then back at you.
"I walked into that one," he said.
"Completely," Jack agreed.
Clark took a long sip of his coffee and said nothing further, which was its own kind of answer.
******
Michael led them around the side of the house to where his setup was laid out with the organized precision of someone who had thought about this for longer than anyone around him was comfortable with.
"Two cameras," he said, pointing. "GoPro mounted on the helmet, second angle from the side. Drone for the overhead shot." He moved along the lineup. "Spotter positioned at the far end of the bridge. Medical kit, fully stocked. Fire extinguisher. Helmet, obviously." He paused for effect. "And I hired two licensed motocross riders to consult on the jump trajectory."
You and Jack looked at each other.
Then back at the setup.
Then at each other again.
"Still a terrible idea," you both said at exactly the same time.
Michael blinked. "Seriously? Even with all of that?"
Jack shrugged. "Preparation doesn't make a bad decision good."
You nodded. "It just makes it organized."
Michael stared at the two of you. "Do you practice being like this or does it just happen naturally?"
"Experience," Jack said.
"Years of it," you confirmed.
Michael exhaled dramatically and turned back to his equipment. "I just need one video. One that actually blows up. If it does, I could get sponsored. Monster, Red Bull, Fox, anyone. That's all I need."
Jack deadpanned, "Or UPMC Trauma."
You added, "They'll definitely know your name."
Michael groaned. "You two are impossible." He turned toward Clark, who was standing back with his coffee mug and the expression of a man enjoying this far more than he was letting on. "Grandpa. Are you absolutely sure these two aren't married?"
Clark didn't even look at him. "This isn't about them. It's about you."
Michael sighed like this was deeply unfair.
He walked them back to the driveway when it was time to leave, hands in his hoodie pockets, Riot trotting beside him like they had been friends for years.
Jack stopped at the car door. "One piece of advice."
Michael looked up. "Hm?"
"You're still young. You've got plenty of time to do stupid things. So don't rush all of them into this year."
Michael laughed, genuine and easy. "I'll think about it."
You stepped slightly closer. "Promise me you'll walk away if something feels wrong. Even if the cameras are rolling and everyone's watching. Just walk away."
Michael looked at you for a second, something in his expression shifting into something more honest than the performance he'd been giving all morning. "You sound like Grandpa."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
He smiled. "I'll be careful."
You both nodded. You both also knew exactly what teenagers meant when they said that, which was roughly the same thing soldiers meant when they said easy mission. But you let it stand, because some things needed to be said out loud even when everyone in the conversation understood their limitations.
Michael scratched Riot behind the ears one last time and headed back toward the house. Clark lifted his mug from the porch in a small farewell salute.
************
The drive back was quiet. Just the radio, low enough to be background noise, and trees passing steadily outside the windows.
Then, softly, you said, "He reminds me of Diaz."
Jack didn't answer immediately. He kept his eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console.
"Yeah," he said finally. "I saw it too."
A pause settled between you, unhurried and familiar.
"The jokes," Jack said. "The confidence. The way he talks like he's figured something out that everyone else missed."
"The way he thinks he's invincible," you added quietly.
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Scared the hell out of me," Jack said.
You nodded slowly. Outside the window the trees kept passing, steady and indifferent, and neither of you spoke again for a long time. The radio filled the space and that was enough.
************
A few hours after leaving Clark's house, you finally made it back to your apartment. The place was quiet. It was too quiet. Riot was fast asleep near the couch, completely exhausted from all the excitement of the evening, his chest rising and falling rhythmically.
For some reason, your eyes drifted toward the desk in the corner of the room, specifically toward the bottom drawer.
The drawer. The one you almost never opened. The one that held things you simply weren't ready for.
You stared at it, then looked away, trying to shake the sudden impulse. Then your gaze locked back onto it. Years. It had been years, yet somehow, you already knew exactly what was inside.
Slowly, you crossed the room and pulled the drawer open. The old wooden box was exactly where you had left it, with dust resting lightly across the surface of the lid. Your fingers hesitated in the air, trembling slightly, before you finally lifted it out. Inside sat old photographs, a few faded military patches, a silver collar pin, and a single envelope. Your name was written across the front in Gabriel's unmistakable handwriting.
The mere sight of it still hurt. You swallowed hard, pulling out a chair and sitting down as the apartment suddenly felt very small and very quiet. You carefully broke the seal, unfolded the crisp paper, and began to read.
If you're reading this... well. Congratulations. I'm dead.
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh, a breathless sound breaking the quiet. Of course. Of course that was exactly how he started it.
Which, if we're being honest, is a terrible deal for me. So I'd appreciate it if you're appropriately devastated for at least a month. Longer if you actually liked me.
You rolled your eyes despite yourself, your vision already blurring as tears welled in the corners of your eyes.
First things first. Abbott still owes me twenty bucks. Death does NOT erase debt. Tell him I'll haunt him every payday until he coughs it up.
A real laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. You could practically hear Gabriel's voice saying the words aloud in the room.
Actually... you know what my biggest regret is? Not taking enough pictures. I always said "later." Then one day... there wasn't one. So if life teaches you anything... take the stupid picture. Even if your hair looks terrible. Even if Abbott is making one of those grumpy faces. Especially then.
Your chest tightened painfully because suddenly you thought about the photograph sitting on Jack's coffee table, the one he still kept, the one you almost never allowed yourself to think about anymore.
Second biggest regret? Never getting to annoy you and Abbott after you two finally admitted whatever the hell this thing is between you.
You immediately groaned, burying your face in your free hand. "Oh my God."
Yeah. Don't look so surprised. I knew. Clark knew. Half the camp knew. You two had the emotional communication skills of wet cardboard. You argued like an old married couple, then stared at each other when the other wasn't looking. It was painful. Seriously. Just kiss already. Or yell. Honestly, I don't think either of you knows the difference.
You covered your burning face completely, your voice cracking. "Idiot."
Anyway... I know you. Which means if something happened to me... you're probably blaming yourself.
The brief smile vanished from your face.
So let me save you some time. No. You don't get to do that. You hear me? You don't.
The written words hit harder than you ever expected because somehow, he still knew you. Even then, even before everything actually happened.
You gave me more time than I should've had. Out here... most of us don't get miracles. I did. Because of you. You fought for me when everyone else would've accepted the outcome. Even when it wasn't enough... you still fought.
The tears came freely before you even realized it, one hot drop and then another falling directly onto the paper, wrinkling the ink.
So don't spend the rest of your life treating yourself like punishment. You already carried enough. Go live. Run those ridiculous races you keep talking about. Keep making Abbott roll his eyes. And when he inevitably says something stupid... yell at him. You seem weirdly good at that.
A broken laugh escaped you, wiping a wet cheek with your shoulder because he wasn't wrong.
Take care of Riot. Actually... spoil him. He deserves it. Just don't let him get fat. Clark will blame you.
You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, then kept reading.
One more thing. If years from now... Abbott still looks at you the way he does now... for the love of God... just marry the man.
Your breath caught in your throat.
Life's already too short. Don't waste whatever time you've got pretending you don't feel something. You both deserve something good after all this. And if Abbott somehow manages to screw it up... tell him I can still haunt him. Twenty bucks first. Then haunting. Forever your favorite extremely annoying, non-blood-related big brother, Gabriel Diaz.
At the very bottom, written in much smaller handwriting, was one final line.
P.S. If you're crying while reading this, that's embarrassing. Drink some water.
You stared at the tiny script, then laughed. You actually laughed right through your tears, exactly the way Gabriel would have wanted you to. And for the very first time in years, the crushing weight of the guilt felt just a little bit lighter.
You folded the letter carefully, almost reverently, handling the paper as if creasing it the wrong way would mean losing him all over again. The apartment fell completely quiet, with only Riot's soft, rhythmic breathing filling the space. Your thumb brushed across Gabriel's signature one last time, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at your lips.
"...Idiot," you murmured, your voice cracking anyway. For years, you had carried the crushing weight of guilt, believing it was the only way to honor his memory. But looking down at the worn paper, you realized you might have been completely wrong.
Your eyes drifted toward the dark window, watching the city lights flicker outside. Without meaning to, another face materialized in your thoughts.
Jack. Grumpy, sarcastic, and annoyingly persistent Jack. You remembered the exact look he had given you this afternoon when he thought you were leaving his side.
You're not going to stay?
You thought of the quiet, unexpected way he had handed you his spare key, his confession that he still kept the old photograph on his coffee table, and the comforting weight of his head resting against your shoulder without asking for a single thing in return.
You closed your eyes, letting the memory settle. Gabriel had been entirely right, not just about Jack, but about you, too. You had spent years trying to outrun your grief by training, working, and taking every extra shift available.
You ran every exhausting race and took on every impossible medical case, acting as if staying constantly busy meant you never had to stop long enough to actually miss the people you lost.
And somehow, Jack had done the exact same thing. You had taken entirely different roads, but you had both arrived at the same lonely destination. Alone.
You let out a slow, quiet breath into the stillness of the room. "...Maybe..." You whispered it so softly that even you almost didn't hear it. "...Maybe we don't have to anymore."
You carefully tucked the letter back inside its envelope. This time, you didn't hide the box at the very bottom of the dark drawer under layers of old gear. You closed the drawer and left it sitting right on top, out in the open.
********
The next morning, you stepped into the hospital lobby with your usual cup of coffee clutched tightly in your hand. It didn't even take five seconds for the trap to spring.
"There she is."
Dana's voice echoed across the corridor. Of course. You let out a long, heavy sigh and adjusted your grip on your cup before facing her. "...Good morning?"
Princess looked up from behind the nurses' station, her lips curving into a grin that immediately made you deeply suspicious. "So."
"So?" you countered, keeping your expression blank.
"How was your day off?"
"Quiet."
Robby let out a loud snort, not even pretending to look at the chart in his hands. "Sure it was."
You narrowed your eyes at him, stepping closer to the desk. "What exactly does that mean?"
Dana leaned her elbows against the laminate counter, her eyes gleaming with pure delight. "It means..." She looked around the hallway dramatically, dropping her voice to a theatrical whisper. "...we all know you spent it with Abbott."
You blinked once, the realization hitting you with a dull thud. "...News really does travel fast in this place."
Princess laughed, tapping her phone screen. "Jack literally posted you on his Instagram story."
You closed your eyes for a brief moment of pure defeat. "I knew I should've confiscated his phone."
Robby chuckled, pointing the tip of his pen directly at you. "So... how was the sleepover?"
"It was fine," you said flatly.
Dana raised an eyebrow, leaning in closer. "Just fine?"
"Riot snored."
"That's not what I asked."
You took another slow, deliberate sip of your coffee to buy yourself some time. "Then I'm choosing not to answer."
The entire nurses' station groaned in unison.
Another doctor walked past the desk, carrying a stack of patient files under his arm. "You people actually have patients to care for, you know."
Dana didn't even bother to look at him, waving a hand dismissively. "This is important medical sociology."
"It really isn't."
Princess folded her arms over her scrubs, tilting her head. "I just want official confirmation."
"There is absolutely nothing to confirm."
Robby’s smile widened, a mischievous spark in his eyes. "So you’re saying you didn’t sleep in the same bed?"
You stopped, staring dead at him with your most formidable surgeon expression. "...Robby."
"What?"
"I am this close to making a complaint to the HR."
The station erupted into loud laughter, the tension breaking instantly. Even the passing staff couldn't help but smile into their charts.
"You all have way too much free time," you muttered, shaking your head as you turned on your heel and headed toward the elevators.
Behind you, Dana cupped her hands around her mouth and called out into the hallway, "Tell Abbott we miss him!"
You lifted one hand, raising a single finger without turning around to face them. "I won't."
Once you stepped out onto the upper floors, the teasing finally stopped, and the familiar, demanding rhythm of your department took over completely.
The hours slipped by the way they always did in medicine, measuring one patient at a time, one critical decision after another. By mid-afternoon, you had almost forgotten about the morning's gossip.
Then, your pager vibrated violently against your hip at the exact same moment your phone began to ring in your pocket. You pulled it out and answered immediately.
You answered immediately. "Dr. L/N."
"Doc." It was Robby on the other end. His voice sounded entirely different than usual, carrying a steady, measured calmness that stood out against the loud chaos of the emergency room around him. That lack of panic somehow made your stomach drop instantly.
"We've got a major trauma downstairs," he said.
You were already adjusting your phone against your ear, reaching for the back of your chair to grab your white coat. "I'm on my way."
A brief pause hung on the line. "There's something else."
Your hand froze on the fabric of your coat. "What is it?"
"The patient specifically asked for you."
Your eyebrows pulled together, a deep frown forming as you quickly ran through your current patient roster in your head. "...Asked for me?"
"He knew your exact name," Robby confirmed.
Silence stretched over the line for a second. You searched your memory as fast as you could, but there were no scheduled transfers, no complex follow-ups, and absolutely no former patients you were expecting to arrive through the ambulance bay today.
"I don't recognize the name on the intake," Robby continued, his tone shifting into something a bit more guarded. "But whatever this is, he was pretty insistent before he lost consciousness."
The skin on the back of your neck prickled, a sudden tightness gripping your throat. "I'll be down there in two minutes."
You ended the call, snapping your phone shut. Without another word of explanation, you shoved your current patient's chart directly into the hands of the nearest resident standing beside you. "Cover the rest of my rounds. Call me if anyone crashes."
Then you were already moving, your sneakers squeaking against the linoleum as you pushed through the heavy double doors of the ward. You hit the down button on the lift panel repeatedly, your chest tightening further when the numbers slowly clicked down from the top floor. The lift couldn't come fast enough.
You pushed through the heavy double doors leading into the Emergency Department. The closer you got to the central trauma bay, the louder the room became.
"Blood pressure's dropping!" Princess shouted, already hanging another bag of fluids.
"Another large-bore IV!" Whitaker was squeezing past the respiratory therapist with an ultrasound machine.
"Move him on three, watch his neck!" Dana was cutting away the remaining sleeve of the motorcycle jacket while Santos held manual stabilization at his head.
The familiar chaos wrapped around you like an old blanket. Except, the moment you reached the edge of the trauma bay, you stopped dead in your tracks.
"...Michael?" Your voice barely came out.
Robby looked up from the opposite side of the stretcher, his expression immediately softening as he saw you. "I'm glad you're here."
Only then did you look down at the gurney. Michael was completely covered in dirt. Savage road rash stretched across his shoulder and chest where his motorcycle jacket had already been cut away. His helmet lay in two broken pieces on the floor. His left forearm bent at an angle it never should, and blood continued running from a deep laceration across his forehead, soaking the padding beneath his cervical collar.
Despite everything, he was still awake. His eyes found yours, and then, somehow, he smiled. "...Hey, Doc."
Your chest tightened painfully. You were beside him before you even realized you had moved, your hands automatically checking his vitals. "What happened?"
Dana answered while checking the monitor. "Motorcycle jump."
Whitaker glanced up from the ultrasound screen. "He lost control on the landing. Hit the guardrail."
You closed your eyes for half a second. Of course he did.
Michael let out the weakest laugh before immediately wincing in agony. "...Turns out... Grandpa was right."
You wanted to yell at him right then and there. Instead, your medical training took over, and your hands moved automatically through the practiced sequence.
Pupils. Airway. Breathing. Pulse.
His breathing wasn't right. It was far too fast, far too shallow. You looked sharply across the stretcher toward Robby. "What do we know?"
"Not enough," Robby replied, his brow furrowed as he managed the lines. "Trauma scans are being prepared right now. We're still working him up."
Princess glanced toward the monitor, her voice tight. "Pressure's still dropping."
Santos looked over from the head of the bed, maintaining manual stabilization. "He's becoming harder to keep comfortable."
Nobody needed to say it out loud. The room was moving faster now, the clinical urgency shifting into overdrive. Everyone in the bay could feel it.
You gently squeezed Michael's good shoulder, trying to anchor him. "I'll be right outside."
As you turned to step away, his fingers wrapped weakly around your wrist. "...Don't."
You stopped, looking back at him. "...Don't what?"
"...Don't tell Grandpa. Please."
You stared at him, your heart aching. "...Michael."
"I mean it." His breathing caught, a flash of pure panic breaking through his fading adrenaline. "I don't want him worrying."
For just a second, the reckless teenager completely disappeared. All you saw was a scared kid. All you saw was Clark's grandson.
You swallowed hard against the lump in your throat. "...I'll be right back."
He slowly let go of your wrist, his hand falling back to the mattress.
The moment you stepped outside the frantic noise of the trauma bay, you reached into your scrubs for your phone. The first person you called was Jack.
He answered almost immediately, his voice gravelly with sleep. "Morning."
"...Jack."
That was all it took. The raw tone of your voice changed his demeanor instantly. "...What happened?"
"...It's Michael."
A heavy silence dropped over the line. Then, Jack spoke. "...Where?"
There were no questions, no hesitation, and no demands for details. Just a sharp, directive query. On his end of the line, you could already hear drawers opening and the frantic jingle of keys. Then came the sharp, familiar click of his prosthetic leg moving at a dead sprint against his hardwood floor.
"The Pitt," you replied.
"I'm coming." The line went dead.
You immediately dialed Clark's number. The phone rang twice before the old man's deep voice answered. "...Kid?"
You closed your eyes, leaning your head against the cool hospital wall. "...Michael's at the Pitt."
A silence followed, long and heavy enough to hurt. Then Clark quietly asked the only question that mattered. "...How bad?"
A/N: Hello, everyone! Sorry for not updating Jack Abbot - Keep Up last week. I had another business trip, and this week I have another one too. It was so sudden. I only found out after lunch.
To make up for it, I made Chapter 7 longer. I hope you guys enjoy it!
Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a Comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️
The moment you arrived at the hospital a nurse was already waiting outside the operating room.
"Doctor."
You walked straight toward her. "What's the situation?"
"Thirty-eight-year-old male. Motor vehicle collision. Internal bleeding. Dr. Garcia is already inside."
"Vitals?"
"Stable after transfusion."
"Let's go."
You scrubbed in quickly while the circulating nurse helped you into your sterile gown and gloves, and a moment later you stepped into the OR. Garcia glanced up briefly from the surgical field.
"Took you a while."
"His place is kind of far."
That was all you said before your attention shifted entirely to the patient.
"Clamp. Suction. Retractor."
The room settled into its familiar rhythm. Garcia had already controlled most of the bleeding. Together you located the remaining vessel, repaired it, inspected the abdomen one final time, and began closing. The surgery went smoothly, the kind that felt almost routine after the ones that didn't.
As the nurses transferred the patient to recovery you peeled off your gloves and moved to the scrub sink beside Garcia. She noticed you checking the clock almost immediately.
"In a hurry?"
"I'm going down to the ER for a while."
"Really."
You looked at her. "Really."
Garcia smirked. "Uh-huh."
"I'm talking to Robby."
"Of course you are."
You narrowed your eyes. "What?"
"Nothing." She dried her hands with the serenity of someone who had already won the conversation. "Tell Abbot he's being dramatic."
You grabbed your badge. "I'll tell him you miss him."
Garcia looked genuinely offended. "I absolutely do not."
You chuckled and pushed through the OR doors. "See you later."
Then you headed downstairs toward the ER.
You stepped into the Pitt and the usual chaos met you immediately. Monitors beeping from every direction, paramedics rushing another patient through the ambulance bay, nurses weaving between stretchers with the practiced ease of people who had done it a thousand times and would do it a thousand more. A battlefield. Just another normal day.
At the attending station Dana looked up first. "Well, look who decided to visit."
"I was passing by."
"Mhm." She smiled with the particular warmth of someone who knew exactly what passing by meant in this context. "Passing by."
Before you could respond Robby looked up from his computer. "Helloooo." Then went straight back to typing.
You leaned over the counter. "Can I ask you a favor?"
Robby's fingers stopped on the keyboard. He looked up slowly. "Whyyy?"
"Could you give Abbot one more day off?"
He studied you for a second, something turning over behind his eyes. "Because?"
"Because tomorrow is my day off."
A smile escaped before you could stop it, small and entirely self-betraying. Robby had to press his lips together to keep his own from spreading too wide. If playing cupid meant Jack Abbot finally stopped moping around the ER like a man with unfinished business, he would do it without a single reservation.
"Of course," he said immediately. "Absolutely. Shen and Cruz can manage."
"Give them a chance to lead," you agreed, tapping the counter lightly.
"You got it."
You gave them both a small nod and headed back toward the elevator. The moment you disappeared around the corner Dana stepped closer to Robby, a smile already taking over her face.
"Sooo?"
Robby watched the elevator doors close before he answered. Then he shrugged, easy and unbothered. "I just want my friend to be happy."
Dana laughed softly and folded her arms. "You call it helping. I call it finally getting those two to stop dancing around each other."
Robby smiled to himself and went back to his keyboard. "About time," he said quietly.
*****
Jack had been reading for nearly an hour. The phantom pain had finally settled into a dull ache instead of the sharp relentless pulse that had haunted him all morning. Maybe it was the medication. Maybe it was finally getting some sleep.
His eyes drifted toward the front door.
Maybe it was because you'd stopped by.
The apartment was quiet. Until a key turned in the lock.
Jack looked up from his book. He set it aside, slipped on his prosthetic, and walked toward the door.
It opened, and the familiar scent of antiseptic reached him before you did.
"You're—"
Something barreled into his legs before he could finish.
"Woof!"
Jack looked down and laughed, low and genuine. "Hey, buddy." Riot's tail wagged so hard his entire body shook with it, his paws scrabbling against the floor in his enthusiasm to be as close to Jack as physically possible.
You stepped inside and closed the door behind you. "He's sleeping over. Make sure you're not lonely." You reached down and scratched behind Riot's ears.
Jack smiled. "I think he's more worried about you than me."
"He has separation anxiety," you said, already turning back toward the hallway.
"You're not going to stay?"
You stopped. Turned around. "You want me to stay?"
Jack cleared his throat. "Well." He glanced down at Riot with the expression of a man constructing a reasonable argument in real time. "Riot kind of whines at night."
"You just said he has separation anxiety."
Both Jack and Riot looked up at you at exactly the same time, wearing identical expressions of patient expectation.
You sighed dramatically. Then leaned slightly to your left and pulled a duffel bag off your shoulder.
Jack blinked. "Wait. You prepared?"
You smirked. "I never said I was leaving."
Then you walked past him into the apartment like that explained everything. Jack stood there for a second, then closed the door behind you, chuckling quietly to himself.
"What do you want for dinner?"
You looked back over your shoulder. "Anything that isn't hospital food."
"I think I can manage that."
By the time evening settled outside, takeout containers covered the coffee table and Riot had already finished his dinner and relocated to the rug, sprawled out with one of his toys and the boneless contentment of an animal whose world was exactly as it should be. The television played quietly in the background.
Jack looked up from his food. "Robby gave me another day off."
"I know." You took another bite. "I asked him to."
He frowned. "Why?"
"Because tomorrow is also my day off."
Silence. Jack stared at his dinner for a moment, then muttered mostly to himself, "Should I put in for sick leave more often?"
You looked at him over the rim of your drink. "I can still call Robby and tell him you're feeling much better."
Jack immediately shook his head. "Never mind."
The corner of your mouth lifted. "Thought so."
He smiled to himself and went back to his food. The takeout was decent, Riot was snoring softly on the rug, and the television was saying something neither of you were particularly listening to. Outside, the city moved through its evening the way it always did.
Inside, for the first time in a long while, the apartment didn't feel empty.
******
After dinner the apartment gradually grew quiet. Riot yawned first, which started a chain reaction. You stretched your arms above your head and looked toward the living room.
"I'll sleep on the couch."
"Nope."
You blinked. "Why not?"
Jack scratched the back of his neck, suddenly finding the floor far more interesting than your face. "Because." He cleared his throat. "My bed is big enough." A pause. He looked up for half a second. "For the three of us."
Silence.
He immediately regretted how that had sounded. "I mean." He pointed at Riot, who had already wandered into the bedroom and was circling the foot of the bed with the focused intention of an animal who had already made his decision. "Riot slept beside me last time he was here."
"Oh." That was all you managed.
Jack rubbed the back of his neck again. "Just like the old days, right?" He gave you a small, almost shy smile, the kind that didn't show up often enough to be taken for granted.
"Yeah," you said softly. "Just like the old days."
You hoped he couldn't hear how hard your heart was suddenly beating.
FLASHBACK
The desert finally cooled after sunset. For the first time all day the air was almost pleasant, the kind of temperature that made you forget for twenty minutes how brutal the hours before it had been.
You were halfway across camp chasing a small blur of black fur. "Riot!"
The puppy ignored you completely and ran straight toward the familiar figure lying just beyond the barracks.
Jack.
He always ended his day there, flat on his back with his hands behind his head, looking up at the stars before turning in. It had become its own kind of ritual.
Tiny Riot launched himself directly onto Jack's chest.
"Oof." Jack laughed, low and easy. "Hey, buddy." The puppy licked his chin with great enthusiasm while Jack scratched behind his ears, and then he finally noticed you slowing to a stop beside them.
"Lose something?"
"I think he lost me," you said.
Jack chuckled. "Sounds about right."
You folded your arms. "I've been chasing him for ten minutes."
Riot barked, with the energy of an animal who considered this a personal achievement. Jack looked up at you. "You can sit."
You hesitated. "I don't want to interrupt."
"You'd be interrupting me staring at stars."
"Sounds important."
"It is."
That made you laugh. You lowered yourself onto the ground beside him and the warm sand shifted beneath you as you looked up. The night sky stretched endlessly above you both, more stars than you ever saw back home, the kind of sky that made problems feel a different size than they had in the tent.
"So." You broke the silence first. "What do you think about every night?"
Jack didn't answer immediately. "Nothing."
You turned your head. "You're lying."
"Mostly tomorrow," he admitted.
"Fair." You looked back up at the sky. Neither of you spoke for a while, and the silence wasn't awkward. It never really was with him, which was its own kind of thing you hadn't figured out what to do with yet.
"Well, well."
Diaz's voice cut through the quiet. Both of you turned. He was standing a few feet away with his hands on his hips, looking between you, Jack, and the tiny puppy now stretched contentedly across Jack's chest like he owned it. Then the grin spread across his face.
"Family night."
You rolled your eyes immediately. "We're not a family."
Diaz ignored this completely. He walked over and dropped onto the sand beside Jack with the ease of someone who had decided he was invited. He pointed at Jack. "You. The grumpy dad."
Jack sighed. "I'm already regretting you being here."
Diaz pointed at you. "You. Mom."
"What?"
"And Riot." He reached over and scratched the puppy's head. "The child."
Riot barked happily.
"There. He agrees."
"He absolutely does not," you muttered.
Diaz looked between the two of you with the satisfied expression of a man presenting a well-researched conclusion. "You know what's funny?"
Neither of you answered.
"You two always end up in the same place after every mission." He nodded toward the space between you. "Every single time."
Jack folded his hands back behind his head. "Coincidence."
"Mhm." Diaz nodded with great drama. "And the dog just happened to adopt both of you."
"Coincidence," Jack said again.
Diaz laughed. "Keep telling yourselves that."
You grabbed a handful of sand and threw it at him. It barely reached his boots. He looked down at it.
"That's all you've got?"
"I was aiming for your mouth."
Jack snorted.
Diaz clutched his chest. "See?" He pointed at you. "Violence." Then at Jack. "Silence." Then he patted Riot one more time and looked at all three of you with the settled satisfaction of someone whose point had just been made for him.
"Family night," he said quietly, mostly to himself.
Nobody argued with him that time.
******
PRESENT TIME
Jack woke before sunrise.
For a brief moment he stayed still, letting the dream settle. Not the explosion. Not the blood. Before that. The quiet nights, you and Diaz and tiny Riot, small enough to fit comfortably in one arm, happily chewing on Jack's sleeve while the three of you lay beneath a sky full of more stars than any of you had time to count.
Funny. Back then all three of you had slept on hard ground without a single complaint.
Now Riot had claimed half the mattress and you were asleep beside him under a warm blanket, your breathing slow and even, your face completely relaxed in a way it rarely was during waking hours.
Life was strange.
Jack smiled to himself and quietly climbed out of bed.
A shower sounded like a good idea.
The sound of running water eventually stirred Riot awake. One oversized ear twitched. Then the other. He yawned dramatically, stretched his entire body from nose to tail, and then climbed across the mattress toward you with the purposeful energy of an animal who had decided you had slept long enough.
His cold nose nudged your cheek.
"Five more minutes," you mumbled.
"Woof."
"No."
Another nudge, more insistent this time.
"Traitor," you muttered into the pillow.
The bathroom door opened. Steam drifted out into the bedroom. Jack stepped through it with a towel slung around his neck and another wrapped low around his waist, rubbing damp hair with one hand, still half in his own head.
Still half asleep, your eyes wandered in his direction.
Your brain took an extra second to catch up with what your eyes were doing.
Jack caught you staring. A slow grin appeared, unhurried and deeply satisfied. "Enjoying the view?"
"What?" You blinked. Then registered exactly where your eyes had settled and looked away immediately. "Oh, please. I saw you like this all the time in the army."
Jack raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" He tilted his head slightly. "So you've been noticing my body this whole time."
You grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at him. "How long are you planning to stand there half naked?"
He caught the pillow without effort. "I've been living alone for years." A shrug, entirely unrepentant. "I forgot people usually expect a warning."
Still quietly laughing to himself, he tossed the pillow back onto the bed, pulled a clean shirt from the wardrobe, and disappeared back into the bathroom to finish getting dressed.
The moment the door clicked shut you buried your face in both hands.
"Oh my God."
Your ears felt warm. Riot put his head in your lap, looked up at you with his big brown eyes, and wagged his tail once.
"Not a word," you told him.
He wagged again.
Inside the bathroom, Jack pulled his shirt over his head and looked at himself in the mirror for a moment. The smile refused to leave his face no matter how much he tried to dial it back into something more reasonable.
For once, getting teased hadn't been nearly as fun as doing the teasing.
*****
An hour later the three of you were walking through downtown Pittsburgh. Morning sunlight reflected off the glass buildings while Riot trotted ahead, occasionally glancing back to confirm both of you were still following, which you were.
Jack walked a few steps behind, quietly. He pulled out his phone and raised it.
Click.
You hadn't noticed. You were too busy watching Riot investigate every tree along the path with the focused dedication of a professional. Jack looked at the photo. You, Riot, morning sun, the coffee shop a few steps ahead. Good enough. He opened Instagram.
Story: A day off well spent. The photo underneath it.
You hadn't noticed at all. You were far too busy watching Riot investigate every single tree along the sidewalk with the intense seriousness of a homicide detective on a major case.
Jack slowed his pace a fraction, letting a little distance grow between you. He pulled out his phone, lifting the screen to frame the shot. The morning sunlight was hitting perfectly, catching you walking right beside Riot with your coffee clutched in your hand, the local café just ahead. It was perfect. He snapped the picture, opened Instagram, and after thinking for a quick second, he typed out a caption: Morning walk with the family.
He hit post and slipped his phone back into his coat pocket. It buzzed almost immediately against his hip.
"Well, that was fast," he muttered to himself, pulling the device back out.
The notification was from a group chat titled The Pitt Crew, and the messages were already flying across the screen.
Princess: OH MY GOD.
Santos: JACK POSTED HER.
Whitaker: HE NEVER POSTS PEOPLE.
Princess: EXCEPT HIS DOG.
Shen: Correction.
Shen: Their dog.
Dana: Cute picture.
Robby: Morning, Jack.
Garcia: I see someone is enjoying his sick leave.
Princess: THEY WENT FOR COFFEE TOGETHER.
Santos: THIS ISN'T A DATE???
Shen: If that's not a date, then I'm a pediatrician.
Princess: YOU GUYS HAD A WHOLE SLEEPOVER DIDN'T YOU???
Jack didn't even hesitate. He tapped the text box and sent a single word.
Jack: Yes.
The chat group exploded instantly.
Princess: ????????????????
Whitaker: HE SAID YES SO CASUALLY.
Santos: I'M LOSING MY MIND.
Garcia: Called it.
Dana: I'm happy for you two.
Robby: Don't make me approve sick leave too often, Abbott.
Jack smiled to himself, a genuine chuckle escaping his throat, before he quietly locked the screen. Mission accomplished.
"What?" you asked, glancing over your shoulder at him. "You've been smiling at your phone for the last minute."
Jack quickly slipped the device back into his pocket, falling back into step right beside you. "...Nothing."
He kept his face completely blank, but he knew that somewhere inside the emergency department, Princess had probably stopped working entirely just to process the fact that Jack Abbott had voluntarily admitted to a sleepover.
You knew he did something but you needed caffeine to interrogate him. So you stepped into the cafe. "Hi."
The barista smiled. "Morning. What can I get you?"
"Two lattes."
"Sure." He glanced at you again with the particular friendliness of someone who had decided to be more helpful than strictly necessary. "I don't think I've seen you here before."
"I've been busy."
"Hopefully we'll see you more often."
Before you could answer, Jack appeared beside you. Without a word he rested his hand lightly against the small of your back. Not enough to pull you closer. Just enough to be obvious about something.
The barista noticed immediately.
Jack looked at you with complete seriousness. "Honey."
You froze.
"Our son is waiting outside."
Your brain short-circuited entirely. You turned slowly toward the barista. He looked equally confused, glancing between the two of you and the door beyond which a very large German Shepherd was visible through the glass.
The silence lasted exactly three seconds.
Then the barista slid the drinks across the counter with the energy of someone who had decided not to ask. "Here's your two lattes."
"Thank you." You grabbed both cups and escaped the café before anything else could happen.
Outside, Riot greeted you both with an enthusiastic bark. You looked at Jack.
"You could've just said dog."
Jack stopped walking. A pause. "Oh."
He looked genuinely like he had just realized something. "You're right. I didn't think of that."
You clicked your tongue. Sometimes he was unbelievably childish for a man his age.
Jack took a long sip of his coffee. "I'll never go there again."
"You were the problem."
"I know."
"You were grumpy."
"I'm always grumpy."
"You were worse than usual."
Jack shrugged with complete serenity. "My therapist told me I find comfort in darkness." He sipped his coffee again. "Her words."
You laughed despite yourself. "You actually listened to your therapist."
"I occasionally surprise people."
Your phone vibrated before you could respond. Clark. You answered. "Morning."
"I called the hospital." His voice was alert in that particular way that meant he already knew something. "They told me both you and Abbot have the day off."
"That's right."
"Perfect." He didn't give you time to ask why. "Come to my place. Now."
The call ended.
Jack glanced over. "Who was that?"
"Clark." You slipped the phone back into your pocket. "He wants us at his place."
Jack looked at Riot, then back at the street ahead with a smile already settling onto his face. "Oh." He reached down and scratched behind Riot's ears. "This is gonna be fun."
“Woof!” Riot barked like he completely agreed.
*******
Clark's house sat on the edge of town. Or rather, estate. You slowed the car as the wrought iron gate opened automatically, your eyes following the long driveway up toward the house.
"I knew Clark was rich," you said slowly. "But this?"
Jack looked out the window without much surprise. "He buys land every time he has extra money." He nodded toward an empty field visible beyond the tree line. "Says it's the safest investment."
"He's terrifying."
"I've been saying that for years."
By the time you parked, the front door had already opened. Clark stepped outside with his coffee mug in hand, unhurried, the way a man moved when he owned the ground he was standing on.
"There you are."
Riot was out of the car before anyone else, sprinting across the driveway with the full commitment of an animal reuniting with someone important.
"Woof!"
Clark crouched with a grin that took ten years off his face. "And you too, little guy." He scratched behind Riot's ears while the dog tried to climb into his lap. "Good to see you, soldier."
Jack climbed out and stretched. "What are we doing here, old man?"
Clark looked him up and down. "Grumpy in the morning?"
"I mentioned that to him," you offered.
Clark glanced at you. "So you did." Then his eyes moved between the two of you with the slow assessment of someone taking inventory. "How did the three of you end up together?"
Jack answered before you could. "They slept at my place."
Silence.
You turned toward Jack slowly. His expression was completely neutral, which meant he had not yet processed what he had just said out loud to a man who noticed everything.
Clark stared at both of you for exactly two seconds.
Then he burst out laughing. A loud, genuine laugh, the kind that came from somewhere deep and didn't apologize for itself. He slapped Jack's shoulder hard enough to mean it. "Finally!"
You covered your face with both hands. "Oh my God."
Jack frowned. "What?"
Clark was still laughing, wiping the corner of his eye with his thumb. "Nothing, nothing."
"I meant." Jack pointed at you. "And the dog." He gestured at Riot, who was sitting at Clark's feet looking extremely pleased with the current energy. "All three of us. In the apartment."
Clark nodded slowly, composing himself with great effort. "Oh, I know what you meant. Eventually."
He turned back toward the house, shoulders still shaking, coffee mug raised like a toast to no one in particular.
Jack stood in the driveway looking at the back of his head. Then at you.
You looked at him over your hands.
Neither of you said anything.
Riot wagged his tail.
Clark's smile slowly faded. "It's about my grandson."
You frowned. "What about him?"
"An idiot." He took a sip of his coffee. "He's making videos. The dangerous kind. Climbing buildings, hanging off bridges, jumping between rooftops. Anything people apparently call content these days."
"I've seen a few of them," you admitted. "He has more followers than doctor J."
Jack turned toward you. "You knew about this but you didn't know about my recent updates?"
"What updates?"
He looked at you with mild offense. You pulled out your phone, frowning. Truthfully, ever since Jack's Instagram story had sent half the hospital into full detective mode, you had muted most of your notifications. The daily Pitt group chat was already enough to manage. You preferred not looking at your phone unless absolutely necessary.
You opened Instagram.
Your eyes widened. "Jack."
He looked completely innocent. "Hm?"
"You tagged me."
"So?"
"You posted my picture."
"So?"
"And." You scrolled. "There are four hundred comments."
Jack shrugged. "I didn't count."
"Jack!"
Clark took a long sip of his coffee. "Ah." He nodded to himself with the satisfaction of someone watching something he had predicted arrive exactly on schedule. "There it is. Another married couple argument."
Jack answered immediately. "We're not married."
"You keep saying that," Clark said pleasantly.
Before either of you could continue, a voice came from the front porch.
"Grandpa?"
All three of you turned.
A teenage boy walked out of the house. Tall, curly dark hair, a hoodie despite the warmth of the morning, a camera hanging around his neck like it belonged there. He moved with the easy confidence of someone who had never once entered a room quietly in his life.
Clark sighed. "My idiot grandson. Michael."
Michael walked over with a grin already in place and offered his hand first. "So you guys are the famous army people."
You shook it. "Nice to meet you."
Jack did the same. "You must've done something impressive if Clark dragged both of us out here."
Michael laughed and casually wrapped an arm around Clark's shoulders. "Aww, Grandpa." He bumped him once. "I prefer creative problem solver."
Clark looked at the sky briefly. "I prefer future heart attack."
Michael grinned. "Relax." Another easy bump of his shoulder. "I'm too pretty to die."
Silence.
Jack's smile disappeared. Your expression went still. Clark looked slowly between the two of you, reading the quiet that had settled over both of you in the span of one sentence.
Because that was exactly something Gabriel Diaz would have said. The phrasing, the delivery, the complete and unearned confidence of it. Every single time, without fail, said with that same grin like the universe had personally guaranteed him an exemption.
Michael noticed the shift immediately, his smile fading slightly. "Did I say something wrong?"
Clark placed a hand on his grandson's shoulder. "No," he said quietly. "You just reminded us of someone."
Michael looked between you and Jack, reading the room the way young people did when they understood more than adults expected them to. He didn't push. He just nodded once and let it sit.
Riot chose that moment to shove his nose into Michael's hand, which broke the spell faster than anything else could have.
Michael looked down. "Oh, he's huge."
"His name is Riot," you said.
Michael crouched immediately, and Riot, who had excellent judgment about people, wagged his tail and leaned into him without hesitation.
Clark cleared his throat. "He's planning to jump his dirt bike across the old service bridge over Miller Creek." He pointed toward a wooded area beyond the property line. "The county closed it years ago."
You frowned. "Because it's unstable?"
"Exactly."
Michael waved a hand. "I'm not riding on the bridge." He smiled with the confidence of someone who had never once considered consequences a personal concern. "I'm jumping over the broken section."
You stared at him. "That somehow sounds worse."
"There'll be professionals there."
Clark snorted. "Professional idiots."
"They know what they're doing."
Jack folded his arms. "If you're looking for the fastest route to the trauma bay," he said calmly, "that's a solid plan."
Michael laughed. "You guys make it sound like I'm guaranteed to crash."
"No," Jack said. "We're saying you'll crash eventually. The question is whether you want to do it on your terms or the bridge's terms."
"Optimistic."
"Experienced."
Michael lifted both hands in surrender and looked around at the three of you with theatrical defeat. "I've officially been outnumbered." Then his eyes landed on Riot sitting patiently at the edge of the driveway, and his entire face changed.
"Whoa." He pulled the camera from around his neck immediately. "Now that's content." He crouched beside Riot, who tilted his head with the regal patience of an animal accustomed to being admired. Michael started recording, angling the lens carefully.
"Morning, everyone." He turned the camera toward Riot. "I just met the CEO of emotional support."
Clark clicked his tongue. "You see? Nothing gets through that thick skull." He watched his grandson talk earnestly to a German Shepherd on camera. "I don't know where he gets it from."
Jack watched quietly for a moment, then said, "He got it from you."
Clark looked genuinely offended. "I have never done anything that stupid in my life."
You and Jack turned toward him at exactly the same time. "Really?"
Clark opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked between the two of you, then at Michael still filming Riot with complete artistic commitment, then back at you.
"I walked into that one," he said.
"Completely," Jack agreed.
Clark took a long sip of his coffee and said nothing further, which was its own kind of answer.
******
Michael led them around the side of the house to where his setup was laid out with the organized precision of someone who had thought about this for longer than anyone around him was comfortable with.
"Two cameras," he said, pointing. "GoPro mounted on the helmet, second angle from the side. Drone for the overhead shot." He moved along the lineup. "Spotter positioned at the far end of the bridge. Medical kit, fully stocked. Fire extinguisher. Helmet, obviously." He paused for effect. "And I hired two licensed motocross riders to consult on the jump trajectory."
You and Jack looked at each other.
Then back at the setup.
Then at each other again.
"Still a terrible idea," you both said at exactly the same time.
Michael blinked. "Seriously? Even with all of that?"
Jack shrugged. "Preparation doesn't make a bad decision good."
You nodded. "It just makes it organized."
Michael stared at the two of you. "Do you practice being like this or does it just happen naturally?"
"Experience," Jack said.
"Years of it," you confirmed.
Michael exhaled dramatically and turned back to his equipment. "I just need one video. One that actually blows up. If it does, I could get sponsored. Monster, Red Bull, Fox, anyone. That's all I need."
Jack deadpanned, "Or UPMC Trauma."
You added, "They'll definitely know your name."
Michael groaned. "You two are impossible." He turned toward Clark, who was standing back with his coffee mug and the expression of a man enjoying this far more than he was letting on. "Grandpa. Are you absolutely sure these two aren't married?"
Clark didn't even look at him. "This isn't about them. It's about you."
Michael sighed like this was deeply unfair.
He walked them back to the driveway when it was time to leave, hands in his hoodie pockets, Riot trotting beside him like they had been friends for years.
Jack stopped at the car door. "One piece of advice."
Michael looked up. "Hm?"
"You're still young. You've got plenty of time to do stupid things. So don't rush all of them into this year."
Michael laughed, genuine and easy. "I'll think about it."
You stepped slightly closer. "Promise me you'll walk away if something feels wrong. Even if the cameras are rolling and everyone's watching. Just walk away."
Michael looked at you for a second, something in his expression shifting into something more honest than the performance he'd been giving all morning. "You sound like Grandpa."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
He smiled. "I'll be careful."
You both nodded. You both also knew exactly what teenagers meant when they said that, which was roughly the same thing soldiers meant when they said easy mission. But you let it stand, because some things needed to be said out loud even when everyone in the conversation understood their limitations.
Michael scratched Riot behind the ears one last time and headed back toward the house. Clark lifted his mug from the porch in a small farewell salute.
************
The drive back was quiet. Just the radio, low enough to be background noise, and trees passing steadily outside the windows.
Then, softly, you said, "He reminds me of Diaz."
Jack didn't answer immediately. He kept his eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console.
"Yeah," he said finally. "I saw it too."
A pause settled between you, unhurried and familiar.
"The jokes," Jack said. "The confidence. The way he talks like he's figured something out that everyone else missed."
"The way he thinks he's invincible," you added quietly.
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Scared the hell out of me," Jack said.
You nodded slowly. Outside the window the trees kept passing, steady and indifferent, and neither of you spoke again for a long time. The radio filled the space and that was enough.
************
A few hours after leaving Clark's house, you finally made it back to your apartment. The place was quiet. It was too quiet. Riot was fast asleep near the couch, completely exhausted from all the excitement of the evening, his chest rising and falling rhythmically.
For some reason, your eyes drifted toward the desk in the corner of the room, specifically toward the bottom drawer.
The drawer. The one you almost never opened. The one that held things you simply weren't ready for.
You stared at it, then looked away, trying to shake the sudden impulse. Then your gaze locked back onto it. Years. It had been years, yet somehow, you already knew exactly what was inside.
Slowly, you crossed the room and pulled the drawer open. The old wooden box was exactly where you had left it, with dust resting lightly across the surface of the lid. Your fingers hesitated in the air, trembling slightly, before you finally lifted it out. Inside sat old photographs, a few faded military patches, a silver collar pin, and a single envelope. Your name was written across the front in Gabriel's unmistakable handwriting.
The mere sight of it still hurt. You swallowed hard, pulling out a chair and sitting down as the apartment suddenly felt very small and very quiet. You carefully broke the seal, unfolded the crisp paper, and began to read.
If you're reading this... well. Congratulations. I'm dead.
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh, a breathless sound breaking the quiet. Of course. Of course that was exactly how he started it.
Which, if we're being honest, is a terrible deal for me. So I'd appreciate it if you're appropriately devastated for at least a month. Longer if you actually liked me.
You rolled your eyes despite yourself, your vision already blurring as tears welled in the corners of your eyes.
First things first. Abbott still owes me twenty bucks. Death does NOT erase debt. Tell him I'll haunt him every payday until he coughs it up.
A real laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. You could practically hear Gabriel's voice saying the words aloud in the room.
Actually... you know what my biggest regret is? Not taking enough pictures. I always said "later." Then one day... there wasn't one. So if life teaches you anything... take the stupid picture. Even if your hair looks terrible. Even if Abbott is making one of those grumpy faces. Especially then.
Your chest tightened painfully because suddenly you thought about the photograph sitting on Jack's coffee table, the one he still kept, the one you almost never allowed yourself to think about anymore.
Second biggest regret? Never getting to annoy you and Abbott after you two finally admitted whatever the hell this thing is between you.
You immediately groaned, burying your face in your free hand. "Oh my God."
Yeah. Don't look so surprised. I knew. Clark knew. Half the camp knew. You two had the emotional communication skills of wet cardboard. You argued like an old married couple, then stared at each other when the other wasn't looking. It was painful. Seriously. Just kiss already. Or yell. Honestly, I don't think either of you knows the difference.
You covered your burning face completely, your voice cracking. "Idiot."
Anyway... I know you. Which means if something happened to me... you're probably blaming yourself.
The brief smile vanished from your face.
So let me save you some time. No. You don't get to do that. You hear me? You don't.
The written words hit harder than you ever expected because somehow, he still knew you. Even then, even before everything actually happened.
You gave me more time than I should've had. Out here... most of us don't get miracles. I did. Because of you. You fought for me when everyone else would've accepted the outcome. Even when it wasn't enough... you still fought.
The tears came freely before you even realized it, one hot drop and then another falling directly onto the paper, wrinkling the ink.
So don't spend the rest of your life treating yourself like punishment. You already carried enough. Go live. Run those ridiculous races you keep talking about. Keep making Abbott roll his eyes. And when he inevitably says something stupid... yell at him. You seem weirdly good at that.
A broken laugh escaped you, wiping a wet cheek with your shoulder because he wasn't wrong.
Take care of Riot. Actually... spoil him. He deserves it. Just don't let him get fat. Clark will blame you.
You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, then kept reading.
One more thing. If years from now... Abbott still looks at you the way he does now... for the love of God... just marry the man.
Your breath caught in your throat.
Life's already too short. Don't waste whatever time you've got pretending you don't feel something. You both deserve something good after all this. And if Abbott somehow manages to screw it up... tell him I can still haunt him. Twenty bucks first. Then haunting. Forever your favorite extremely annoying, non-blood-related big brother, Gabriel Diaz.
At the very bottom, written in much smaller handwriting, was one final line.
P.S. If you're crying while reading this, that's embarrassing. Drink some water.
You stared at the tiny script, then laughed. You actually laughed right through your tears, exactly the way Gabriel would have wanted you to. And for the very first time in years, the crushing weight of the guilt felt just a little bit lighter.
You folded the letter carefully, almost reverently, handling the paper as if creasing it the wrong way would mean losing him all over again. The apartment fell completely quiet, with only Riot's soft, rhythmic breathing filling the space. Your thumb brushed across Gabriel's signature one last time, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at your lips.
"...Idiot," you murmured, your voice cracking anyway. For years, you had carried the crushing weight of guilt, believing it was the only way to honor his memory. But looking down at the worn paper, you realized you might have been completely wrong.
Your eyes drifted toward the dark window, watching the city lights flicker outside. Without meaning to, another face materialized in your thoughts.
Jack. Grumpy, sarcastic, and annoyingly persistent Jack. You remembered the exact look he had given you this afternoon when he thought you were leaving his side.
You're not going to stay?
You thought of the quiet, unexpected way he had handed you his spare key, his confession that he still kept the old photograph on his coffee table, and the comforting weight of his head resting against your shoulder without asking for a single thing in return.
You closed your eyes, letting the memory settle. Gabriel had been entirely right, not just about Jack, but about you, too. You had spent years trying to outrun your grief by training, working, and taking every extra shift available.
You ran every exhausting race and took on every impossible medical case, acting as if staying constantly busy meant you never had to stop long enough to actually miss the people you lost.
And somehow, Jack had done the exact same thing. You had taken entirely different roads, but you had both arrived at the same lonely destination. Alone.
You let out a slow, quiet breath into the stillness of the room. "...Maybe..." You whispered it so softly that even you almost didn't hear it. "...Maybe we don't have to anymore."
You carefully tucked the letter back inside its envelope. This time, you didn't hide the box at the very bottom of the dark drawer under layers of old gear. You closed the drawer and left it sitting right on top, out in the open.
********
The next morning, you stepped into the hospital lobby with your usual cup of coffee clutched tightly in your hand. It didn't even take five seconds for the trap to spring.
"There she is."
Dana's voice echoed across the corridor. Of course. You let out a long, heavy sigh and adjusted your grip on your cup before facing her. "...Good morning?"
Princess looked up from behind the nurses' station, her lips curving into a grin that immediately made you deeply suspicious. "So."
"So?" you countered, keeping your expression blank.
"How was your day off?"
"Quiet."
Robby let out a loud snort, not even pretending to look at the chart in his hands. "Sure it was."
You narrowed your eyes at him, stepping closer to the desk. "What exactly does that mean?"
Dana leaned her elbows against the laminate counter, her eyes gleaming with pure delight. "It means..." She looked around the hallway dramatically, dropping her voice to a theatrical whisper. "...we all know you spent it with Abbott."
You blinked once, the realization hitting you with a dull thud. "...News really does travel fast in this place."
Princess laughed, tapping her phone screen. "Jack literally posted you on his Instagram story."
You closed your eyes for a brief moment of pure defeat. "I knew I should've confiscated his phone."
Robby chuckled, pointing the tip of his pen directly at you. "So... how was the sleepover?"
"It was fine," you said flatly.
Dana raised an eyebrow, leaning in closer. "Just fine?"
"Riot snored."
"That's not what I asked."
You took another slow, deliberate sip of your coffee to buy yourself some time. "Then I'm choosing not to answer."
The entire nurses' station groaned in unison.
Another doctor walked past the desk, carrying a stack of patient files under his arm. "You people actually have patients to care for, you know."
Dana didn't even bother to look at him, waving a hand dismissively. "This is important medical sociology."
"It really isn't."
Princess folded her arms over her scrubs, tilting her head. "I just want official confirmation."
"There is absolutely nothing to confirm."
Robby’s smile widened, a mischievous spark in his eyes. "So you’re saying you didn’t sleep in the same bed?"
You stopped, staring dead at him with your most formidable surgeon expression. "...Robby."
"What?"
"I am this close to making a complaint to the HR."
The station erupted into loud laughter, the tension breaking instantly. Even the passing staff couldn't help but smile into their charts.
"You all have way too much free time," you muttered, shaking your head as you turned on your heel and headed toward the elevators.
Behind you, Dana cupped her hands around her mouth and called out into the hallway, "Tell Abbott we miss him!"
You lifted one hand, raising a single finger without turning around to face them. "I won't."
Once you stepped out onto the upper floors, the teasing finally stopped, and the familiar, demanding rhythm of your department took over completely.
The hours slipped by the way they always did in medicine, measuring one patient at a time, one critical decision after another. By mid-afternoon, you had almost forgotten about the morning's gossip.
Then, your pager vibrated violently against your hip at the exact same moment your phone began to ring in your pocket. You pulled it out and answered immediately.
You answered immediately. "Dr. L/N."
"Doc." It was Robby on the other end. His voice sounded entirely different than usual, carrying a steady, measured calmness that stood out against the loud chaos of the emergency room around him. That lack of panic somehow made your stomach drop instantly.
"We've got a major trauma downstairs," he said.
You were already adjusting your phone against your ear, reaching for the back of your chair to grab your white coat. "I'm on my way."
A brief pause hung on the line. "There's something else."
Your hand froze on the fabric of your coat. "What is it?"
"The patient specifically asked for you."
Your eyebrows pulled together, a deep frown forming as you quickly ran through your current patient roster in your head. "...Asked for me?"
"He knew your exact name," Robby confirmed.
Silence stretched over the line for a second. You searched your memory as fast as you could, but there were no scheduled transfers, no complex follow-ups, and absolutely no former patients you were expecting to arrive through the ambulance bay today.
"I don't recognize the name on the intake," Robby continued, his tone shifting into something a bit more guarded. "But whatever this is, he was pretty insistent before he lost consciousness."
The skin on the back of your neck prickled, a sudden tightness gripping your throat. "I'll be down there in two minutes."
You ended the call, snapping your phone shut. Without another word of explanation, you shoved your current patient's chart directly into the hands of the nearest resident standing beside you. "Cover the rest of my rounds. Call me if anyone crashes."
Then you were already moving, your sneakers squeaking against the linoleum as you pushed through the heavy double doors of the ward. You hit the down button on the lift panel repeatedly, your chest tightening further when the numbers slowly clicked down from the top floor. The lift couldn't come fast enough.
You pushed through the heavy double doors leading into the Emergency Department. The closer you got to the central trauma bay, the louder the room became.
"Blood pressure's dropping!" Princess shouted, already hanging another bag of fluids.
"Another large-bore IV!" Whitaker was squeezing past the respiratory therapist with an ultrasound machine.
"Move him on three, watch his neck!" Dana was cutting away the remaining sleeve of the motorcycle jacket while Santos held manual stabilization at his head.
The familiar chaos wrapped around you like an old blanket. Except, the moment you reached the edge of the trauma bay, you stopped dead in your tracks.
"...Michael?" Your voice barely came out.
Robby looked up from the opposite side of the stretcher, his expression immediately softening as he saw you. "I'm glad you're here."
Only then did you look down at the gurney. Michael was completely covered in dirt. Savage road rash stretched across his shoulder and chest where his motorcycle jacket had already been cut away. His helmet lay in two broken pieces on the floor. His left forearm bent at an angle it never should, and blood continued running from a deep laceration across his forehead, soaking the padding beneath his cervical collar.
Despite everything, he was still awake. His eyes found yours, and then, somehow, he smiled. "...Hey, Doc."
Your chest tightened painfully. You were beside him before you even realized you had moved, your hands automatically checking his vitals. "What happened?"
Dana answered while checking the monitor. "Motorcycle jump."
Whitaker glanced up from the ultrasound screen. "He lost control on the landing. Hit the guardrail."
You closed your eyes for half a second. Of course he did.
Michael let out the weakest laugh before immediately wincing in agony. "...Turns out... Grandpa was right."
You wanted to yell at him right then and there. Instead, your medical training took over, and your hands moved automatically through the practiced sequence.
Pupils. Airway. Breathing. Pulse.
His breathing wasn't right. It was far too fast, far too shallow. You looked sharply across the stretcher toward Robby. "What do we know?"
"Not enough," Robby replied, his brow furrowed as he managed the lines. "Trauma scans are being prepared right now. We're still working him up."
Princess glanced toward the monitor, her voice tight. "Pressure's still dropping."
Santos looked over from the head of the bed, maintaining manual stabilization. "He's becoming harder to keep comfortable."
Nobody needed to say it out loud. The room was moving faster now, the clinical urgency shifting into overdrive. Everyone in the bay could feel it.
You gently squeezed Michael's good shoulder, trying to anchor him. "I'll be right outside."
As you turned to step away, his fingers wrapped weakly around your wrist. "...Don't."
You stopped, looking back at him. "...Don't what?"
"...Don't tell Grandpa. Please."
You stared at him, your heart aching. "...Michael."
"I mean it." His breathing caught, a flash of pure panic breaking through his fading adrenaline. "I don't want him worrying."
For just a second, the reckless teenager completely disappeared. All you saw was a scared kid. All you saw was Clark's grandson.
You swallowed hard against the lump in your throat. "...I'll be right back."
He slowly let go of your wrist, his hand falling back to the mattress.
The moment you stepped outside the frantic noise of the trauma bay, you reached into your scrubs for your phone. The first person you called was Jack.
He answered almost immediately, his voice gravelly with sleep. "Morning."
"...Jack."
That was all it took. The raw tone of your voice changed his demeanor instantly. "...What happened?"
"...It's Michael."
A heavy silence dropped over the line. Then, Jack spoke. "...Where?"
There were no questions, no hesitation, and no demands for details. Just a sharp, directive query. On his end of the line, you could already hear drawers opening and the frantic jingle of keys. Then came the sharp, familiar click of his prosthetic leg moving at a dead sprint against his hardwood floor.
"The Pitt," you replied.
"I'm coming." The line went dead.
You immediately dialed Clark's number. The phone rang twice before the old man's deep voice answered. "...Kid?"
You closed your eyes, leaning your head against the cool hospital wall. "...Michael's at the Pitt."
A silence followed, long and heavy enough to hurt. Then Clark quietly asked the only question that mattered. "...How bad?"
A/N: Hello, everyone! Sorry for not updating Jack Abbot - Keep Up last week. I had another business trip, and this week I have another one too. It was so sudden. I only found out after lunch.
To make up for it, I made Chapter 7 longer. I hope you guys enjoy it!
Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a Comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️
The moment you arrived at the hospital a nurse was already waiting outside the operating room.
"Doctor."
You walked straight toward her. "What's the situation?"
"Thirty-eight-year-old male. Motor vehicle collision. Internal bleeding. Dr. Garcia is already inside."
"Vitals?"
"Stable after transfusion."
"Let's go."
You scrubbed in quickly while the circulating nurse helped you into your sterile gown and gloves, and a moment later you stepped into the OR. Garcia glanced up briefly from the surgical field.
"Took you a while."
"His place is kind of far."
That was all you said before your attention shifted entirely to the patient.
"Clamp. Suction. Retractor."
The room settled into its familiar rhythm. Garcia had already controlled most of the bleeding. Together you located the remaining vessel, repaired it, inspected the abdomen one final time, and began closing. The surgery went smoothly, the kind that felt almost routine after the ones that didn't.
As the nurses transferred the patient to recovery you peeled off your gloves and moved to the scrub sink beside Garcia. She noticed you checking the clock almost immediately.
"In a hurry?"
"I'm going down to the ER for a while."
"Really."
You looked at her. "Really."
Garcia smirked. "Uh-huh."
"I'm talking to Robby."
"Of course you are."
You narrowed your eyes. "What?"
"Nothing." She dried her hands with the serenity of someone who had already won the conversation. "Tell Abbot he's being dramatic."
You grabbed your badge. "I'll tell him you miss him."
Garcia looked genuinely offended. "I absolutely do not."
You chuckled and pushed through the OR doors. "See you later."
Then you headed downstairs toward the ER.
You stepped into the Pitt and the usual chaos met you immediately. Monitors beeping from every direction, paramedics rushing another patient through the ambulance bay, nurses weaving between stretchers with the practiced ease of people who had done it a thousand times and would do it a thousand more. A battlefield. Just another normal day.
At the attending station Dana looked up first. "Well, look who decided to visit."
"I was passing by."
"Mhm." She smiled with the particular warmth of someone who knew exactly what passing by meant in this context. "Passing by."
Before you could respond Robby looked up from his computer. "Helloooo." Then went straight back to typing.
You leaned over the counter. "Can I ask you a favor?"
Robby's fingers stopped on the keyboard. He looked up slowly. "Whyyy?"
"Could you give Abbot one more day off?"
He studied you for a second, something turning over behind his eyes. "Because?"
"Because tomorrow is my day off."
A smile escaped before you could stop it, small and entirely self-betraying. Robby had to press his lips together to keep his own from spreading too wide. If playing cupid meant Jack Abbot finally stopped moping around the ER like a man with unfinished business, he would do it without a single reservation.
"Of course," he said immediately. "Absolutely. Shen and Cruz can manage."
"Give them a chance to lead," you agreed, tapping the counter lightly.
"You got it."
You gave them both a small nod and headed back toward the elevator. The moment you disappeared around the corner Dana stepped closer to Robby, a smile already taking over her face.
"Sooo?"
Robby watched the elevator doors close before he answered. Then he shrugged, easy and unbothered. "I just want my friend to be happy."
Dana laughed softly and folded her arms. "You call it helping. I call it finally getting those two to stop dancing around each other."
Robby smiled to himself and went back to his keyboard. "About time," he said quietly.
*****
Jack had been reading for nearly an hour. The phantom pain had finally settled into a dull ache instead of the sharp relentless pulse that had haunted him all morning. Maybe it was the medication. Maybe it was finally getting some sleep.
His eyes drifted toward the front door.
Maybe it was because you'd stopped by.
The apartment was quiet. Until a key turned in the lock.
Jack looked up from his book. He set it aside, slipped on his prosthetic, and walked toward the door.
It opened, and the familiar scent of antiseptic reached him before you did.
"You're—"
Something barreled into his legs before he could finish.
"Woof!"
Jack looked down and laughed, low and genuine. "Hey, buddy." Riot's tail wagged so hard his entire body shook with it, his paws scrabbling against the floor in his enthusiasm to be as close to Jack as physically possible.
You stepped inside and closed the door behind you. "He's sleeping over. Make sure you're not lonely." You reached down and scratched behind Riot's ears.
Jack smiled. "I think he's more worried about you than me."
"He has separation anxiety," you said, already turning back toward the hallway.
"You're not going to stay?"
You stopped. Turned around. "You want me to stay?"
Jack cleared his throat. "Well." He glanced down at Riot with the expression of a man constructing a reasonable argument in real time. "Riot kind of whines at night."
"You just said he has separation anxiety."
Both Jack and Riot looked up at you at exactly the same time, wearing identical expressions of patient expectation.
You sighed dramatically. Then leaned slightly to your left and pulled a duffel bag off your shoulder.
Jack blinked. "Wait. You prepared?"
You smirked. "I never said I was leaving."
Then you walked past him into the apartment like that explained everything. Jack stood there for a second, then closed the door behind you, chuckling quietly to himself.
"What do you want for dinner?"
You looked back over your shoulder. "Anything that isn't hospital food."
"I think I can manage that."
By the time evening settled outside, takeout containers covered the coffee table and Riot had already finished his dinner and relocated to the rug, sprawled out with one of his toys and the boneless contentment of an animal whose world was exactly as it should be. The television played quietly in the background.
Jack looked up from his food. "Robby gave me another day off."
"I know." You took another bite. "I asked him to."
He frowned. "Why?"
"Because tomorrow is also my day off."
Silence. Jack stared at his dinner for a moment, then muttered mostly to himself, "Should I put in for sick leave more often?"
You looked at him over the rim of your drink. "I can still call Robby and tell him you're feeling much better."
Jack immediately shook his head. "Never mind."
The corner of your mouth lifted. "Thought so."
He smiled to himself and went back to his food. The takeout was decent, Riot was snoring softly on the rug, and the television was saying something neither of you were particularly listening to. Outside, the city moved through its evening the way it always did.
Inside, for the first time in a long while, the apartment didn't feel empty.
******
After dinner the apartment gradually grew quiet. Riot yawned first, which started a chain reaction. You stretched your arms above your head and looked toward the living room.
"I'll sleep on the couch."
"Nope."
You blinked. "Why not?"
Jack scratched the back of his neck, suddenly finding the floor far more interesting than your face. "Because." He cleared his throat. "My bed is big enough." A pause. He looked up for half a second. "For the three of us."
Silence.
He immediately regretted how that had sounded. "I mean." He pointed at Riot, who had already wandered into the bedroom and was circling the foot of the bed with the focused intention of an animal who had already made his decision. "Riot slept beside me last time he was here."
"Oh." That was all you managed.
Jack rubbed the back of his neck again. "Just like the old days, right?" He gave you a small, almost shy smile, the kind that didn't show up often enough to be taken for granted.
"Yeah," you said softly. "Just like the old days."
You hoped he couldn't hear how hard your heart was suddenly beating.
FLASHBACK
The desert finally cooled after sunset. For the first time all day the air was almost pleasant, the kind of temperature that made you forget for twenty minutes how brutal the hours before it had been.
You were halfway across camp chasing a small blur of black fur. "Riot!"
The puppy ignored you completely and ran straight toward the familiar figure lying just beyond the barracks.
Jack.
He always ended his day there, flat on his back with his hands behind his head, looking up at the stars before turning in. It had become its own kind of ritual.
Tiny Riot launched himself directly onto Jack's chest.
"Oof." Jack laughed, low and easy. "Hey, buddy." The puppy licked his chin with great enthusiasm while Jack scratched behind his ears, and then he finally noticed you slowing to a stop beside them.
"Lose something?"
"I think he lost me," you said.
Jack chuckled. "Sounds about right."
You folded your arms. "I've been chasing him for ten minutes."
Riot barked, with the energy of an animal who considered this a personal achievement. Jack looked up at you. "You can sit."
You hesitated. "I don't want to interrupt."
"You'd be interrupting me staring at stars."
"Sounds important."
"It is."
That made you laugh. You lowered yourself onto the ground beside him and the warm sand shifted beneath you as you looked up. The night sky stretched endlessly above you both, more stars than you ever saw back home, the kind of sky that made problems feel a different size than they had in the tent.
"So." You broke the silence first. "What do you think about every night?"
Jack didn't answer immediately. "Nothing."
You turned your head. "You're lying."
"Mostly tomorrow," he admitted.
"Fair." You looked back up at the sky. Neither of you spoke for a while, and the silence wasn't awkward. It never really was with him, which was its own kind of thing you hadn't figured out what to do with yet.
"Well, well."
Diaz's voice cut through the quiet. Both of you turned. He was standing a few feet away with his hands on his hips, looking between you, Jack, and the tiny puppy now stretched contentedly across Jack's chest like he owned it. Then the grin spread across his face.
"Family night."
You rolled your eyes immediately. "We're not a family."
Diaz ignored this completely. He walked over and dropped onto the sand beside Jack with the ease of someone who had decided he was invited. He pointed at Jack. "You. The grumpy dad."
Jack sighed. "I'm already regretting you being here."
Diaz pointed at you. "You. Mom."
"What?"
"And Riot." He reached over and scratched the puppy's head. "The child."
Riot barked happily.
"There. He agrees."
"He absolutely does not," you muttered.
Diaz looked between the two of you with the satisfied expression of a man presenting a well-researched conclusion. "You know what's funny?"
Neither of you answered.
"You two always end up in the same place after every mission." He nodded toward the space between you. "Every single time."
Jack folded his hands back behind his head. "Coincidence."
"Mhm." Diaz nodded with great drama. "And the dog just happened to adopt both of you."
"Coincidence," Jack said again.
Diaz laughed. "Keep telling yourselves that."
You grabbed a handful of sand and threw it at him. It barely reached his boots. He looked down at it.
"That's all you've got?"
"I was aiming for your mouth."
Jack snorted.
Diaz clutched his chest. "See?" He pointed at you. "Violence." Then at Jack. "Silence." Then he patted Riot one more time and looked at all three of you with the settled satisfaction of someone whose point had just been made for him.
"Family night," he said quietly, mostly to himself.
Nobody argued with him that time.
******
PRESENT TIME
Jack woke before sunrise.
For a brief moment he stayed still, letting the dream settle. Not the explosion. Not the blood. Before that. The quiet nights, you and Diaz and tiny Riot, small enough to fit comfortably in one arm, happily chewing on Jack's sleeve while the three of you lay beneath a sky full of more stars than any of you had time to count.
Funny. Back then all three of you had slept on hard ground without a single complaint.
Now Riot had claimed half the mattress and you were asleep beside him under a warm blanket, your breathing slow and even, your face completely relaxed in a way it rarely was during waking hours.
Life was strange.
Jack smiled to himself and quietly climbed out of bed.
A shower sounded like a good idea.
The sound of running water eventually stirred Riot awake. One oversized ear twitched. Then the other. He yawned dramatically, stretched his entire body from nose to tail, and then climbed across the mattress toward you with the purposeful energy of an animal who had decided you had slept long enough.
His cold nose nudged your cheek.
"Five more minutes," you mumbled.
"Woof."
"No."
Another nudge, more insistent this time.
"Traitor," you muttered into the pillow.
The bathroom door opened. Steam drifted out into the bedroom. Jack stepped through it with a towel slung around his neck and another wrapped low around his waist, rubbing damp hair with one hand, still half in his own head.
Still half asleep, your eyes wandered in his direction.
Your brain took an extra second to catch up with what your eyes were doing.
Jack caught you staring. A slow grin appeared, unhurried and deeply satisfied. "Enjoying the view?"
"What?" You blinked. Then registered exactly where your eyes had settled and looked away immediately. "Oh, please. I saw you like this all the time in the army."
Jack raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" He tilted his head slightly. "So you've been noticing my body this whole time."
You grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at him. "How long are you planning to stand there half naked?"
He caught the pillow without effort. "I've been living alone for years." A shrug, entirely unrepentant. "I forgot people usually expect a warning."
Still quietly laughing to himself, he tossed the pillow back onto the bed, pulled a clean shirt from the wardrobe, and disappeared back into the bathroom to finish getting dressed.
The moment the door clicked shut you buried your face in both hands.
"Oh my God."
Your ears felt warm. Riot put his head in your lap, looked up at you with his big brown eyes, and wagged his tail once.
"Not a word," you told him.
He wagged again.
Inside the bathroom, Jack pulled his shirt over his head and looked at himself in the mirror for a moment. The smile refused to leave his face no matter how much he tried to dial it back into something more reasonable.
For once, getting teased hadn't been nearly as fun as doing the teasing.
*****
An hour later the three of you were walking through downtown Pittsburgh. Morning sunlight reflected off the glass buildings while Riot trotted ahead, occasionally glancing back to confirm both of you were still following, which you were.
Jack walked a few steps behind, quietly. He pulled out his phone and raised it.
Click.
You hadn't noticed. You were too busy watching Riot investigate every tree along the path with the focused dedication of a professional. Jack looked at the photo. You, Riot, morning sun, the coffee shop a few steps ahead. Good enough. He opened Instagram.
Jack slowed his pace a fraction, letting a little distance grow between you. He pulled out his phone, lifting the screen to frame the shot. The morning sunlight was hitting perfectly, catching you walking right beside Riot with your coffee clutched in your hand, the local café just ahead. It was perfect. He snapped the picture, opened Instagram, and after thinking for a quick second, he typed out a caption:
Morning walk with the family.
He hit post and slipped his phone back into his coat pocket. It buzzed almost immediately against his hip.
"Well, that was fast," he muttered to himself, pulling the device back out.
The notification was from a group chat titled The Pitt Crew, and the messages were already flying across the screen.
Princess: OH MY GOD.
Santos: JACK POSTED HER.
Whitaker: HE NEVER POSTS PEOPLE.
Princess: EXCEPT HIS DOG.
Shen: Correction.
Shen: Their dog.
Dana: Cute picture.
Robby: Morning, Jack.
Garcia: I see someone is enjoying his sick leave.
Princess: THEY WENT FOR COFFEE TOGETHER.
Santos: THIS ISN'T A DATE???
Shen: If that's not a date, then I'm a pediatrician.
Princess: YOU GUYS HAD A WHOLE SLEEPOVER DIDN'T YOU???
Jack didn't even hesitate. He tapped the text box and sent a single word.
Jack: Yes.
The chat group exploded instantly.
Princess: ????????????????
Whitaker: HE SAID YES SO CASUALLY.
Santos: I'M LOSING MY MIND.
Garcia: Called it.
Dana: I'm happy for you two.
Robby: Don't make me approve sick leave too often, Abbott.
Jack smiled to himself, a genuine chuckle escaping his throat, before he quietly locked the screen. Mission accomplished.
"What?" you asked, glancing over your shoulder at him. "You've been smiling at your phone for the last minute."
Jack quickly slipped the device back into his pocket, falling back into step right beside you. "...Nothing."
He kept his face completely blank, but he knew that somewhere inside the emergency department, Princess had probably stopped working entirely just to process the fact that Jack Abbott had voluntarily admitted to a sleepover.
You knew he did something but you needed caffeine to interrogate him. So you stepped into the cafe. "Hi."
The barista smiled. "Morning. What can I get you?"
"Two lattes."
"Sure." He glanced at you again with the particular friendliness of someone who had decided to be more helpful than strictly necessary. "I don't think I've seen you here before."
"I've been busy."
"Hopefully we'll see you more often."
Before you could answer, Jack appeared beside you. Without a word he rested his hand lightly against the small of your back. Not enough to pull you closer. Just enough to be obvious about something.
The barista noticed immediately.
Jack looked at you with complete seriousness. "Honey."
You froze.
"Our son is waiting outside."
Your brain short-circuited entirely. You turned slowly toward the barista. He looked equally confused, glancing between the two of you and the door beyond which a very large German Shepherd was visible through the glass.
The silence lasted exactly three seconds.
Then the barista slid the drinks across the counter with the energy of someone who had decided not to ask. "Here's your two lattes."
"Thank you." You grabbed both cups and escaped the café before anything else could happen.
Outside, Riot greeted you both with an enthusiastic bark. You looked at Jack.
"You could've just said dog."
Jack stopped walking. A pause. "Oh."
He looked genuinely like he had just realized something. "You're right. I didn't think of that."
You clicked your tongue. Sometimes he was unbelievably childish for a man his age.
Jack took a long sip of his coffee. "I'll never go there again."
"You were the problem."
"I know."
"You were grumpy."
"I'm always grumpy."
"You were worse than usual."
Jack shrugged with complete serenity. "My therapist told me I find comfort in darkness." He sipped his coffee again. "Her words."
You laughed despite yourself. "You actually listened to your therapist."
"I occasionally surprise people."
Your phone vibrated before you could respond. Clark. You answered. "Morning."
"I called the hospital." His voice was alert in that particular way that meant he already knew something. "They told me both you and Abbot have the day off."
"That's right."
"Perfect." He didn't give you time to ask why. "Come to my place. Now."
The call ended.
Jack glanced over. "Who was that?"
"Clark." You slipped the phone back into your pocket. "He wants us at his place."
Jack looked at Riot, then back at the street ahead with a smile already settling onto his face. "Oh." He reached down and scratched behind Riot's ears. "This is gonna be fun."
“Woof!” Riot barked like he completely agreed.
*******
Clark's house sat on the edge of town. Or rather, estate. You slowed the car as the wrought iron gate opened automatically, your eyes following the long driveway up toward the house.
"I knew Clark was rich," you said slowly. "But this?"
Jack looked out the window without much surprise. "He buys land every time he has extra money." He nodded toward an empty field visible beyond the tree line. "Says it's the safest investment."
"He's terrifying."
"I've been saying that for years."
By the time you parked, the front door had already opened. Clark stepped outside with his coffee mug in hand, unhurried, the way a man moved when he owned the ground he was standing on.
"There you are."
Riot was out of the car before anyone else, sprinting across the driveway with the full commitment of an animal reuniting with someone important.
"Woof!"
Clark crouched with a grin that took ten years off his face. "And you too, little guy." He scratched behind Riot's ears while the dog tried to climb into his lap. "Good to see you, soldier."
Jack climbed out and stretched. "What are we doing here, old man?"
Clark looked him up and down. "Grumpy in the morning?"
"I mentioned that to him," you offered.
Clark glanced at you. "So you did." Then his eyes moved between the two of you with the slow assessment of someone taking inventory. "How did the three of you end up together?"
Jack answered before you could. "They slept at my place."
Silence.
You turned toward Jack slowly. His expression was completely neutral, which meant he had not yet processed what he had just said out loud to a man who noticed everything.
Clark stared at both of you for exactly two seconds.
Then he burst out laughing. A loud, genuine laugh, the kind that came from somewhere deep and didn't apologize for itself. He slapped Jack's shoulder hard enough to mean it. "Finally!"
You covered your face with both hands. "Oh my God."
Jack frowned. "What?"
Clark was still laughing, wiping the corner of his eye with his thumb. "Nothing, nothing."
"I meant." Jack pointed at you. "And the dog." He gestured at Riot, who was sitting at Clark's feet looking extremely pleased with the current energy. "All three of us. In the apartment."
Clark nodded slowly, composing himself with great effort. "Oh, I know what you meant. Eventually."
He turned back toward the house, shoulders still shaking, coffee mug raised like a toast to no one in particular.
Jack stood in the driveway looking at the back of his head. Then at you.
You looked at him over your hands.
Neither of you said anything.
Riot wagged his tail.
Clark's smile slowly faded. "It's about my grandson."
You frowned. "What about him?"
"An idiot." He took a sip of his coffee. "He's making videos. The dangerous kind. Climbing buildings, hanging off bridges, jumping between rooftops. Anything people apparently call content these days."
"I've seen a few of them," you admitted. "He has more followers than doctor J."
Jack turned toward you. "You knew about this but you didn't know about my recent updates?"
"What updates?"
He looked at you with mild offense. You pulled out your phone, frowning. Truthfully, ever since Jack's Instagram story had sent half the hospital into full detective mode, you had muted most of your notifications. The daily Pitt group chat was already enough to manage. You preferred not looking at your phone unless absolutely necessary.
You opened Instagram.
Your eyes widened. "Jack."
He looked completely innocent. "Hm?"
"You tagged me."
"So?"
"You posted my picture."
"So?"
"And." You scrolled. "There are four hundred comments."
Jack shrugged. "I didn't count."
"Jack!"
Clark took a long sip of his coffee. "Ah." He nodded to himself with the satisfaction of someone watching something he had predicted arrive exactly on schedule. "There it is. Another married couple argument."
Jack answered immediately. "We're not married."
"You keep saying that," Clark said pleasantly.
Before either of you could continue, a voice came from the front porch.
"Grandpa?"
All three of you turned.
A teenage boy walked out of the house. Tall, curly dark hair, a hoodie despite the warmth of the morning, a camera hanging around his neck like it belonged there. He moved with the easy confidence of someone who had never once entered a room quietly in his life.
Clark sighed. "My idiot grandson. Michael."
Michael walked over with a grin already in place and offered his hand first. "So you guys are the famous army people."
You shook it. "Nice to meet you."
Jack did the same. "You must've done something impressive if Clark dragged both of us out here."
Michael laughed and casually wrapped an arm around Clark's shoulders. "Aww, Grandpa." He bumped him once. "I prefer creative problem solver."
Clark looked at the sky briefly. "I prefer future heart attack."
Michael grinned. "Relax." Another easy bump of his shoulder. "I'm too pretty to die."
Silence.
Jack's smile disappeared. Your expression went still. Clark looked slowly between the two of you, reading the quiet that had settled over both of you in the span of one sentence.
Because that was exactly something Gabriel Diaz would have said. The phrasing, the delivery, the complete and unearned confidence of it. Every single time, without fail, said with that same grin like the universe had personally guaranteed him an exemption.
Michael noticed the shift immediately, his smile fading slightly. "Did I say something wrong?"
Clark placed a hand on his grandson's shoulder. "No," he said quietly. "You just reminded us of someone."
Michael looked between you and Jack, reading the room the way young people did when they understood more than adults expected them to. He didn't push. He just nodded once and let it sit.
Riot chose that moment to shove his nose into Michael's hand, which broke the spell faster than anything else could have.
Michael looked down. "Oh, he's huge."
"His name is Riot," you said.
Michael crouched immediately, and Riot, who had excellent judgment about people, wagged his tail and leaned into him without hesitation.
Clark cleared his throat. "He's planning to jump his dirt bike across the old service bridge over Miller Creek." He pointed toward a wooded area beyond the property line. "The county closed it years ago."
You frowned. "Because it's unstable?"
"Exactly."
Michael waved a hand. "I'm not riding on the bridge." He smiled with the confidence of someone who had never once considered consequences a personal concern. "I'm jumping over the broken section."
You stared at him. "That somehow sounds worse."
"There'll be professionals there."
Clark snorted. "Professional idiots."
"They know what they're doing."
Jack folded his arms. "If you're looking for the fastest route to the trauma bay," he said calmly, "that's a solid plan."
Michael laughed. "You guys make it sound like I'm guaranteed to crash."
"No," Jack said. "We're saying you'll crash eventually. The question is whether you want to do it on your terms or the bridge's terms."
"Optimistic."
"Experienced."
Michael lifted both hands in surrender and looked around at the three of you with theatrical defeat. "I've officially been outnumbered." Then his eyes landed on Riot sitting patiently at the edge of the driveway, and his entire face changed.
"Whoa." He pulled the camera from around his neck immediately. "Now that's content." He crouched beside Riot, who tilted his head with the regal patience of an animal accustomed to being admired. Michael started recording, angling the lens carefully.
"Morning, everyone." He turned the camera toward Riot. "I just met the CEO of emotional support."
Clark clicked his tongue. "You see? Nothing gets through that thick skull." He watched his grandson talk earnestly to a German Shepherd on camera. "I don't know where he gets it from."
Jack watched quietly for a moment, then said, "He got it from you."
Clark looked genuinely offended. "I have never done anything that stupid in my life."
You and Jack turned toward him at exactly the same time. "Really?"
Clark opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked between the two of you, then at Michael still filming Riot with complete artistic commitment, then back at you.
"I walked into that one," he said.
"Completely," Jack agreed.
Clark took a long sip of his coffee and said nothing further, which was its own kind of answer.
******
Michael led them around the side of the house to where his setup was laid out with the organized precision of someone who had thought about this for longer than anyone around him was comfortable with.
"Two cameras," he said, pointing. "GoPro mounted on the helmet, second angle from the side. Drone for the overhead shot." He moved along the lineup. "Spotter positioned at the far end of the bridge. Medical kit, fully stocked. Fire extinguisher. Helmet, obviously." He paused for effect. "And I hired two licensed motocross riders to consult on the jump trajectory."
You and Jack looked at each other.
Then back at the setup.
Then at each other again.
"Still a terrible idea," you both said at exactly the same time.
Michael blinked. "Seriously? Even with all of that?"
Jack shrugged. "Preparation doesn't make a bad decision good."
You nodded. "It just makes it organized."
Michael stared at the two of you. "Do you practice being like this or does it just happen naturally?"
"Experience," Jack said.
"Years of it," you confirmed.
Michael exhaled dramatically and turned back to his equipment. "I just need one video. One that actually blows up. If it does, I could get sponsored. Monster, Red Bull, Fox, anyone. That's all I need."
Jack deadpanned, "Or UPMC Trauma."
You added, "They'll definitely know your name."
Michael groaned. "You two are impossible." He turned toward Clark, who was standing back with his coffee mug and the expression of a man enjoying this far more than he was letting on. "Grandpa. Are you absolutely sure these two aren't married?"
Clark didn't even look at him. "This isn't about them. It's about you."
Michael sighed like this was deeply unfair.
He walked them back to the driveway when it was time to leave, hands in his hoodie pockets, Riot trotting beside him like they had been friends for years.
Jack stopped at the car door. "One piece of advice."
Michael looked up. "Hm?"
"You're still young. You've got plenty of time to do stupid things. So don't rush all of them into this year."
Michael laughed, genuine and easy. "I'll think about it."
You stepped slightly closer. "Promise me you'll walk away if something feels wrong. Even if the cameras are rolling and everyone's watching. Just walk away."
Michael looked at you for a second, something in his expression shifting into something more honest than the performance he'd been giving all morning. "You sound like Grandpa."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
He smiled. "I'll be careful."
You both nodded. You both also knew exactly what teenagers meant when they said that, which was roughly the same thing soldiers meant when they said easy mission. But you let it stand, because some things needed to be said out loud even when everyone in the conversation understood their limitations.
Michael scratched Riot behind the ears one last time and headed back toward the house. Clark lifted his mug from the porch in a small farewell salute.
************
The drive back was quiet. Just the radio, low enough to be background noise, and trees passing steadily outside the windows.
Then, softly, you said, "He reminds me of Diaz."
Jack didn't answer immediately. He kept his eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console.
"Yeah," he said finally. "I saw it too."
A pause settled between you, unhurried and familiar.
"The jokes," Jack said. "The confidence. The way he talks like he's figured something out that everyone else missed."
"The way he thinks he's invincible," you added quietly.
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Scared the hell out of me," Jack said.
You nodded slowly. Outside the window the trees kept passing, steady and indifferent, and neither of you spoke again for a long time. The radio filled the space and that was enough.
************
A few hours after leaving Clark's house, you finally made it back to your apartment. The place was quiet. It was too quiet. Riot was fast asleep near the couch, completely exhausted from all the excitement of the evening, his chest rising and falling rhythmically.
For some reason, your eyes drifted toward the desk in the corner of the room, specifically toward the bottom drawer.
The drawer. The one you almost never opened. The one that held things you simply weren't ready for.
You stared at it, then looked away, trying to shake the sudden impulse. Then your gaze locked back onto it. Years. It had been years, yet somehow, you already knew exactly what was inside.
Slowly, you crossed the room and pulled the drawer open. The old wooden box was exactly where you had left it, with dust resting lightly across the surface of the lid. Your fingers hesitated in the air, trembling slightly, before you finally lifted it out. Inside sat old photographs, a few faded military patches, a silver collar pin, and a single envelope. Your name was written across the front in Gabriel's unmistakable handwriting.
The mere sight of it still hurt. You swallowed hard, pulling out a chair and sitting down as the apartment suddenly felt very small and very quiet. You carefully broke the seal, unfolded the crisp paper, and began to read.
If you're reading this... well. Congratulations. I'm dead.
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh, a breathless sound breaking the quiet. Of course. Of course that was exactly how he started it.
Which, if we're being honest, is a terrible deal for me. So I'd appreciate it if you're appropriately devastated for at least a month. Longer if you actually liked me.
You rolled your eyes despite yourself, your vision already blurring as tears welled in the corners of your eyes.
First things first. Abbott still owes me twenty bucks. Death does NOT erase debt. Tell him I'll haunt him every payday until he coughs it up.
A real laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. You could practically hear Gabriel's voice saying the words aloud in the room.
Actually... you know what my biggest regret is? Not taking enough pictures. I always said "later." Then one day... there wasn't one. So if life teaches you anything... take the stupid picture. Even if your hair looks terrible. Even if Abbott is making one of those grumpy faces. Especially then.
Your chest tightened painfully because suddenly you thought about the photograph sitting on Jack's coffee table, the one he still kept, the one you almost never allowed yourself to think about anymore.
Second biggest regret? Never getting to annoy you and Abbott after you two finally admitted whatever the hell this thing is between you.
You immediately groaned, burying your face in your free hand. "Oh my God."
Yeah. Don't look so surprised. I knew. Clark knew. Half the camp knew. You two had the emotional communication skills of wet cardboard. You argued like an old married couple, then stared at each other when the other wasn't looking. It was painful. Seriously. Just kiss already. Or yell. Honestly, I don't think either of you knows the difference.
You covered your burning face completely, your voice cracking. "Idiot."
Anyway... I know you. Which means if something happened to me... you're probably blaming yourself.
The brief smile vanished from your face.
So let me save you some time. No. You don't get to do that. You hear me? You don't.
The written words hit harder than you ever expected because somehow, he still knew you. Even then, even before everything actually happened.
You gave me more time than I should've had. Out here... most of us don't get miracles. I did. Because of you. You fought for me when everyone else would've accepted the outcome. Even when it wasn't enough... you still fought.
The tears came freely before you even realized it, one hot drop and then another falling directly onto the paper, wrinkling the ink.
So don't spend the rest of your life treating yourself like punishment. You already carried enough. Go live. Run those ridiculous races you keep talking about. Keep making Abbott roll his eyes. And when he inevitably says something stupid... yell at him. You seem weirdly good at that.
A broken laugh escaped you, wiping a wet cheek with your shoulder because he wasn't wrong.
Take care of Riot. Actually... spoil him. He deserves it. Just don't let him get fat. Clark will blame you.
You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, then kept reading.
One more thing. If years from now... Abbott still looks at you the way he does now... for the love of God... just marry the man.
Your breath caught in your throat.
Life's already too short. Don't waste whatever time you've got pretending you don't feel something. You both deserve something good after all this. And if Abbott somehow manages to screw it up... tell him I can still haunt him. Twenty bucks first. Then haunting. Forever your favorite extremely annoying, non-blood-related big brother, Gabriel Diaz.
At the very bottom, written in much smaller handwriting, was one final line.
P.S. If you're crying while reading this, that's embarrassing. Drink some water.
You stared at the tiny script, then laughed. You actually laughed right through your tears, exactly the way Gabriel would have wanted you to. And for the very first time in years, the crushing weight of the guilt felt just a little bit lighter.
You folded the letter carefully, almost reverently, handling the paper as if creasing it the wrong way would mean losing him all over again. The apartment fell completely quiet, with only Riot's soft, rhythmic breathing filling the space. Your thumb brushed across Gabriel's signature one last time, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at your lips.
"...Idiot," you murmured, your voice cracking anyway. For years, you had carried the crushing weight of guilt, believing it was the only way to honor his memory. But looking down at the worn paper, you realized you might have been completely wrong.
Your eyes drifted toward the dark window, watching the city lights flicker outside. Without meaning to, another face materialized in your thoughts.
Jack. Grumpy, sarcastic, and annoyingly persistent Jack. You remembered the exact look he had given you this afternoon when he thought you were leaving his side.
You're not going to stay?
You thought of the quiet, unexpected way he had handed you his spare key, his confession that he still kept the old photograph on his coffee table, and the comforting weight of his head resting against your shoulder without asking for a single thing in return.
You closed your eyes, letting the memory settle. Gabriel had been entirely right, not just about Jack, but about you, too. You had spent years trying to outrun your grief by training, working, and taking every extra shift available.
You ran every exhausting race and took on every impossible medical case, acting as if staying constantly busy meant you never had to stop long enough to actually miss the people you lost.
And somehow, Jack had done the exact same thing. You had taken entirely different roads, but you had both arrived at the same lonely destination. Alone.
You let out a slow, quiet breath into the stillness of the room. "...Maybe..." You whispered it so softly that even you almost didn't hear it. "...Maybe we don't have to anymore."
You carefully tucked the letter back inside its envelope. This time, you didn't hide the box at the very bottom of the dark drawer under layers of old gear. You closed the drawer and left it sitting right on top, out in the open.
********
The next morning, you stepped into the hospital lobby with your usual cup of coffee clutched tightly in your hand. It didn't even take five seconds for the trap to spring.
"There she is."
Dana's voice echoed across the corridor. Of course. You let out a long, heavy sigh and adjusted your grip on your cup before facing her. "...Good morning?"
Princess looked up from behind the nurses' station, her lips curving into a grin that immediately made you deeply suspicious. "So."
"So?" you countered, keeping your expression blank.
"How was your day off?"
"Quiet."
Robby let out a loud snort, not even pretending to look at the chart in his hands. "Sure it was."
You narrowed your eyes at him, stepping closer to the desk. "What exactly does that mean?"
Dana leaned her elbows against the laminate counter, her eyes gleaming with pure delight. "It means..." She looked around the hallway dramatically, dropping her voice to a theatrical whisper. "...we all know you spent it with Abbott."
You blinked once, the realization hitting you with a dull thud. "...News really does travel fast in this place."
Princess laughed, tapping her phone screen. "Jack literally posted you on his Instagram story."
You closed your eyes for a brief moment of pure defeat. "I knew I should've confiscated his phone."
Robby chuckled, pointing the tip of his pen directly at you. "So... how was the sleepover?"
"It was fine," you said flatly.
Dana raised an eyebrow, leaning in closer. "Just fine?"
"Riot snored."
"That's not what I asked."
You took another slow, deliberate sip of your coffee to buy yourself some time. "Then I'm choosing not to answer."
The entire nurses' station groaned in unison.
Another doctor walked past the desk, carrying a stack of patient files under his arm. "You people actually have patients to care for, you know."
Dana didn't even bother to look at him, waving a hand dismissively. "This is important medical sociology."
"It really isn't."
Princess folded her arms over her scrubs, tilting her head. "I just want official confirmation."
"There is absolutely nothing to confirm."
Robby’s smile widened, a mischievous spark in his eyes. "So you’re saying you didn’t sleep in the same bed?"
You stopped, staring dead at him with your most formidable surgeon expression. "...Robby."
"What?"
"I am this close to making a complaint to the HR."
The station erupted into loud laughter, the tension breaking instantly. Even the passing staff couldn't help but smile into their charts.
"You all have way too much free time," you muttered, shaking your head as you turned on your heel and headed toward the elevators.
Behind you, Dana cupped her hands around her mouth and called out into the hallway, "Tell Abbott we miss him!"
You lifted one hand, raising a single finger without turning around to face them. "I won't."
Once you stepped out onto the upper floors, the teasing finally stopped, and the familiar, demanding rhythm of your department took over completely.
The hours slipped by the way they always did in medicine, measuring one patient at a time, one critical decision after another. By mid-afternoon, you had almost forgotten about the morning's gossip.
Then, your pager vibrated violently against your hip at the exact same moment your phone began to ring in your pocket. You pulled it out and answered immediately.
You answered immediately. "Dr. L/N."
"Doc." It was Robby on the other end. His voice sounded entirely different than usual, carrying a steady, measured calmness that stood out against the loud chaos of the emergency room around him. That lack of panic somehow made your stomach drop instantly.
"We've got a major trauma downstairs," he said.
You were already adjusting your phone against your ear, reaching for the back of your chair to grab your white coat. "I'm on my way."
A brief pause hung on the line. "There's something else."
Your hand froze on the fabric of your coat. "What is it?"
"The patient specifically asked for you."
Your eyebrows pulled together, a deep frown forming as you quickly ran through your current patient roster in your head. "...Asked for me?"
"He knew your exact name," Robby confirmed.
Silence stretched over the line for a second. You searched your memory as fast as you could, but there were no scheduled transfers, no complex follow-ups, and absolutely no former patients you were expecting to arrive through the ambulance bay today.
"I don't recognize the name on the intake," Robby continued, his tone shifting into something a bit more guarded. "But whatever this is, he was pretty insistent before he lost consciousness."
The skin on the back of your neck prickled, a sudden tightness gripping your throat. "I'll be down there in two minutes."
You ended the call, snapping your phone shut. Without another word of explanation, you shoved your current patient's chart directly into the hands of the nearest resident standing beside you. "Cover the rest of my rounds. Call me if anyone crashes."
Then you were already moving, your sneakers squeaking against the linoleum as you pushed through the heavy double doors of the ward. You hit the down button on the lift panel repeatedly, your chest tightening further when the numbers slowly clicked down from the top floor. The lift couldn't come fast enough.
You pushed through the heavy double doors leading into the Emergency Department. The closer you got to the central trauma bay, the louder the room became.
"Blood pressure's dropping!" Princess shouted, already hanging another bag of fluids.
"Another large-bore IV!" Whitaker was squeezing past the respiratory therapist with an ultrasound machine.
"Move him on three, watch his neck!" Dana was cutting away the remaining sleeve of the motorcycle jacket while Santos held manual stabilization at his head.
The familiar chaos wrapped around you like an old blanket. Except, the moment you reached the edge of the trauma bay, you stopped dead in your tracks.
"...Michael?" Your voice barely came out.
Robby looked up from the opposite side of the stretcher, his expression immediately softening as he saw you. "I'm glad you're here."
Only then did you look down at the gurney. Michael was completely covered in dirt. Savage road rash stretched across his shoulder and chest where his motorcycle jacket had already been cut away. His helmet lay in two broken pieces on the floor. His left forearm bent at an angle it never should, and blood continued running from a deep laceration across his forehead, soaking the padding beneath his cervical collar.
Despite everything, he was still awake. His eyes found yours, and then, somehow, he smiled. "...Hey, Doc."
Your chest tightened painfully. You were beside him before you even realized you had moved, your hands automatically checking his vitals. "What happened?"
Dana answered while checking the monitor. "Motorcycle jump."
Whitaker glanced up from the ultrasound screen. "He lost control on the landing. Hit the guardrail."
You closed your eyes for half a second. Of course he did.
Michael let out the weakest laugh before immediately wincing in agony. "...Turns out... Grandpa was right."
You wanted to yell at him right then and there. Instead, your medical training took over, and your hands moved automatically through the practiced sequence.
Pupils. Airway. Breathing. Pulse.
His breathing wasn't right. It was far too fast, far too shallow. You looked sharply across the stretcher toward Robby. "What do we know?"
"Not enough," Robby replied, his brow furrowed as he managed the lines. "Trauma scans are being prepared right now. We're still working him up."
Princess glanced toward the monitor, her voice tight. "Pressure's still dropping."
Santos looked over from the head of the bed, maintaining manual stabilization. "He's becoming harder to keep comfortable."
Nobody needed to say it out loud. The room was moving faster now, the clinical urgency shifting into overdrive. Everyone in the bay could feel it.
You gently squeezed Michael's good shoulder, trying to anchor him. "I'll be right outside."
As you turned to step away, his fingers wrapped weakly around your wrist. "...Don't."
You stopped, looking back at him. "...Don't what?"
"...Don't tell Grandpa. Please."
You stared at him, your heart aching. "...Michael."
"I mean it." His breathing caught, a flash of pure panic breaking through his fading adrenaline. "I don't want him worrying."
For just a second, the reckless teenager completely disappeared. All you saw was a scared kid. All you saw was Clark's grandson.
You swallowed hard against the lump in your throat. "...I'll be right back."
He slowly let go of your wrist, his hand falling back to the mattress.
The moment you stepped outside the frantic noise of the trauma bay, you reached into your scrubs for your phone. The first person you called was Jack.
He answered almost immediately, his voice gravelly with sleep. "Morning."
"...Jack."
That was all it took. The raw tone of your voice changed his demeanor instantly. "...What happened?"
"...It's Michael."
A heavy silence dropped over the line. Then, Jack spoke. "...Where?"
There were no questions, no hesitation, and no demands for details. Just a sharp, directive query. On his end of the line, you could already hear drawers opening and the frantic jingle of keys. Then came the sharp, familiar click of his prosthetic leg moving at a dead sprint against his hardwood floor.
"The Pitt," you replied.
"I'm coming." The line went dead.
You immediately dialed Clark's number. The phone rang twice before the old man's deep voice answered. "...Kid?"
You closed your eyes, leaning your head against the cool hospital wall. "...Michael's at the Pitt."
A silence followed, long and heavy enough to hurt. Then Clark quietly asked the only question that mattered. "...How bad?"
A/N: Hello, everyone! Sorry for not updating Jack Abbot - Keep Up last week. I had another business trip, and this week I have another one too. It was so sudden. I only found out after lunch.
To make up for it, I made Chapter 7 longer. I hope you guys enjoy it!
Summary : How Jack married her, and their life with the kids.
Character: Jack Abbot x rich wife!reader
Words Count: 12,2219
Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3.
More Jack Abbot stories : 2nd Masterlist
The Morning She Left For Japan
The room was quiet in the way hospital rooms always were — not peaceful, just suspended. The kind of quiet that existed between emergencies.
Jack was propped against the headboard, a book open in his lap, though he hadn't turned a page in twenty minutes. Across the room you were closing your briefcase. The suit was on. The schedule was running in your head.
He watched you check the briefcase clasp twice.
"You said I'm your priority," he said.
You looked up. Not guilty — you never looked guilty — but something close to it. "I've been here for three days. Besides, the doctor said you're fine. Also the President asked me directly to go with him."
Jack opened his mouth. Closed it.
The President.
He couldn't fight that. There was absolutely no universe in which that was a reasonable argument to counter. He looked back at his book. "Fine."
A knock at the door saved both of you from the silence that followed. It opened without waiting for an answer — Robby's particular brand of entry — and he leaned against the frame with the expression of a man who had been looking forward to this moment.
"Look at that," Robby said, taking in Jack flat in the hospital bed, book in hand, thoroughly stationary. "The most restless man I know, horizontal and staying that way." He shook his head with theatrical sadness. "Adrenaline junkies really do crash hard."
"Tell him," you said, already sliding your phone into your jacket pocket. "Oh, it feels good not being a patient this time. "By the way, Robby, do you want new medical tools? Japan has a lot."
Robby blinked, he looked at Jack. Then looked back at you. "It's your call."
"Great." You pressed a brief kiss to Jack's temple, your hand resting on his shoulder for just a second. "I'll bring more toys."
And then you were gone. The door clicked behind you. The room resumed its suspended quiet.
Robby stayed where he was, listening to the sound of heels on the corridor floor until they faded. Then he turned to Jack with a specific expression. "Did she realize Japanese medical equipment runs to millions?"
"Don't," Jack said. "That logic doesn't resonate with her."
Robby huffed a quiet laugh and pushed off the doorframe, pulling a chair closer to the bed. He sat down, the amusement settling into something more genuine. "She never left your side," he said. "Three days, Jack. I had to practically order her to sleep."
"I know," Jack said.
He did know. He had woken up twice in the night and she had been there both times — not hovering, just present. Working quietly on her laptop or simply sitting, like being nearby was something she had decided and didn't need to explain. He had watched her for a moment each time before closing his eyes again. He hadn't told her he'd noticed. He wasn't sure why.
Robby huffed a quiet laugh and pushed off the doorframe, pulling a chair closer to the bed. He sat down, the amusement settling into something more genuine. "She never left your side," he said. "Three days, Jack. I had to practically order her to sleep."
"I know," Jack said.
He did know. He had woken up twice in the night and you had been there both times — not hovering, just present. Working quietly on your laptop or simply sitting, like being nearby was something you had decided and didn't need to explain. He had watched you for a moment each time before closing his eyes again. He hadn't told you he'd noticed. He wasn't sure why.
Robby reached into his coat and pulled out a folded set of papers. "Speaking of which." He held them out. "Administrative update. Everyone's redoing emergency contacts and next of kin. Yours are blank."
Jack took the papers without comment.
Robby stood, patting the back of the chair. "Oh — and before I forget. You're not allowed to work. Not for at least three weeks."
Jack looked up from the papers. "Hmm."
"I thought you'd fight me on that."
"I promised her I wouldn't work for a while," Jack said. "And I'm going to try golf again."
Robby stared at him. "You hate golf."
"Yeah," Jack said simply. He looked back down at the papers.
Robby shook his head slowly. "She's done something to you, Abbott." He said it without any edge, just quiet observation. "Something permanent."
He left without waiting for an answer.
Jack sat with the papers in his lap for a moment. Then he uncapped his pen and started filling them out. Name, position, department — the routine information moved quickly. He turned the page.
Next of kin.
He stopped.
The line sat there, blank and official, and he looked at it for longer than made sense. He thought about the hallway outside the OR. The way Robby had said your girl is here and the words had reached him through the fog of blood loss like something physical — a rope thrown into dark water. He thought about the limits that existed because of what you weren't, technically, legally, on paper.
If something happened again — another callout, another surgery, another night where it all went wrong — you would be back in that hallway. Waiting. Powerful enough to move governments and helpless in the one moment it mattered because there was no form with your name on it.
He looked at the blank line.
Your name should be here, he thought. Your name should be the first one written.
He finished the rest of the form. Left next of kin blank for now. Folded the papers and set them on the nightstand.
Outside the window Pittsburgh was gray and ordinary and moving without him. Somewhere above it, a private jet was climbing toward Japan.
He picked up his book. Didn't read it.
He had three weeks and a golf course he hated and a next of kin line he couldn't fill in yet.
He thought about that for a long time.
The next morning Robby appeared in the doorway, hands in his pockets.
"She bought the Pitt a hinotori system," he said.
Jack looked up from his book.
"Japanese surgical robot," Robby clarified. "Medicaroid. The director got the shipping confirmation an hour ago. He's been sitting very still ever since." A pause. "And an AI endoscopy suite. For the ER specifically."
Jack said nothing.
"The endoscopy system isn't even widely available in the US yet," Robby continued, with the measured tone of a man reading from a fact sheet he was still processing. "She apparently went directly to the manufacturer. In Tokyo." He paused. "While accompanying a head of state."
Jack looked at him for a moment. Then back to his book. "She mentioned the equipment there was good."
Robby stared at him. "That's what you got from that."
"Robby."
"Yeah."
"She bought it for the ER," Jack said quietly. Not a question.
Robby was quiet for a second. "The endoscopy suite, yeah. Specifically." He watched Jack's face. "She didn't tell you."
"No."
"Hm." Robby pushed off the doorframe. "You should probably figure out that next of kin form."
Jack didn't answer. He looked back at his book.
He didn't read it.
**********
When He Helped You Make A Business Deal
Jack had been following you around for two weeks.
In those two weeks he had probably covered more ground than most people did in a year. Singapore on Monday, back by Thursday, Dubai the following week, and somewhere in between a twenty minute video call conducted from the back of a moving car that apparently closed a nine figure deal. Your schedule was insane. He worked twelve hour night shifts in a trauma bay and your schedule made his look leisurely.
But Greg had pulled him aside on day three with the quiet satisfaction of a man whose prayers had been answered. "The schedule is better since you've been here," he said. "There's time to eat now. Actual meals. And she slept eight hours last Tuesday. Eight. I almost cried."
Jack had said nothing. But he started showing up earlier.
He also learned quickly that almost none of your real business happened inside an office. The office was for paperwork and appearances. The actual work happened elsewhere. Golf courses, private clubs, invitation-only dinners where the menu was secondary to the conversation. Your world operated on proximity and leisure dressed up as relaxation.
Like today.
"I hate this," you said, looking at the building in front of you.
Jack looked at the sign above the entrance. A private shooting range. Clay shooting, from the look of the equipment visible through the glass. "Why? I thought you liked hunting."
"I don't."
Greg appeared at your other shoulder without looking up from his tablet. "She can shoot you dead with a balance sheet from three continents away. With an actual gun?" He tilted his head toward the sky with the expression of a man searching for diplomatic phrasing. "I believe the last bullet she fired is still out there somewhere. Wandering. Lost. Looking for purpose."
"Shut up, Greg," you said.
Jack looked at you. The specific look of a man filing away new information with great interest. "That's why you mentioned the hunting week with the King of Britain."
"I'm bad at sports," you said, with the dignity of someone refusing to elaborate.
"Most sports," Greg murmured.
"Greg."
"Yes, boss."
You turned to Jack and pointed through the glass at a broad, silver haired man already positioned at the range, waiting. "That man has been making fun of my aim for three years. Every single time." You looked at Jack. "Could you do it for me?"
Jack looked at the range. Then at you. "Of course." He straightened slightly, something shifting in his posture. "Let's shut him up."
The three of you walked in together.
Your business partner turned at the sound of the door, his face opening into a wide, familiar grin when he saw you. He was the kind of man who filled a room without trying, the sort that had shaken hands with presidents and still preferred to conduct business outdoors. "Ah. Trying to beat your previous record?"
"Not today," you said smoothly. "I hurt my fingers." You held up your hand as evidence, the picture of regret. It was an absolute lie and everyone in your immediate vicinity knew it. "My boyfriend will be shooting for me."
Your business partner's eyebrows rose with genuine interest. He looked at Jack with the assessing curiosity of a man who had spent years wondering what kind of person had managed to become important to you. "So. Finally I meet the famous surgeon boyfriend." He extended a hand and Jack shook it. "I heard they're good with their hands." He held out the gun with a grin. "Show me what you've got, doc."
Jack took the gun.
He checked it first. Quietly, efficiently, with the automatic habit of someone for whom this was never casual. He tested the weight, checked the sight line, settled his stance. Not performing. Just preparing.
"One at a time to start," your business partner said to the operator, nodding toward the clay trap machine at the far end of the range.
"Throw five at once," Jack said.
The range went quiet.
Your business partner looked at him. "I'm sorry?"
"Five," Jack said. "At once."
Your business partner looked at you. You looked back at him with an expression that said you had absolutely no idea what was about to happen either, which was the truth.
"You're sure," the operator said.
"Do it," Jack said.
The operator shrugged and reset the machine. Everyone took a small, instinctive step back.
Five clay discs launched into the air simultaneously, scattering across different angles and heights, the mechanical crack of the trap cutting through the quiet of the range.
Jack fired.
Five shots. So fast the sound bled together into something almost continuous. Clean, precise, no hesitation between them.
Five fragments rained down.
Nobody spoke.
Greg started clapping. Slowly at first, then with genuine enthusiasm. "New record. And that concludes our portion of the meeting."
You stared at the empty sky where five clay targets had been approximately four seconds ago. Then you started clapping, and you were not a person who clapped easily.
Your business partner let out a laugh that came from somewhere genuine. He turned to you with an expression of absolute delight. "What kind of surgeon is he?"
"He's a war veteran," you said.
The man stopped laughing. He looked at Jack with an entirely different quality of attention. Then he stepped forward and shook Jack's hand again, slower this time. "You should have told me that before." A pause. "That is genuinely impressive. I mean that."
"Thank you," Jack said simply.
Your business partner shook his head, still smiling, and turned back toward the range. "Alright. I'll admit it. I'm not following that." He glanced at you sideways. "Your fingers healed fast."
"Remarkable recovery," you agreed.
He laughed again and waved you both toward the seating area. "Come on. Let's talk business. Your boyfriend just bought you at least an hour of goodwill."
You fell into step beside Jack. Quietly, low enough that only he could hear: "Thank you."
Jack handed the gun back to the operator. "You owe me a vegetable at dinner."
You gave him a look.
"One," he said. "Your choice."
You considered this. "Fine."
Greg, two steps behind you both, looked at the sky again. This time with an expression of complete peace. Then he leaned slightly toward Jack and lowered his voice. "You just helped close a billion dollar deal."
Jack stopped walking.
You were already three steps ahead, already in conversation with your business partner, already working.
"What?" Jack said.
"One clean shot at this range means ten minutes of his time," Greg said, with the calm of someone explaining a rule everyone else already knew. "That's the tradition. He established it years ago. Nobody gets more than that unless they impress him." He paused. "You shot five in one go. Nobody has ever done that." Another pause. "Ever."
Jack looked at you across the room. You were laughing at something the man had said, easy and genuine, the meeting already moving at a pace that suggested it would run well past ten minutes.
"So that's why she wanted me to shoot," Jack said.
"She didn't know it would go like that," Greg said honestly. "She just didn't want to embarrass herself again." He straightened his jacket. "The billion dollar part was you."
Jack stood there for a moment.
He had thought it was a simple favor. A business lunch dressed up as a day at the range. The kind of thing her world did instead of conference rooms. He had picked up a gun because she asked him to and because shutting up a man who made fun of her for three years had seemed like reason enough.
He had not considered that five clay targets might be worth a billion dollars.
**************
The Time He Met Your Family (He Hates Them)
It wasn't planned.
The private jet had just landed in London, the car moving through the grey afternoon toward the hotel, when Greg looked up from his tablet with the specific expression of a man who had been waiting for the right moment and had decided this was it.
"Your cousin is getting married tomorrow," he said.
You looked up from your phone. "Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because if I told you earlier you wouldn't have come," Greg said simply. "And your father would have called me. For a long time. Loudly."
You looked at him for a long moment. Then you exhaled the sigh of a woman who had lost this particular battle before it started and knew it. "My aunt. Is she going?"
"She said she'll attend if you do," Greg said. "I've already ordered the dress. Doctor Abbott's suit. My suit." A brief pause. "And the makeup artist is booked for eight."
You looked at him.
"I also confirmed your seats at the family table," Greg added, returning to his tablet. "Next to your aunt. Away from the three cousins you don't like."
"Which three?"
"All of them, technically, but I've narrowed it to the worst three."
You hummed and looked back at your phone. The matter apparently settled in your mind, one way or another.
Jack watched this exchange from the seat beside you. He waited until Greg had gone back to typing. Then he asked, quietly, "Is this normal?"
You glanced at him. "Greg planning my life without telling me?"
"Greg planning your life without telling you and you accepting it."
You considered this for a second. "He's been doing it for four years. I just write the cheque." You turned a page on whatever document you were reading. "He always wins."
From the front seat Greg said, without looking up, "Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment," you said.
"I know," Greg said. "Thank you anyway."
Jack looked out the window at London moving past. Grey skies, familiar chaos, the kind of city that felt like it was always in the middle of something.
"Your father's side," he said.
"Yes."
"You don't like them."
"Most of them."
"But you're going."
You were quiet for a second. "My aunt will be there." Something in your voice shifted, just slightly. The professional register dropping a degree or two into something more honest. "She was close to my mother. She's the only one from that whole side who ever." You stopped. Started again. "She shows up. That's all. She just shows up."
Jack nodded. He didn't push.
The car moved through the city. Greg typed. You read. Jack watched the streets and thought about a woman who flew across the world for business without blinking but needed a reason — one specific aunt who showed up — to walk into a room full of her own family.
"What do I need to know?" he asked.
You looked at him.
"About the family," he said. "Before tomorrow."
Something crossed your face. Not quite surprise. Something softer than that. You lowered your phone.
"How long do you have?" you said.
"We're twenty minutes from the hotel."
You looked at Greg. "Greg. Brief him."
Greg straightened with the energy of a man who had been waiting for this exact assignment. He turned slightly in his seat, tablet already open.
"Right," he said. "So. The father's side. Here's what you need to know."
Jack settled back in his seat.
It was going to be a long twenty minutes.
***********
At The Wedding
The church was beautiful in the way that only old money could produce — flowers along every pew, light coming through stained glass in warm fractured colors.
You and Jack sat toward the middle. Close enough to see clearly, far enough from both sides of the family to breathe.
At the altar your cousin stood in white, holding the hands of the man beside her. You studied him briefly. Steady. Unhurried. Different from the others. You had lost count of the engagements somewhere around the fourth one. But this felt different.
Good for her, you thought. Finally.
Beside you Jack went still in a specific way. You recognized it immediately.
Then, from three rows back, just loud enough to carry:
"Three months, I'm telling you."
"I say eight. He looks committed."
"Committed or not, fifty says they don't see a second anniversary."
"I'll raise you a hundred. One year maximum."
Quiet laughter. The sound of money changing hands during a wedding ceremony.
Jack turned to you slowly. "Did they just make a bet?"
"Yes," you said.
"On how long the marriage lasts."
"Yes."
"During the ceremony."
"It's tradition," you said. "It started after my father's third wedding." You kept your eyes forward. "I hate it."
Jack looked at the group once more. Then back at the altar. His jaw had that specific set to it — not anger exactly. Just a man filing something under wrong and leaving it there.
"The Pitt makes bets," he said quietly. "Not like this." He found it disrespectful. Making bets on someone's wedding day, in the middle of the ceremony, while the couple stood at the altar believing the people behind them were there to wish them well.
He Meets Your Family
At the wedding reception, Jack met your aunt from your mother's side. Warmer than your father's family but with a different kind of intrusiveness — the kind that wraps nosiness in affection so you can't object without seeming rude.
She takes both of Jack's hands when she meets him, which visibly surprises him, and looks at him with the searching intensity of someone conducting an evaluation.
"So you're the doctor," she says. "She never brings anyone. Not once. Not in years."
"Auntie—" you start.
"I'm talking to him." She doesn't release Jack's hands. "Do you love her?"
The question lands in the middle of the conversation like a dropped glass. Around you, a few nearby relatives go slightly quiet.
Jack doesn't hesitate. Doesn't perform. Just looks at the aunt steadily and says "yes."
She studies him for another long moment. Then she releases his hands, pats them once, and says to you: "Keep him."
She walks away. You stare after her. Jack watches her go with something like genuine respect.
"I like her," he says.
"She's the only one," you looked at your aunt back. She actually doesn’t want to come here, but she’s here because of you.
********
He saw your aunt really nice, but only her. Because the rest of them are… He saw why you don’t want to come within the first ten minutes.
"Is that really him? The doctor?" A short scoff. "I thought she was smarter than that."
You had heard it. Jack could tell by the specific quality of your stillness as you stepped into the corridor. You walked toward your cousin with an unhurried pleasant expression that didn't reach your eyes.
"Cousin," you said warmly.
He turned. Smiled. "I was just—"
"I know." You stopped in front of him. "I was thinking about you recently. About the race car team."
The smile began its retreat.
"Ten million," you said, conversationally. "No conditions. No timeline. No expected return." You tilted your head. "Do you know what I recorded it as internally?"
He said nothing.
"Charity," you said. "I watched ten million dollars finish fourteenth and filed it under charity and never mentioned it again. Not because I forgot. Because I decided you weren't worth the conversation."
You stepped closer. Your voice dropped.
"I have a favorite hobby. Finding a business that deserves to be taken apart and doing it so quietly the owner doesn't realize what happened until there's nothing left to sell." You held his gaze. "I have never pointed that at family. Family is a courtesy I extend by choice." Another step. "So the next time you want an opinion about who I bring into my world, ask yourself whether your current ventures could survive my full attention."
The corridor was very quiet.
Your cousin looked at Jack. Really looked this time. Not the dismissive scan but the look of a man recalculating everything. Jack sat with his coffee, watching with the calm of someone who knew exactly how this ended.
"I'll watch my words," your cousin said. Smaller than he intended.
You patted his shoulder once. Light. Final.
"Good. Very good."
But, it seems like your warning to stop looking down at Jack is still not clear enough. Your uncle found you during the cocktail hour, glass in hand, with the particular energy of a man who had been waiting to say something and had decided now was the moment.
"So," he said, looking Jack over with an undisguised assessment. "He's the one who made you cancel the meeting with the Prime Minister."
"Because he's my top priority," you said simply.
Jack heard it land before he had time to prepare for it. Something moved through his chest, quiet and immediate. You had said it the way you said everything that was simply true — without ceremony, without softening, without looking to see how it was received. Just a fact you had already decided on.
He kept his expression neutral. But he felt it.
Your other cousin found Jack near the drinks table forty minutes later.
He was the kind of man who wore his ambition loudly, the sort who treated every social event as a pitch opportunity and every new face as a potential investor. He had a startup. He always had a startup.
"I'm developing an AI system," he said, sliding into the space beside Jack with rehearsed casualness. "Hospital efficiency. Faster processing, smarter scheduling, reduced overhead." He smiled the smile of someone who had given this speech many times. "The kind of thing that could transform how a place like the Pitt operates."
Jack went still in a specific way.
Your cousin read the stillness as interest. He leaned in slightly, already calculating. If Jack was interested then perhaps you would be interested. The investment practically walked itself in.
"The ROI projections are significant," your cousin continued. "We're talking about real transformation. Smarter systems, better data, faster throughput—"
"Throughput," Jack said quietly.
"Exactly, faster patient—"
"You're not saving time," Jack said. His voice was level and unhurried, the voice he used when he had already assessed a situation completely. "You're clearing the schedule so the board can push five more patients into every shift. That's not efficiency. That's how you burn out a doctor."
He tilted his head slightly. "And the patients? They're already being squeezed by insurance on every side. Now you add licensing fees on top of that. Then the hospital spends a fortune on cybersecurity to protect the database your system runs on." He paused. "You get richer. The hospital looks efficient on paper. And the patient gets a bill they can't afford at the end of it." A beat. "Don't call it care. It's just better math."
The space around them had gone quiet.
Your cousin stood very still with the expression of a man whose rehearsed speech had been taken apart with surgical precision and handed back to him in pieces.
Jack picked up his drink and took a calm sip.
You had caught the last half of it from three feet away. You looked at Jack with an expression you rarely wore in public. Genuine, unguarded surprise.
"How do you know all of that?" you said.
Jack glanced at you. "Being with you twenty four hours a day teaches you things."
From your left your aunt appeared, materializing the way she always did, at exactly the right moment. She looked at Jack. Then at your cousin's retreating back. Then she leaned close to your ear.
"He's a doctor," she whispered. "He understands business. And he just made that smug boy very quiet." A pause. "I like him."
************
The Kids
You didn't see them coming.
Suddenly there were small hands grabbing your dress and a chorus of voices saying your name with the shameless urgency that only children under ten could produce.
Three of them. Your cousin's kids. Dressed in miniature formal wear that was already coming undone — a loosened tie, a flower crown slightly sideways, a jacket abandoned somewhere entirely.
"Auntie!" The oldest grabbed your hand with both of hers. "We didn't know you were coming!"
"Auntie, Star cleared the oxer last week!" she continued, squeezing your hand. "Papa said she might be ready for junior circuit next year."
"She better be," you said. "I didn't pick that bloodline for leisure riding."
The middle one tugged your sleeve. "Can we get another one? For competitions?"
"Let's see if you can stay on the first one before we discuss a second."
All three erupted in protests simultaneously.
Jack leaned toward you. "Star?"
"I bought them a horse," you said simply, patting the oldest one's head. "He joined equestrian. Wants to be in the Olympics."
"Yes!" The youngest grabbed your arm and started pulling toward the dessert table. "They have the little cakes. Come on, come on!"
You looked back at Jack over your shoulder. The expression on your face was something he had never seen in a boardroom or a hospital. Pure and unguarded and completely unaware of itself.
Jack held up a hand. Go.
You disappeared into a wave of small formal wear.
He watched you go. The woman who had once calmly asked if hackers should be neutralized was currently being dragged toward a dessert table by a five year old and letting it happen. Willingly. With something that looked unmistakably like joy.
He stood there with his drink and thought quietly that there were entire rooms inside you that most people never got to see. The world knew the shark, the CEO, the woman who made boardrooms go quiet. Almost nobody knew this.
He wanted to be the person who always knew this.
"The doctor."
Jack turned. Your father had materialized beside him with the unhurried ease of a man who moved through rooms on his own schedule.
"The father," Jack said.
They stood side by side. A silence settled between them, not hostile, just two people deciding how much to say.
"I heard you were shot," your father said.
"I survived."
Your father looked at him properly, with the measuring gaze of a man who rarely updated his conclusions. Something in it seemed to satisfy him. "You have more balls than any man in this room." A short genuine laugh. "No wonder my daughter likes you."
Jack said nothing. He took a quiet sip of his drink.
Across the room you reappeared from the dessert table, the three kids still orbiting you like small overdressed satellites. The youngest held a miniature cake. The oldest was telling you something with elaborate hand gestures. You were listening with the same full attention you gave boardrooms and crises.
Your father watched this. "Where is their nanny," he said, less a question than an observation.
You rolled your eyes without looking at him. The gesture was clearly decades old.
Your father glanced at Jack and tilted his head toward you. "This is why the children have no respect for her."
The kids shuffled immediately behind your back, using you as a shield. The youngest peered around your hip at your father with enormous eyes.
"And this," you said pleasantly, "is why they're afraid of you."
"They need structure," your father said. "A proper nanny. Boarding school when they're old enough."
"That's how you did it," you said. "And look how well that turned out."
"I will hire help when I need it," you continued. "But I am not sending my children to boarding school."
"Your children."
"Hypothetically."
"You're already decided."
"That's why I turned out more human than the others," you said quietly. "Because my mom was there for me."
The words landed with the weight of something long overdue.
Your father went still. Not the boardroom stillness. Something older. He looked at his glass for a moment, then at you. The sharp edges of his expression shifted into something that looked briefly like a man confronting an accounting he had been avoiding for years.
"She was," he said finally. Just that.
It wasn't an apology. You both knew that. But from him, in this room, it was the closest thing to one you had ever received.
"Regardless," he said, voice returning to its usual register. "You cannot run a company and raise children without proper structure."
"I didn't say it without help," you said. "I said without shipping them off so I don't have to look at them."
"That is not what boarding school is."
"It's exactly what it is for people like us and you know it."
"It builds character."
"It builds distance. I've seen enough of the results to know the difference."
"You are so."
"Like you," you finished. "I know."
He pointed at you. "That is not the compliment you think it is."
"It wasn't meant to be one."
Greg appeared quietly behind Jack, materializing from nowhere the way he always did.
Jack looked at him. "How long are they going to argue like this?"
Greg considered this with apparent sincerity. "Oh, this is actually them getting along."
Jack stared at him.
Then he looked back at you, still holding the youngest child's hand, still squaring up to your father with complete calm, the other two kids peering around your back like you were a personal fortification.
Jack thought about the blank line on the next of kin form. He thought about it for the rest of the evening.
**************
After The Wedding
The car was quiet on the way back.
Jack was looking out the window, and you recognized the particular quality of his silence. He was processing. Filing things away in the careful methodical way he processed everything that mattered to him.
"I realized something tonight," he said finally.
You looked at him.
"It's not just your father who talks down to you," he said. "It's most of them."
You were quiet for a moment. Outside the city moved past in the dark. "They have loose mouths," you said. "Always have."
"How did you live through that?"
You considered the question honestly. "Spite," you said. "My spite toward them fueled me to be better. Every time one of them wrote me off or talked over me or bet against me, I went back to work." You shrugged one shoulder. "It was useful."
Jack crossed his arms slowly. "It'll destroy you."
"It already destroyed my appendix," you said.
He looked at you. You looked back at him with the calm of someone stating a simple fact.
He shook his head. Then he reached over and pulled you into him, his arm coming around your shoulders, steady and certain. You let yourself lean in without making a thing of it.
"I don't like it here," you said against his shoulder. "But with you here it's bearable. A bit."
Jack rested his chin lightly against your hair. "Next time just send Greg."
********
The Proposal
After months of traveling, Jack finally came back to the Pitt.
He found Robby between cases, the way he always found Robby, leaning against the nurse's station with a coffee and the expression of a man with five minutes before the next thing arrived.
Jack told him everything.
The wedding. The betting. The cousin and the ten million dollars and the way you had dismantled him in a corridor without raising your voice. Your father and the conversation that was somehow both a confrontation and a consolidation. The kids grabbing your hand at the cocktail hour, dragging you toward the dessert table, and the look on your face when you let them. The way you stood at the back of the reception watching the couple on the dancefloor with something quiet and unguarded in your expression.
The way you had said, almost to yourself, "somewhere like that."
Robby listens to all of it. Then sets down his coffee.
"Marry her."
Jack is quiet.
"You already know," Robby says. "You've known for a while. So stop thinking about it and do it."
That's it. That's the whole conversation. Jack doesn't argue because there's nothing to argue. Robby is right and they both know it.
He goes home that night and calls Greg.
******
The Night He Asked
It was quiet on the drive home.
That was the first sign something was off. Greg was never quiet. Greg filled silence the way other people filled paperwork — efficiently, continuously, without being asked. But tonight he drove without commentary, his eyes on the road, his tablet conspicuously closed on the seat beside him.
You looked out the window. The road wasn't the way home. "Where are we going?"
"There's a firework event," Greg said. "At the park."
You checked your watch. At least half an hour to spare. You didn't want to keep Jack waiting too long at home. "There's time."
Greg had been driving you here for years when the pressure built past a certain point. You didn't always ask him to. He just knew. The walking helped. The trees helped. The fact that it was a place with no conference rooms and no agendas helped most of all.
He pulled up to the entrance and you got out without waiting, already feeling the tension in your shoulders beginning to ease just from the smell of the air. Grass and evening and something cooling after a long day.
You walked.
The park was quieter than you expected for a firework event. The path was lit softly, small lights threaded through the trees on either side, and you followed it without thinking, letting your mind go through its usual process of unwinding. A problem here, set it down. A meeting tomorrow, noted and released. The accumulated weight of the week, item by item, left on the path behind you.
Then you stopped.
Ahead of you, where the path curved toward the open space near the water, there was a flower arch. Your favorite — white and soft and full, lit from within by small warm lights that made the whole thing glow against the darkening sky. More lights were strung between the nearby trees, catching the last of the evening and turning it into something else entirely. A small table. A musician sitting quietly to one side, an instrument in his lap, not yet playing.
You stood there for a moment just looking at it.
You had wondered why the firework event felt romantic. You understood now that it was not a firework event.
And then you saw Jack.
He was standing at the center of it, under the arch, in a suit you recognized because you had watched Greg pack it three weeks ago and hadn't thought anything of it at the time. He was watching you with the expression he used when he had made a decision and was completely at peace with it.
Your feet carried you toward him before you consciously decided to move.
"You did all this," you said. It came out quieter than you intended.
"Greg helped," Jack said.
You looked around at the arch, the lights, the musician, the table set for two. Then back at him. "Greg helped," you repeated.
"Significantly," Jack said. "He cried twice during the planning process."
"He cries at everything."
"He cried at the flower selection," Jack said. "Specifically."
A breath of a laugh escaped you. Unexpected and unguarded, the kind that came out when your armor was already gone without you noticing. You looked at him and felt the full weight of the moment settling around you like something physical.
"Jack," you said softly.
"I know you don't need anything I can give you," he said. His voice was steady but there was something underneath it that you had never quite heard before. Something he was choosing to let out. "I know that. I've always known that. You have everything. You've built everything. You don't need someone to take care of you financially or professionally or in any of the ways people usually talk about when they talk about partnership."
He paused. Not because he lost the words. Because he was choosing the next ones carefully.
"But I've watched you carry things that nobody else sees," he continued. "The weight of your name and your father and a company you've been fighting for your entire life. I've watched you sit in hospitals and boardrooms and cars and planes and I've watched you hold all of it together without ever once asking anyone to help you hold it."
His voice dropped slightly.
"You came back from Japan when I was in surgery," he said. "You left a head of state. You sat in a hallway where they wouldn't tell you anything because you weren't family and you stayed anyway." He looked at her steadily. "I don't want you to ever be in a hallway again where you're not family."
You were very still.
"I can't give you what you can give yourself," Jack said. "I know that. I'm not going to pretend otherwise." He took a breath. "But I can give you somewhere to put it down. All of it. I can be the place where you don't have to hold anything. Where you don't have to be the CEO or the shark or your father's daughter or anyone's successor." He held your gaze. "I can be your person. Permanently. Legally. Completely."
He reached into his jacket pocket. The ring caught the light from the arch as he held it out — and you recognized it immediately. Your mother's ring. Your grandmother's before that. The one that had never belonged to your father's story.
Your hand came up to cover your mouth before you could stop it.
"I went to your aunt," he said simply.
"She cried," you managed.
"Twenty minutes," he said. "Before she said yes."
You let out a sound that was almost a laugh and almost something else entirely. Your eyes were doing things you would never normally allow in front of anyone. Jack had seen them before. He was the only one who had.
He went down on one knee.
"You're the most capable person I have ever met," he said, looking up at you. "And you deserve someone who sees every part of you. Not just the part that runs rooms." A pause. "I see all of it. I want all of it."
A beat.
"Marry me."
Not a question. A statement of intent from a man who had already decided and was simply informing you of the facts, the way he always did, the way that had somehow always worked on you more than anything else ever had.
You looked at the ring. At him. At the ring again.
Your aunt had kept it all these years. Jack had found it. He had gone quietly and carefully and found the one thing that connected you to the version of love that hadn't been ruined yet, the version that existed before your father made a mess of everything, and he had brought it here and gotten on one knee in your favorite park under your favorite flowers and said the truest thing anyone had ever said to you.
You took the ring from him. Slid it onto your own finger, which made him exhale something that was almost a laugh.
"Yes," you said. Your voice was steady. Mostly. "Obviously yes."
Jack stood. He took your face in both hands, careful and certain, and kissed you once. Quiet and complete.
Behind you, at a distance he had calculated to be respectful but not so far he couldn't see, Greg lowered his phone from recording position. His other hand was pressed flat against his mouth. His shoulders were shaking.
The musician began to play.
Somewhere above the park the first firework went up — a real one, as it turned out, because Greg had arranged that too — and the light broke open across the sky in a wash of gold.
You didn't look up at it.
You were already looking at Jack.
*******
The Preparation
It started with a question, the way most things between you did.
Jack had been leaning against the kitchen counter, coffee in hand, watching you work through your morning emails with the focused efficiency of someone who had already mentally scheduled the next six months. He waited until you looked up.
"Where should we have the wedding?"
You went quiet. Not the thinking quiet, not the calculating quiet. Just still for a moment, like the answer had been sitting there already and only needed to be collected.
"Pittsburgh," you said.
Jack raised an eyebrow. "That was fast."
"We could do it abroad," you said. "But it would take a lot of work. And I want the Pitt crew there." You looked at him. "I want people who will actually wish us well. Not people who will bet on how long we last."
Jack was quiet for a second. Something moved across his face that he didn't try to hide. You had said it simply, practically, the way you said most things. But the fact that his people, his second family in their scrubs and their chaos, were the ones you wanted around you on that day, that you had chosen Pittsburgh not for convenience but for them. It settled in his chest like something permanent.
"There's a hotel we own," you continued, already reaching for your phone. "I'll have Greg reserve it for three days. Full building."
"We?" Jack said.
You looked up. "You own my business, Jack Abbott." A small, certain smile. "You married into this. No turning back. Welcome to the board."
He stared at you. "I didn't sign anything."
"Greg will send the papers."
"Of course he will."
You were already typing. "Have you told your family?"
"Yup. Have you told yours?"
You didn't look up. "I only want my father and my aunt. That's it."
"Perfect," Jack said. He picked up his coffee. "I was this close to preparing sleeping pills for the rest of your relatives anyway."
You looked at him.
"Medically appropriate dosage," he said pleasantly. "Nothing they wouldn't wake up from."
"Jack."
"They'd miss the wedding. Feels terrible about it. Send very expensive gifts out of guilt." He took a sip. "Everyone wins."
You stared at him for a long moment. Then you looked back at your phone. "I'm pretending I didn't hear that."
"That's probably wise," he agreed.
The Wedding
The guests arrived through the afternoon.
There were not many of them. That was the first thing people noticed. No sprawling guest list, no industry names, no faces borrowed from a networking spreadsheet. Just people who actually knew them. The room felt like breathing space rather than performance, and everyone in it seemed to understand, without being told, that this was intentional.
The Pitt crew arrived together.
This was not a surprise. They had carpooled from the hospital with the coordinated chaos of people who spent twelve hour shifts in close proximity and had stopped pretending they needed personal space. They came through the hotel entrance in a cluster, still mid-conversation, and then stopped collectively as the lobby registered.
Mateo turned a slow circle, taking in the ceiling, the floors, the fresh flowers arranged at every surface. "She rented the whole hotel," he said. "For three days."
"Yeah," Shen said.
"The whole hotel."
"That's what three days means, Mateo."
Ellis was already moving toward the front desk with the focused energy of a woman who had been promised a spa and intended to locate it immediately. "We have free rooms," she said, mostly to herself. "Free spa. I cannot wait to see my room." She paused at the desk and looked back at the group. "Do you think the robes are the good kind?"
"They're her hotel," Dana said. "They're the good kind."
Mateo found the coffee machine in his room twelve minutes later and sent a photo to the group without comment. The photo was of the machine. Just the machine. Centered. Well lit. It required no caption.
Shen sent back a single word. Same.
*******
Down the corridor, in the room set aside for the groom, it was considerably quieter.
Jack was standing at the window in his shirt and trousers, jacket hanging on the back of the chair, tie not yet on. He was looking out at Pittsburgh with the stillness of a man who was not anxious exactly but was feeling the full weight of a moment.
Robby came in without knocking, which was his way, and closed the door behind him. He looked at Jack. Jack looked at the city.
"You good?" Robby asked.
"Yeah," Jack said.
Robby crossed the room and stood beside him. They were quiet together for a moment, the way they were quiet in the Pitt between cases, comfortable and unhurried.
"She reserved the whole hotel," Robby said. "For the crew."
"I know."
"She didn't tell anyone. It was just ready when we got here."
"That's how she does things," Jack said.
Robby nodded slowly. He looked at Jack's profile for a moment. "You nervous?"
"No," Jack said. Then, after a beat. "Maybe a little."
"Good," Robby said.
*************
Upstairs, in the suite at the end of the east corridor, the morning had been considerably more emotional.
Your aunt had cried three times before the makeup artist finished the first eye. She had been escorted out gently but firmly after the second round of damage, still dabbing at her face with a handkerchief, still trying to say something coherent through the tears, and told that she could come back when she had collected herself.
She had not yet collected herself.
The room was quiet now. You stood in front of the mirror in your dress and looked at yourself for a long moment. Not checking. Just looking. The person looking back at you was the same one who had walked into a trauma bay years ago clutching her stomach, refusing surgery, convinced that stopping for even a day would mean losing everything.
She had been wrong about that. It had taken a night shift doctor and a plastic chair and a prescription slip to show her how wrong.
A knock at the door.
"Come in," you said.
Your father stepped into the room. He was dressed impeccably, as always, not a detail out of place. But he stopped when he saw you and something happened to his face that you had seen perhaps twice in your entire life. The careful architecture of his expression simply came apart for a moment, undone by something he hadn't expected to feel this strongly.
"What?" you said.
"You look beautiful," he said. Quietly. Like the words surprised him on the way out.
"Thank you," you said. The two words came out softer than you intended.
He moved further into the room. He looked at you the way people looked at things they knew they were about to let go of, taking inventory, trying to hold the image.
"Is he the right one?" he asked. "There's still time. If you have any doubt at all."
You turned to face him fully. "You should have asked yourself that question. Approximately three marriages ago."
He had the grace to absorb that without deflecting. "I went through it," he said. "Those were my mistakes. I know what they cost." He paused. "You're my only daughter. I don't want you to go through any version of what I put your mother through."
You had not expected that. Not the words and not the look that came with them, something tired and honest and stripped of the usual performance. He was not making a point. He was not positioning. He was just a father standing in a hotel room looking at his daughter on her wedding day and meaning what he said.
"He's the one," you said.
Your father was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded once, the nod of a man who has updated a position and will not revisit it. "Good," he said. "I believe your judgement. I always have. Even when I made it harder than it needed to be."
He offered his arm.
You looked at it for a second. This man who had turned your inheritance into a competition, who had made you fight for every room you walked into, who had driven you to a hospital bed and a stranger's plastic chair and accidentally, unknowingly, to the best thing that had ever happened to you.
You took his arm.
It had never once crossed your mind that you would walk down the aisle with your father. Too much history, too many rooms where you had stood on opposite sides of everything. But here you were, his hand over yours, moving together toward the doors at the end of the corridor.
"You're not going to cry, are you," you said.
"Absolutely not," he said.
A pause.
"Your aunt has cried enough for both families," he added.
"She has," you agreed.
The doors opened.
The hall was warm and full of light, flowers arranged along every surface, candles burning in rows that turned the whole room golden. And the faces. You saw them before anything else. The Pitt crew, cleaned up and dressed in their best, looking like a completely different set of people from the ones you usually found in scrubs over a trauma bay. Mateo in a suit that actually fit. Ellis with her hair done, sitting straight and bright-eyed. Shen looking quietly emotional already and trying not to show it. Dana watching the door with an expression she would later describe as composed and which was not composed at all.
Your aunt in the front row, handkerchief already raised.
Greg, three rows back, recording everything on his phone with the focus of a man documenting history.
Lilly, standing at the front, who had been holding herself together all morning and was now very clearly not holding herself together.
And Jack.
He was standing at the altar in his suit, hands clasped in front of him, and he was watching you walk toward him with an expression that had nothing held back in it. No clinical neutrality, no careful composure. Just him, fully present, completely undone in the quietest possible way. His jaw was tight. His eyes were bright.
Robby, standing beside him as best man, noticed. He leaned slightly toward Jack and pressed a folded tissue into his hand without a word, with the efficiency of a man who had come prepared.
Jack took it without looking at him.
You kept walking. Your father's arm steady under your hand, the room warm around you, every face you passed a person who had genuinely wished for this.
When you reached the altar your father stopped. He looked at Jack for a moment. The two men regarded each other with the particular understanding of people who had already said the hard things and arrived somewhere on the other side of them.
"Take care of her," your father said. Not a command. Not a warning. Something quieter than either.
"I know," Jack said.
Your father took your hand and placed it in Jack's. Then he pulled you into a brief, firm hug, the kind that said more than he would ever find words for, and stepped back to take his seat.
You turned to Jack.
He was looking at you the way he had looked at you in the ER the very first time, like you were the clearest thing in the room. Like everything else was background.
"Hi," you said softly.
"Hi," he said.
His thumb moved once across the back of your hand. Steady and certain and very him.
The priest began to speak.
The room settled into a hush, warm and full and held by everyone in it. Outside Pittsburgh moved through its ordinary afternoon, entirely unaware that in a hotel ballroom two people who had found each other in an emergency room were making it permanent.
Inside, it was everything you had said you wanted.
Small. Real. People who knew you.
The rest of it, the rings and the words and the moment the priest said what he said and Jack looked at you and you looked back at him, that part belonged only to the two of you.
Some things don't need an audience to be true.
They just need to happen.
And this one did.
*************
The Reception and The Morning After
The reception was everything a wedding should be and nothing it didn't need to be.
The food came out in waves, each one better than the last, the kind of meal that made people stop mid-conversation just to acknowledge what was happening on their plate. The DJ read the room perfectly, pulling the energy up and letting it breathe at exactly the right moments. A singer came on after midnight and the dancefloor, which had started cautiously, became something genuinely joyful.
It was loud and warm and real in the way that only happens when every person in a room actually wants to be there.
But the moment that made the hotel truly erupt was later.
When the guests finally made their way upstairs, full and happy and slightly overwhelmed by the evening, they found their rooms waiting. The coffee machine they already knew about. The massage gun they had discovered earlier. But on the desk beside them was something else. An envelope. Inside, a cheque.
Each one different, each one specific. Some covered rent. Some cleared medical school debt that had been sitting quietly for years. Some handled bills that people had stopped mentioning out loud because mentioning them had stopped feeling useful.
The calls started within minutes. Room to room, corridor to corridor, voices spilling under doors and through walls. Mateo's laugh was audible from two floors down. Someone, nobody admitted who, started crying in the stairwell. The hotel, which had been built for quiet luxury, handled the noise with grace.
Greg, sitting in the small office he had commandeered near the lobby, listened to the sounds traveling down through the building and allowed himself exactly one minute of satisfaction before going back to his tablet.
******
The next morning the hotel restaurant was warm and unhurried, sunlight coming through the tall windows, the kind of breakfast that had no agenda attached to it.
You and Jack came down together.
The crew was already there, spread across two tables that had been pushed together at some point without asking permission. They looked up when you walked in and the table got louder immediately.
Dana stood first. She crossed the room and hugged you before you could say anything, properly, with both arms, the way Dana did everything when she decided to do it. "Thank you," she said quietly, close to your ear. "For all of it. The room, the cheque, everything." She stopped. Started again. "Just. Thank you."
Ellis was next, which surprised you because Ellis expressed warmth in precise, careful doses. She took your hand in both of hers and looked at you with the direct, steady gaze she used when she meant something completely. "You deserve every good thing," she said simply. "Both of you."
Mateo bypassed formality entirely and hugged Jack first, which Jack endured with the expression of a man who had accepted that this was happening. "Best wedding I've ever been to," Mateo said, pulling back. "And I've been to eleven. This was the best one. It wasn't close."
Shen raised his coffee cup from across the table without getting up, which was entirely Shen. "Congratulations," he said. "Long marriage. Many years. And please keep the coffee machine coming."
Then Robby stood up.
The table went quiet on its own, the way it always did when Robby had something to say. He was holding an envelope in one hand, different from the others, thicker. He had not opened it at the table. You knew he had opened it last night, alone in his room, because Greg had told you so in a single text message. Just the words: he sat with it for a while.
He looked at Jack first. "You're the best doctor I've ever worked with," he said. "And I've worked with a lot of doctors. Most of them insufferable." A beat. "You're only occasionally insufferable. That counts for something."
Jack said nothing. But something in his face shifted quietly.
Then Robby looked at you. He held up the envelope slightly. "Round the world tickets," he said. His voice was steady but carrying something underneath it. "For two." He paused. "You didn't have to do that."
"I know," you said.
"She mentioned she wanted to see more of the world," Robby continued, and you knew without asking that he meant his girlfriend, the cardiologist who had borrowed your jet and changed everything. "I don't know how you knew that."
"She mentioned it to me," you said simply.
Robby let out a breath that was almost a laugh. He looked down at the envelope for a second, then back at you both. "I've watched a lot of people come through the Pitt," he said. "Patients, staff, families. You learn pretty quickly who people actually are when things get hard." He looked at Jack. Then at you. "You two are the real thing. Anyone who's been paying attention knows that." He raised his coffee cup. "Long marriage. Many years. And maybe some kids who inherit her bank account and his patience."
"Hear hear," said Mateo immediately.
"Strongly seconded," Ellis added.
You looked at Jack. He looked back at you. "I told you," you said. "I told you they would wish us well." You felt it settle in your chest, warm and certain. "Not a single bet. Not like my family."
Jack pressed his lips together. Something in his expression shifted in a way you recognized.
"Jack," you said slowly.
"Hm."
"They're not making bets."
A pause. Brief. Telling.
"Jack Abbott."
He leaned toward you and lowered his voice so it landed only at your ear. "The bet," he said carefully, "is on how many kids we're going to have."
The heat reached your ears before your brain finished processing the sentence. You turned to look at the table. Mateo was studying the ceiling. Shen had become very interested in his orange juice. Dana had her coffee cup raised high enough to cover most of her face. Ellis was the only one who met your eyes, completely unashamed, with the expression of a woman who had put money on a specific number and felt good about it.
The laugh came out before you could stop it. Sudden and real and completely unguarded, the kind that turned heads at the neighboring tables.
Jack watched you laugh with the quiet, settled expression of a man who had gotten exactly what he wanted.
"How much?" you managed finally.
"The pot is considerable," Jack said.
"Who started it?"
Everyone at the table found something else to look at simultaneously.
"Greg," Jack said.
*********
The Abbott Kids
Just like the Pitt crew had wished, you and Jack had two kids. Robby, Dana, and Ellis won the bet. Their names were Nora Abbott and Leo Abbott.
By the time Nora turned six and Leo turned five, the Pitt staff had collectively accepted that the Abbott children were simply part of the hospital's ecosystem now.
Nora was yours in every way that mattered. She had your energy, your confidence, and your absolute refusal to accept any situation she hadn't personally approved of. She walked into rooms like she already owned them or was actively considering the purchase. She could negotiate her way out of anything and expressed her opinions with a directness that made grown adults briefly reconsider their positions. She was six years old and she already had a preferred table at two restaurants in Pittsburgh.
Leo was a different story.
He had Jack's eyes. Jack's quiet. Jack's way of standing slightly apart from a situation and watching it fully before deciding to enter it. He followed Jack to the Pitt on weekends with the focused dedication of someone who had already picked a direction and was simply gathering information. He was five and had already correctly identified two ear infections and one case of strep throat among the neighborhood kids. Jack confirmed all three without comment, but something in his expression each time suggested he was filing it away carefully.
They were nothing alike. Except that both of them were completely certain of themselves.
Jack said this was good. You said it was inevitable. You were both right.
************
Leo had been following Jack around the Pitt since he could walk fast enough to keep up.
He was quiet about it the way Jack was quiet about everything. He watched the nurses with careful attention, sat at the station with a juice box and said very little, but his eyes moved constantly. The staff had adopted him completely. Mateo taught him card tricks. Ellis let him listen through her stethoscope. Shen had made the mistake of explaining blood pressure readings and now Leo checked his own wrist with two fingers every morning at breakfast.
He was five and the Pitt already felt like home.
Which meant he had opinions about it.
"Dad," Leo said, falling into step beside Jack between bays, small legs working double time. "You could be the director."
"No thanks," Jack said.
"Mom doesn't officially own the hospital. But you're her husband. You have authority."
"I've seen your mother run things," Jack said. "I know what it costs. No thanks."
Leo considered this for two seconds. "Then why stay if you could have more power?"
Jack stopped. He looked down at his son and gave him the real answer, because Leo always knew the difference.
"Because the director gets nervous when I'm around," he said. "And I find that extremely entertaining."
Leo stared at him. Then came the slow quiet smile — Jack's exact smile.
Robby appeared from around the corner. He looked at Leo. Then at Jack. "What kind of vocabulary are you teaching him?"
"His kindergarten is already teaching him to buy gold," Jack said.
Robby looked at Leo. "Is that true?"
"Next week we learn about stocks," Leo said seriously.
Robby patted his head slowly. "Good job."
Leo accepted this with a small dignified nod and kept following Jack down the corridor.
Robby watched them go and shook his head.
"He's going to take over this place someday," he said to nobody.
From the nurse's station Ellis didn't look up. "He already knows which attending to avoid and where the good coffee is." A pause. "He's halfway there."
*************
Nora had been following you to work since she was four.
It started because you had a breakfast meeting, the nanny called in sick, and Greg said with complete confidence that it would be fine. It was fine. Nora sat at the corner of the conference table with a juice box and a coloring book and didn't make a single sound for two hours. Three board members commented afterward that she had better meeting presence than most of their junior executives.
She was six now and Greg had stopped pretending she needed supervision.
She walked beside you through the office with the proprietary ease of someone who had decided this was also her domain. Occasionally her small hand would reach up for yours in a crowded corridor, but otherwise she moved with complete independence.
"Greg," she said, passing his desk without stopping. "The eleven o'clock ran over yesterday. It shouldn't run over."
Greg looked up from his tablet. Then at you. Then back at Nora. "You're right," he said seriously. "I'll adjust the buffer."
"Thank you," Nora said, and kept walking.
You looked at Greg over your shoulder. He was already typing, completely unbothered.
You caught up to Nora. "You're six," you said.
"The meeting ran over," she said simply.
You had nothing to argue with that.
The harder moments came at family events.
Your father's side had not entirely adjusted to the fact that you were no longer available to be pressured into financial decisions. Most had learned this the hard way. But there were always one or two who tried again at gatherings, convinced that the presence of children would soften you.
They had not accounted for Nora.
At a family lunch one of your cousins cornered you near the drinks table, already three sentences into a pitch, when Nora appeared at your side.
She looked up at him. He looked down at her with the instinctive softening people had around small children. First mistake.
"My mom is busy," Nora said.
"I'm just having a conversation—"
"She's busy," Nora said again. Final.
He looked at you. You looked back with the neutral expression of a woman genuinely curious how this would resolve.
He tried again. "I just wanted to discuss a small opportunity—"
Nora's face crumpled. Carefully. Gradually. The lip wobble, the glassy eyes, one single tear tracking down her cheek with impeccable timing.
"I just wanted to spend time with my mom," she said, at exactly the frequency that activated guilt in every adult within ten feet. "But someone always takes her away."
Your cousin looked like he had committed a crime. He muttered something about catching up another time and retreated quickly.
Nora watched him go. The tears stopped with the efficiency of someone turning off a tap.
You looked down at her. "Where did you learn that."
"Learn what?" she said.
You studied her face. It gave you nothing.
Later you stood in Greg's doorway. "Did you teach my daughter to fake cry."
Greg maintained eye contact with the composure of a man who had prepared for this. "I taught her that emotional intelligence is a valuable tool in high pressure social situations."
"Greg."
"She asked," he said simply. "She was very specific. I provided educational support."
You stared at him. Then left without responding because you didn't entirely disagree.
That night at dinner Jack watched Nora and Leo eat their vegetables unprompted. Unlike you, they like to eat veggies.
"What did she do?" he said quietly.
"Made a grown man feel guilty for existing," you said. "Using tears."
Jack looked at Nora. Nora looked at her plate. The picture of innocence.
Jack looked at Nora. Nora looked at her plate. The picture of innocence.
"She took it seriously," Jack said.
"It was you?.”
"I told her to guard you when I'm not there," he said simply. He picked up his fork.
You turned to Nora. She looked up and caught you both watching her. She smiled. Your smile, arriving with complete confidence, knowing exactly what it was doing.
"She's yours," Jack said.
"She really is," you agreed.
*********
It started at the dinner table, the way most things in the Abbott household started — without warning and with complete commitment from both parties.
"Doctors don't make as much money as CEOs," Nora said, with the casual authority of someone stating a fact she had verified personally.
Leo looked up from his rice. "Doctors save lives."
"CEOs create jobs," Nora said. "Which also saves lives. Indirectly."
"That's not the same thing."
"It's related."
Leo put his chopsticks down, which in Abbott family body language meant he was taking this seriously. "Dad pulled someone back from a flatline last week."
"Mom pulled three companies back from bankruptcy last month," Nora said. "That's three sets of employees who still have income. Which means they can afford healthcare." She tilted her head slightly. "Which means they can afford doctors."
Leo stared at her. "You can't put a price on saving someone's life."
"You can't run a hospital without funding," Nora said. "Who do you think pays for dad's equipment?"
A brief silence.
"Mom," Leo said.
"Exactly," Nora said.
You and Jack had stopped eating approximately thirty seconds into this exchange. You were both sitting very still in the way of people who had recognized something extraordinary was happening and did not want to interrupt it.
Jack looked at you. You looked at Jack.
Leo picked his chopsticks back up, regrouped, and tried a different angle. "Dad works nights. He misses sleep. He misses dinners. He does it because people need him." He paused. "That's noble."
Nora considered this genuinely, which you recognized as a dangerous sign. It meant she was about to say something that would end the argument.
"Dad is noble," she agreed. "Mom is powerful." She picked up her glass. "Noble people make the world better. Powerful people make it possible for noble people to do that." She took a sip. "They need each other."
Leo was quiet for a moment.
Then he looked at Jack. "Dad."
"Yeah," Jack said.
"She's right."
Jack picked up his chopsticks. "I know."
"That's annoying," Leo said.
"Yeah," Jack said again. "Get used to it."
Nora said nothing. She returned to her dinner with the composure of a woman who had made her point and saw no need to elaborate.
You pressed your lips together very hard.
Jack nudged your foot under the table without looking at you.
You nudged back.
Above the table your two children ate their dinner in the temporary peace of people who had reached a conclusion and were already, quietly, preparing for the next disagreement.
After a moment Jack leaned slightly toward you. Low enough that it stayed between the two of you. "Noble and powerful," he said.
"She's six," you said.
"She quoted supply chain logic at dinner."
"She learned it from me."
"She applied it correctly," Jack said. "That part was her."
You looked at Nora, currently eating with perfect posture and the satisfied energy of someone who had filed the evening under completed business. Then at Leo, who was asking Jack something about blood pressure with the focused intensity he brought to everything that interested him.
"We made interesting kids," you said quietly.
Jack considered this for a second. "Terrifying kids."
"Same thing," you said.
Jack picked up his glass. "Yeah," he said. "Same thing."
Summary : You spoil Jack's world. He refuses to let you fall apart.
Character: Jack Abbot x rich wife!reader
Words Count: 9,802
Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3
More Jack Abbot stories : 2nd Masterlist
A/N: I’m shocked!!! I didn’t expect you all to love Private Patient this much. As a token of my gratitude, here’s Chapter 2. I hope you enjoy it.
Ooh and this story is in the same timeline with Robby’s story You’ve Found Me Anyway
The morning your bed wasn’t cold
The morning was different. For the first time in years, the crushing weight in your chest had vanished, replaced by a stillness you hadn’t known was possible. There was no racing pulse, no mental checklist of the day’s liabilities. Just quiet.
It took a moment to realize the source of the heat was Jack.
His arm was draped loosely across your waist, a steady, grounding weight that felt like it had been there for a lifetime. He was breathing slow and deep, completely at ease in a way that made your own defenses crumble. You stayed still, watching the way the dawn light caught the rough stubble on his jaw. You didn't want to move; you didn't want this to be a one-time residency.
He shifted, his dark eyes opening halfway before settling on you with a quiet intensity. “You’re awake.”
“You snore,” you murmured, your voice still thick with sleep.
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“Barely,” he countered, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.
The air between you felt thick, charged with a gravity that went beyond the physical. You turned onto your side, propping your head up on one hand. “I slept well. I usually don't.”
“I can tell,” Jack said, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your eyes again.
The atmosphere shifted, turning a little more serious. “It would be annoying,” you said softly, “if this only happened once.”
Jack looked at you properly then, fully awake, his focus narrowing. “It doesn’t have to,” he said. He let the words hang there, heavy with implication. “Depends on how much effort you’re willing to put in.”
You narrowed your eyes, though there was no real bite in the look. “That sounds expensive. I’ve already donated enough to your hospital.”
“To the hospital,” he corrected, his voice dropping an octave. “Not to me.”
You let out a short, breathless laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”
“That’s what I’ve been told.” He sat up, the sheets pooling at his waist as he glanced at the clock. “I’m off today.”
“Lucky me.” You reached for your phone immediately, the "CEO" stirring back to life.
Jack watched your fingers fly across the screen. “What are you doing?”
“Telling Greg to book a restaurant.”
He blinked, then glanced at the time again. “It’s nine in the morning.”
“By the time we get there, it’ll be lunch.” You didn’t even look up.
There was a long, expectant silence. Jack leaned back against the headboard, watching the clinical efficiency with which you handled your life. “Where are we going?”
“New York.”
He stared at you, searching your face to see if this was some high-level tease. You were already typing the flight coordinates.
“…You’re serious,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.
You glanced at him over the edge of the phone, a small, knowing smile tugging at your mouth. “Very.”
******
A few hours later, Jack was sitting in a quiet, high-end restaurant in New York, still trying to process how quickly the day had shifted. One moment he was in bed, half asleep. The next, he was here, a plate set in front of him by a chef he vaguely recognized from somewhere.
He looked at you across the table. You seemed completely at ease, like this was just another normal decision.
His phone buzzed.
Shen: ‘didn’t you complain about gas prices yesterday? why are you in new york at some fancy restaurant? what did you even do?’
Jack glanced at the message, then typed back, ‘I just warmed up my patient’s bed.’
The reply came almost instantly.
Shen: ‘yeah right. billionaire bed.’
Jack looked at the screen for a second, then locked his phone.
“Yup,” he said under his breath. He didn’t bother denying it. Some things weren’t worth arguing.
And honestly, he wasn’t about to say no to the privilege.
**********
The time you walked into Jack’s world again
By the time Jack got back on shift, the teasing had already started.
Dana didn’t even look up from her chart. “So. New York.”
Robby leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Fancy restaurant. Celebrity chef. That you?”
Jack put his stethoscope around his neck, “I ate.”
“That’s all you’re going with?” Dana asked.
“That’s all that matters.”
Robby let out a low laugh. “Didn’t even deny it.”
Jack didn’t. There wasn’t a point. He had enjoyed it. All of it.
“I heard she’s here,” Robby added, glancing toward the entrance. “That’s why I’m still around.”
“Yeah,” Dana said. “She wants to check the renovation.”
Robby nodded toward the front. “The director practically ran downstairs when security spotted her car. Hard to miss a black Rolls-Royce parked outside.”
*****
You hadn’t planned to stay long.
Just a quick visit. Check the progress, say hi, then back to the company.
But the moment you stepped inside, the hospital director was already there, greeting you like he had been waiting.
“Thank you for your donation,” he said, almost breathless. “It’s made a huge difference. The new air conditioning, the upgraded system… we couldn’t have done it without you.”
You gave a small, polite nod. “You helped me when I needed it. I’m just returning the favor.”
He hesitated. “That kind of support… it’s worth millions.”
You didn’t react. “It’s nothing.”
The director blinked, clearly not expecting that answer. Millions, and you called it nothing.
You shifted slightly, already moving on. “Excuse me. I’d like to see the E.R before I head back to the office.”
“Yes. Of course,” he said quickly, stepping aside.
You stepped further into the Pitt, slowing down just enough to take everything in. Nurses moved quickly between beds, voices overlapping, monitors beeping in uneven rhythm. It wasn’t controlled the way your world was. It was louder. Messier. But it worked.
Your gaze shifted across the room until it landed on Jack.
He was at the table, focused on a chart. One hand braced against the surface, posture relaxed but steady. He looked up like he felt you there.
You walked toward him.
“I thought I was an annoying patient,” you said as you stopped beside him. “Turns out there are much worse.”
Jack glanced past you briefly, then back. “Welcome to the Pitt. Especially night shift. It gets wilder.”
You let out a quiet breath. “Every day I deal with childish business partners. I almost lost my patience. How do you handle this?”
“Therapy,” he said. “And I like the adrenaline. I spend some of my time with a SWAT team.”
You blinked. “What?”
Dana, passing by, didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah. He spends his day off getting shot at.”
You hummed, like it was just another detail. “So… you’re good with guns? That’s great. I got an invitation from the King of the U.K. for a hunting week.”
Dana froze for a second. Jack looked at you, brows lifting slightly. Did you just mention the king like he was an old acquaintance?
“No,” he said. “That’s not the same thing.”
Before he could say more, Robby stepped in, clearly having waited for the moment. “Since you’re here,” he said, half-grinning, “do you want to give us orders? You did fund half of this place.”
You tilted your head slightly, almost tempted. Then you shook it. “I could. But I won’t. I’d ruin the system you’ve built. And I don’t feel like making more work for my doctor.”
Jack gave a small nod. “That's an improvement.”
Robby chuckled under his breath.
You stepped a little closer, eyes dropping briefly to his name tag. “Dr. Robby…”
“Yeah?” he said.
A small pause, then your expression shifted with recognition. “That’s why your name sounds familiar. You’re the reason my father’s cardiologist borrowed our private jet.”
Robby blinked. “What?”
“My company sponsored her seminar,” you continued. “She left right after her talk. Skipped the Q and A.”
Robby ran a hand over the back of his neck. “She mentioned something about that. Did it… mess things up?”
You shook your head lightly. “No. Everything was handled. She said someone close to her needed help.”
Robby’s expression softened. “Yeah. That sounds like her.”
“Well,” you said simply, “it worked out. For both sides.”
“Thank you,” he said, a little more sincerely now, before stepping away.
You glanced back at Jack. “Small world.”
“Thanks to your jet, he’s doing better,” Jack said. “He’s not alone anymore.”
You looked at him for a second. “That sounds poetic.”
“I heard it somewhere.”
You studied him, then said, “You should come to my office sometime. Different kind of chaos. You might understand why I’m stressed.”
Jack met your gaze, calm as ever. “I don’t need to see it to know you don’t slow down.”
A small pause.
“But I’ll come anyway.”
That landed.
You gave a faint smile, stepping back. “Good.”
Jack added, almost casually, “Robby’s been the main topic for a while. Someone flying across the world like that.”
You shrugged. “From what I hear, he needed it.”
Then your eyes flicked back to Jack. “You have access too, you know.” You leaned in, pressing a brief kiss to his cheek, before turning and walking away.
Dana stared after you for a second, then slowly turned to Jack. “Did you hear that, Jack?”
Jack didn’t move right away. His hand rested on the table, eyes still on the direction you’d walked out.
“Yeah,” he said.
Dana crossed her arms. “And?”
Jack finally looked back at her, calm as ever. “I’m not using a jet for groceries.”
*******
The time you spoiled The Pitt (again)
The food arrived without warning. There was no formal announcement, no corporate explanation—just a mountain of boxes. Real ones. They were still radiating heat, the scent of charcoal and rosemary cutting through the sterile, metallic air of the hospital.
Mateo opened the first container and froze, the steam hitting his face. He let out a long, shaky breath. “God bless that woman,” he muttered, reaching for a portion of prime rib with the reverence of a man discovering gold. “I haven’t eaten a meal like this on a Tuesday in years.”
The ER staff didn't hesitate. They descended like a tactical unit, grabbing high-protein fuel between the chaos of incoming patients. Across the hall, a nurse from Radiology slowed down, her eyes widening at the spread.
“Is that… actual steak?” she whispered.
Mateo didn’t even look up from his container. “No. It’s oxygen. Keep walking.”
It didn’t stop with the food. A week later, the ER looked different. A new rest suite had been installed—not a lumpy chair in a dark corner with a moth-eaten blanket, but a sanctuary. It was soundproofed, temperature-controlled, and filled with clean beds and soft, recessed lighting. It was a space designed for doctors and nurses to actually recover.
There was no name attached to the donation. No brass plaque. But in the Pitt, everyone knew whose signature was on the check.
Then came the cafeteria. The mystery "vendor" had upgraded everything. The coffee no longer tasted like burnt rubber, and fresh pastries appeared every morning. Santos stood at the counter one afternoon, holding a ceramic cup and staring at it as if it might vanish.
“This is dangerous,” she said, inhaling the rich aroma. “I might never leave this department.”
Jack noticed. He noticed every single detail. But he didn't say anything, not even when the silence in the ER became a little more comfortable. Not until he walked into his own office one night and stopped dead.
The chair was new—ergonomic, high-tech, and perfectly fitted. The desk adjusted with a silent, expensive hum, and the lighting had been repositioned exactly where it needed to be to reduce eye strain. He stood there for a long minute, taking in the quiet luxury of it.
Dana leaned against the doorframe, watching him. “You mentioned your back once,” she noted.
Jack didn’t look at her. “I didn’t ask for this.”
She said with a soft smile. “You don’t have to.”
The rest of the hospital caught on quickly. The tension grew between floors. Surgery started complaining to the Chief; Radiology began asking pointed questions about budget allocations. Admin stopped pretending they were in the dark.
“Why does the ER get everything?” someone muttered loudly in the hallway as a new shipment of high-grade scrubs arrived.
“Because we survive the worst,” Mateo shot back, passing by with a grin. “And we have better friends than you.”
Later that night, the department was uncharacteristically still. Ellis leaned against the nurse’s station, watching Jack’s back.
“I pray that Dr. Abbott marries her,” she said under her breath, her voice full of sincere hope.
Shen didn't even look up from his charts, but he immediately held out a fist. “Amen to that.”
They bumped fists in a silent pact. Jack, halfway to his door, stopped just long enough for the words to register. He didn't turn around to acknowledge them, but the corner of his mouth quivered in the shadows.
“I’m still trying to get her to eat a vegetable that isn't a garnish,” he muttered to the empty hallway.
Mateo snorted from across the room, and Shen just shook his head.
“Man’s fighting the real battle,” Shen whispered. “Godspeed, Abbott.”
******
The time you handled the Hacker
You didn’t expect to feel the tension the moment you stepped into the Pitt, but the air was thick with it. Phones were ringing incessantly, and the usual hum of the department had sharpened into a controlled panic. People were moving fast, their faces tight with a stress that had nothing to do with medicine.
“What’s going on?” you asked, already scanning the room with a practiced, analytical eye.
“Cyberattack,” Robby said, his fingers flying across a station that refused to respond. He didn't even look up.
Jack was a few feet away, pacing with a phone pressed to his ear. He glanced at you as you approached, his expression grim. “System’s locked. We’re switching to manual charting, but it’s a mess. They’re asking for a ransom.”
You blinked, your voice dropping into a low, dangerous calm. “A hospital? They’re hitting a hospital?”
“Patient records, emails, surgical histories,” Jack said, his jaw tight. “They’re threatening to sell the entire database if we don't pay by the hour.”
You exhaled slowly, the gears already turning. You didn't ask for permission. You just pulled out your phone and dialed. “Greg. Get our IT security team on this. Now.”
Jack lowered his phone, his brow furrowing as he studied you. “Why are we calling your office, exactly?”
You didn't look at him, your focus already on the next move. “Because we’ve dealt with this before. And since I’ve invested heavily in this facility, that makes this my problem, too.”
Jack studied you for a long beat, the weight of the situation shifting. He saw the shift in your posture—the way you stepped into a crisis not as a visitor, but as a commander. “…Thank you,” he said, his voice quieter, more private.
You glanced at him, the hardness in your expression softening just enough to press a quick, reassuring kiss to his cheek. “You’re welcome.”
It didn’t take long. Ten minutes later, your phone vibrated.
“Yeah?” you answered. You listened for a moment, your expression never wavering. “Oh. You found them already?” Another pause. “Drone is ready? Good.”
Robby slowly turned his head toward you, his eyes wide. You lowered the phone slightly, looking between him and Jack as if you were asking about the weather.
“Do you want them neutralized?”
The silence that followed was absolute.
“…Who?” Robby asked, his voice cracking slightly.
“The hackers,” you said, sounding almost confused by the question. “We have their physical location. It’s an apartment complex three towns over.”
Jack stared at you, his medical mind trying to reconcile the woman he knew with the cold efficiency of the question. “What exactly do you mean by ‘neutralized’?”
On the other end of the line, Greg’s voice was audible in the quiet room—calm, precise, and chillingly ready. “Target confirmed. Awaiting instruction.”
You tilted your head, your voice dropping to a lethal chill. “They’re using patient data. They’re holding sick and vulnerable people hostage for a paycheck.” You gave a small, elegant shrug. “I don’t like that. I don't like it at all.”
Robby looked at Jack, his face pale. “I don’t think we need to go that far—”
“Wait—hold on!” Dana’s voice cut in from across the room. She was holding a headset to her ear, a look of shock on her face. “IT says the encryption is breaking. The system’s coming back up. They’re regaining control.”
A beat of heavy silence followed. Jack didn’t take his eyes off you, his gaze searching yours. “No casualties,” he said firmly.
You held his stare for a second, measuring the line he wouldn't cross. Then, you nodded.
“Alright,” you said into the phone. “Stand down. Secure the data, then send the GPS coordinates and the identity logs to the police instead.” You paused. “And make sure the police have enough to make it a very loud arrest.”
“Tsked.” Greg clicked his tongue. “Understood. Aborting the strike.”
You hung up and slipped the phone into your bag as if you’d just finished a routine business call. Around you, the monitors flickered back to life. The rhythmic beeping of stabilized heart monitors returned, and the noise of the Pitt smoothed out into its normal, frantic rhythm.
You glanced at the nearest screen, then at the hospital director who had just rushed in. “Seems like it’s handled.”
The director nodded, breathless and clearly struggling to keep up with the pace of the last five minutes. “Yes… yes, it appears so.”
“You should seriously upgrade your IT security,” you added, your tone perfectly professional. “My team left a list of the vulnerabilities they found while they were in your system.”
“…We will. Immediately.”
For a moment, no one said anything. It wasn't because they didn't have questions—it was because they didn't even know where to start. Jack exhaled quietly, running a hand over his face. In his world, problems meant triage, protocols, and slow, steady procedures. In yours, problems simply disappeared before they could escalate.
He looked at you again, seeing something he hadn't fully grasped before. You weren't just powerful; you were dangerous. You were a woman who moved pieces on a board most people didn't even know existed.
Santos didn’t even look up from the chart she was typing, her fingers moving with renewed speed. “Badass,” she muttered under her breath, accepting the new reality as an established fact.
Robby leaned in closer to Jack, his voice dropping to a frantic whisper. “Man, whatever you do… don’t ever get on her bad side.”
Jack shifted, folding his arms across his chest. He watched you navigate the room, his gaze fixed on you with a mixture of pride and a deep, settled understanding.
“Don't worry, Robby,” Jack said, his voice steady and warm. “I’m always on her good side.
*******
The time the ER came first
The charity event was everything it was supposed to be: polished, controlled, and obscenely expensive. Jack stood beside you, one hand resting loosely at the small of your back, listening more than speaking. He didn’t belong in a room full of venture capitalists and socialites, and somehow, that only made him stand out more.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it once, his eyes narrowing into that sharp, clinical focus you knew so well.
"ER," he said.
You didn’t hesitate. "Go."
He looked at you, searching your face to be sure. You tilted your head slightly, a small, knowing smirk playing on your lips. "They need you, Jack. And I don’t date a doctor who ignores his patients."
That was all the permission he needed. He leaned in just enough to press a brief, lingering kiss to your temple before turning and disappearing into the crowd without another word.
The Pitt was a symphony of chaos until the sliding glass doors hissed open.
For a second, the room went quiet. It wasn't a total silence, just a collective pause as the staff realized who had just walked onto the floor. Jack stepped through the doors still in his midnight-blue suit, the tailored lines of the fabric looking impossibly sharp against the sterile, white-tiled background.
"What’s the status?" he asked, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade.
Shen blinked, momentarily stunned as he looked Jack up and down. "Where the hell did you come from? A Bond movie?"
"Charity gala," Jack muttered, already moving toward the trauma bay.
Ellis answered immediately, her professional rhythm kicking in. "Male, mid-thirties. Penetrating trauma, left abdomen. Hypotensive. FAST exam is positive."
Jack was at the bedside in seconds, his hands moving with practiced ease even as he stood there in silk and wool. "Vitals?"
"BP eighty over fifty. Heart rate one-thirty," she said.
He nodded once, his gaze fixed on the monitor. "He’s bleeding internally. We don’t have time to wait for a CT."
He began peeling off his suit jacket, tossing it toward an empty chair with a flick of his wrist. He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled the sleeves up past his elbows, revealing the toned, scarred forearms of a man who spent his life in the trenches. A nurse stepped in, whisking the jacket away, while another tied a surgical mask into place over his face.
"Let’s move," Jack commanded. "Prep for an exploratory lap. Type and cross, start the blood."
Mateo, prepping the tray, muttered under his breath, "I bet that shirt costs more than my annual salary."
Jack didn’t even look at him as he snapped on his gloves. "Then let’s not ruin it, Mateo. Scalpel."
They moved fast. There was no hesitation, no wasted motion. Jack guided the team through the hemorrhage control, his voice staying level and rhythmic as he clamped and repaired. It was a high-stakes dance, and Jack was the lead.
"Pressure’s stabilizing," Garcia announced, her voice filled with relief.
"Good. Keep it there."
Minutes stretched, then finally settled into a steady hum. The bleeding stopped. The patient held.
"He’s stable," Garcia confirmed.
Jack stepped back from the table, pulling off his gloves with a sharp snap. "Nice work, everyone. Get him up to the ICU."
By the time he walked out of the scrub room, his sleeves were rolled down and his suit jacket was back in place. He looked like he’d just stepped off a yacht, not out of a bloody abdomen.
"I have to go," he said, heading toward the exit. "Can’t disappoint my date."
Shen huffed, shaking his head as he watched him go. "Yeah, go. Before she decides to upgrade another department out of boredom."
Outside, the night air was cool and quiet. And there it was, the black Rolls-Royce, idling at the curb like it had been part of the pavement the whole time. Jack walked up, opened the heavy door, and paused.
You were sitting in the back, the soft glow of the interior lights catching the diamonds at your throat. He raised a brow slightly. "You left the party?"
"The gala already got my money," you murmured, leaning back against the leather seat and watching him with a predatory sort of admiration. "And my date needed a ride home. I figured I should come pick him up."
Jack slid into the seat beside you, the scent of the hospital fading as the door shut out the world. He looked at you, truly looked at you, and the adrenaline of the ER was replaced by a different kind of heat. He hadn't expected you to wait, let alone come to his doorstep.
You let your fingers trace the sharp line of his jaw, your voice dropping to a flirty hum. "And I have much better plans for that suit than a hospital trauma bay."
Jack caught your hand, his thumb grazing your palm as he pulled you closer, his eyes dark. "Is that so?"
"Consider it a reward for your service," you whispered.
*******
The time Jack’s day didn’t get interrupted
“Cherry blossoms should be in full bloom next week,” you said, your thumb gliding over the vibrant displays on your phone. “Japan. I think we need a change of scenery.”
Jack didn’t even look up from the chart in his hands, his pen moving in a steady, rhythmic scratch. “I can’t go with you.”
You glanced at him, the luxury of the suggestion hanging in the air. “Why?”
“I have a deposition.”
You paused, your fingers going still. The word carried a weight that didn't belong in a casual conversation. “…You got sued?”
“A patient case,” he said, finally closing the chart with a heavy thud. “She wanted a free birth at home. Complications arose. She had a stroke, and we had to rush her into surgery to deliver the baby.”
You frowned, your mind already dissecting the liability. “Did she survive?”
“Yeah.”
“The baby?”
“Also fine.”
That made you blink, the logic of the situation failing to meet your standards of reality. “…Then why are you being sued?”
Jack exhaled, a sound of weary resignation. “Battery. Lack of consent for the intervention. It happens more than you’d think.”
“And you have to be there personally?”
“I have to be questioned.”
You tilted your head, your eyes narrowing as you processed the inefficiency of it all. To you, a problem like this wasn't a hurdle; it was a nuisance to be cleared. “You need a better lawyer.”
“I have the hospital’s legal department,” Jack began.
“No,” you cut in, already reaching for your phone with practiced precision. “You need a better one. Someone who doesn't just defend—someone who ends it.”
Jack watched you, a mixture of amusement and concern crossing his face. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Too late.” You pressed the phone to your ear, your voice dropping into that low, authoritative register. “Greg. I need the best litigation team available. The ones who make people reconsider their entire life path.” A pause. “Yes. For him. I want it handled by noon.”
You hung up and looked back at Jack, the matter settled in your mind. “Done.”
A week later, the sterile white of the hospital was thousands of miles away. Jack was standing under a canopy of pale pink, the air cool and smelling of spring.
Petals drifted slowly through the air like organic confetti, catching in your hair and brushing against his sleeve. The Kyoto park was quiet, an almost surreal contrast to the frantic, metallic noise of the Pitt. You walked beside him as if this was perfectly normal—as if whisking a trauma surgeon across the ocean in the middle of a legal battle was just another item on the week's agenda.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out to see a string of messages from Robby.
Robby: Abbott, what the hell?! The plaintiff’s firm just called and apologized. APOLOGIZED. How did you get that lawyer? That guy is a shark in a three-piece suit.
Jack glanced at you. You were watching a group of children near a koi pond, looking entirely peaceful. He looked back at his phone and typed a single line, “Perks of the job.”
A second later, the reply came back.
Robby: Fuck you. Bring me back some sake.
Jack’s mouth curved into a slow, genuine smirk as he slipped the phone back into his pocket. You turned to him, noting the shift in his expression. “What?”
“Nothing.”
He reached out, his hand steady and warm as he brushed a stray petal from your shoulder. His fingers lingered for a second, a silent acknowledgement of the world you had cleared for him.
“Just… good timing,” he said.
And for once, his day didn't get interrupted. No pagers, no depositions, and no one to answer to but the woman who made the impossible look effortless.
*********
The time Jack walked into your world
Greg saw Jack first and straightened his posture instinctively. “Hello, doctor.”
Jack nodded once, his focus already drifting past the assistant toward the glass wall. “How is she doing?”
“Like usual,” Greg replied, checking his watch with a frown. “She missed lunch again. Oh, and she still won’t eat vegetables.”
“That can’t be good.”
Jack’s gaze shifted. Inside the meeting room, you were sitting at the head of the table, spine perfectly straight, expression a mask of controlled frost. Across from you, a young man in a tailored suit was talking fast, his hands moving in a desperate attempt to sell confidence.
Greg leaned a little closer to Jack. “She’s stuck in there. Son of one of the executive board members.” He glanced at the time again. “Give it a minute. She’s about to snap.”
Inside the room, you tapped your pen once against the mahogany table. It was a rhythmic, deadly sound.
“Turning trash into electricity,” you said, your voice deceptively calm. “That’s your pitch?”
“It’s a strong project,” he replied quickly.
“It is,” you agreed. “So I keep asking for one thing. Where has this worked?”
A pause. “We’re still collecting the waste. It’s in progress.”
“So there’s no real example yet.”
“It’s… developing.”
You tapped the pen again, slower this time. “You’re asking for investment without a working model. No proven results. No success rate.”
He straightened, trying to reclaim the room. “We have projections—”
“And you’re asking for how much?” you cut him off.
“Eight million.”
You nodded once, then folded your hands neatly. A small, polite smile touched your lips—the kind that never reached your eyes. “Sure. I’ll give you the money.”
His face lit up. “Thank you—”
“But,” you added. The single syllable acted like a physical barrier. “I want a guarantee. If you fail to deliver within one year, I want to double the investment back.”
His smile vanished. “What?”
“You came here expecting easy money,” you said, your tone leveling out into something cold. “I’ll give it to you. But easy money comes with a price. We have the capital. The question is, can you execute?”
Silence filled the room.
“If you can’t,” you added, leaning in just an inch, “we will chase you for it.”
The confidence drained out of him, his face pale. “We’ll… come back with stronger data.”
“Good.”
When the door opened, he walked out with his shoulders noticeably lower.
Inside, you finally leaned back and exhaled, the mask slipping. Your hand moved to your stomach, pressing lightly against the sharp discomfort of an empty, stressed-out system.
“Was that a bit too straightforward?”
You looked up, startled. Jack was standing there; you hadn’t even heard the door click.
“They offered me nothing,” you replied, brushing off the encounter as you tried to regain your composure. “Beggars shouldn’t ask for more.”
Jack stepped closer, stopping just beside your chair. He leaned down slightly, lowering his voice until it was a private rumble. “You don’t smile at anyone here.”
A beat passed.
“…But you do with me.”
You met his eyes, the hardness in yours melting. “Of course.”
His gaze dropped briefly to the untouched, pristine space on your desk. “You haven’t eaten.”
“No,” you said softly. “That’s why my stomach hurts again.”
Jack reached down and set a lunch box in front of you. You blinked, looking at the simple container. “Is it…?”
“Your lunch.”
You opened it, the steam hitting your face, and then you looked at him. “Did you make this?”
Jack looked suddenly, uncharacteristically uncomfortable. He cleared his throat. “If there’s no flavor, ask Greg for salt. And eat the veggies.”
You laughed—a soft, real sound that echoed in the empty room—and took a bite. It was simple, warm, and better than any five-star meal you'd had in New York. You didn’t realize how long it had been since someone had looked after you this way.
“…Thank you,” you said, your voice quiet.
The door opened again. Greg stepped in, tablet in hand and ready for the next round. “Boss, your schedule—”
“She’s done for today,” Jack said flatly.
You looked up at him, stunned. “…I am?”
“You are.”
There was a pause. You looked at the lunch Jack had made, then at the mountain of work Greg held, and finally back to Jack’s steady, stubborn gaze.
“Alright,” you said, leaning back. “Clear my schedule today, Greg.”
Greg blinked. “Really?”
“Call the vice director,” you said, waving a hand dismissively. “We pay him enough. Give him more work. And you… you can go home.”
Greg broke into a wide grin, giving two thumbs up. “Yes. Absolutely.” He glanced at Jack, a look of pure gratitude on his face. “You’re welcome here anytime, Doc.”
Then he vanished before you could change your mind. In the sudden quiet of the office, you looked at Jack.
"So," you murmured. "Where are you taking me?"
********
Jack didn’t like golf.
He didn’t say it out loud, but it showed in the way he held the club—a little too stiff, like the polished graphite didn't belong in his hands. Still, he followed you across the rolling green without complaint. He was quiet and steady, his focus less on the game and more on the way you moved.
You, on the other hand, moved like you owned the place. Which, in a way, you did.
And as he thought. This golf course is also one of your businesses.
A man in a sharp black suit approached from the perimeter, stopping just short of stepping onto the manicured grass. He didn’t look at Jack; his eyes were fixed solely on you.
“Miss,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a practiced neutrality. “Your father is here.”
You didn’t react immediately. You adjusted your glove, your eyes still fixed on the horizon of the course. The air seemed to chill by a few degrees.
“Of course he is,” you said.
The atmosphere in the private lounge was heavy, the kind of silence that only exists in rooms where every piece of furniture costs more than a year of a surgeon’s salary. The moment the door closed, the pretense evaporated.
Your father didn’t bother easing into the conversation. He sat behind a desk of dark, polished wood, leaning back with a look of bored disapproval.
“A doctor?” he scoffed. “Out of everyone, you pick a doctor? At least choose someone with status. A hospital director. Someone who understands the weight of our name.”
You didn’t even blink. The clinical coldness you usually reserved for boardroom predators settled over your features. “No.”
He frowned, the skin around his eyes tightening. “No?”
“What about you?” you shot back, your voice smooth and dangerous. “Your mistress isn’t exactly qualified for our 'status' either.”
That made him pause, his posture stiffening. “She’s not part of this discussion.”
“Oh, she is,” you said calmly, taking a seat across from him without being asked. “You’re comparing standards, aren't you? Let’s be thorough.”
His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He looked toward the door, where Jack was waiting somewhere out of sight. “He’s not rich. He has nothing to offer this family.”
You almost smiled at that, but it wasn't a kind expression.
“My partner saves lives,” you said, your voice dropping to a low, lethal register. “Yours spends money. If you’re looking for a return on investment, I’d say I’ve made the better choice.”
Your father’s gaze shifted toward the window, looking for any lingering argument. “He only has one leg,” he said, his voice dropping into a tone of dull observation, as if he were pointing out a scratch on a vintage car.
You didn’t even hesitate. The defense was instantaneous, sharp and cold as a blade. “That’s not a flaw,” you countered. “That’s a scar of honor. He served his country while you were sitting in boardrooms.”
A small, heavy pause settled between you. You tilted your head slightly, watching him struggle to find a rebuttal. Your eyes remained locked on his, steady and unforgiving.
“I thought you were patriotic,” you added, the irony dripping from every word. “Didn’t you donate millions for new weapons last year? It’s funny how you love the machinery of war, but can’t stand the sight of the men who actually used it.”
That shut him up.
“I’m not asking for your permission,” you said. “You asked. I answered.”
Silence.
Then, quieter but sharper, “Besides, what do you actually care?”
He sighed because he hated where this conversation was going.
“You turned my life into a competition,” you continued. “You set me against your mistress. You turned half the board to her side. You pushed me to work day and night until I ended up in the hospital.”
“It was just a minor surgery,” he dismissed. “Gastric. You’re fine.”
Something in you snapped.
“For you, it’s entertainment,” you said, your voice tightening for the first time. “Watching me struggle.”
A breath, uneven.
“For me… it wasn’t.”
You held his gaze now. No distance. No control to hide behind.
“He was the one who made me stop,” you said. “He was the one who made me get treated. He looked at me like I was a person who needed help… even when I refused it.”
Your voice dropped.
“Even when I thought I didn’t deserve it.”
That hit harder than anything else.
Your composure slipped just enough to show it. The crack you never let anyone see.
The room went quiet.
You didn’t wait for his response. He doesn't have the right to see your tears.
You turned and walked out before he could say anything that would make it worse.
*****
When you stepped out into the hallway, the heavy silence of the lounge followed you like a ghost. Jack was already there.
He was leaning against the wood-paneled wall, hands buried deep in his pockets, looking like a man who had nowhere else in the world to be. The moment he saw you, he straightened, his focus narrowing.
Jack didn’t just look at you; he saw through you. He caught the slight tension in your jaw, the way your eyes were just a fraction too bright. To anyone else, you were the picture of composure. To him, you were a woman who had just survived a war.
You didn’t say a word. You simply walked toward him, the distance between you vanishing until you stopped, just inches away. You stood there, suspended in the space between you, your breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches.
Jack didn’t wait for an invitation.
His hands came up, certain and slow, pulling you into his space. He gathered you in carefully, as if he already knew exactly where the bruising was. One arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him, while his other hand settled at the back of your head, tucking your face into the crook of his neck.
You let out a long, shuddering breath against his chest—a sound quieter than you expected, but heavy with the weight of everything you’d been carrying.
“You’re alright,” he said softly, his voice a low vibration against your temple.
A pause settled over you both, the luxury of the club fading into the background.
“Your father’s an idiot,” he murmured, his breath warm against your hair.
You let out a small, broken scoff against the fabric of his shirt. “The worst in the world.”
“Yeah,” he whispered, his hand moving in a slow, grounding pass along your back. “I figured.”
For the first time all day, the performance stopped. There was no need for control, no need to be the woman who ran empires. You stayed there, resting your forehead against his shoulder, letting his strength hold you up while you finally let yourself go quiet.
The crash came fast.
The moment the car door clicked shut, the adrenaline that had been keeping you upright evaporated. You didn’t argue about the next meeting or complain about the headache pulsing behind your eyes; you simply leaned your head against the cool leather of the seat and let the world go dark.
Jack, sitting beside you, felt the change instantly. As your head slumped toward his shoulder, the heat radiating from your skin was impossible to ignore. He reached out, his calloused palm grazing your forehead.
He didn’t even need a thermometer. “You have a fever,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, professional steadiness.
Greg, watching through the rearview mirror, gripped the steering wheel tighter. “It happens when the stress piles up. Her body just… shuts down.”
Jack’s jaw tightened, his hand lingering near your temple. “This isn’t just stress.”
Greg hesitated, then sighed, a dry, weary sound. “She’s been like this for years. Always pushing, always trying to prove something to that man. Always trying to make him… proud.”
The words landed heavily in the quiet of the car. Jack looked down at you—pale, fragile, and far away—then shifted his gaze back to Greg.
Greg let out a hollow breath. “Because this whole thing? The company, the pressure, the constant fights? It’s a test. The succession. He wants to see how far she can go before she breaks.”
Jack didn’t like the answer. He didn't like the cold, calculated cost of your inheritance. He looked back at your face, seeing the toll of a lifetime spent trying to win a game that had no finish line.
“That’s not how you measure someone,” he muttered, his voice thick with a sudden, protective heat.
He didn't care about the succession or the empire. He just shifted closer, pulling you more firmly against his side, offering the only thing your father never could: a place where you didn't have to prove a thing.
Jack didn’t explain much. He didn't have to.
"I’m going to meet him," he said.
Greg didn't need a map or a reason. He simply checked his watch and nodded. "He smokes cigars at five. Terrace level. You’ll find him there."
The terrace was a sanctuary of calculated isolation. It was quiet, expensive, and designed to make the rest of the world feel small. Your father sat in a low, leather chair, one leg crossed over the other with a cigar resting between his fingers. The smoke curled lazily into the afternoon air, controlled and deliberate. Everything about the man broadcasted power.
Jack stepped into that space as if the prestige didn't exist.
Your father barely spared him a glance, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "You’re the doctor."
"Yeah."
Jack didn't sit. He stood with his weight balanced, a soldier in a garden.
"As her doctor," Jack began, his voice dropping into a low, steady resonance, "I don’t ignore the source of the problem."
That pulled your father’s attention. He turned his head slowly to look at him properly.
"And you’re the reason she’s sick," Jack added.
A small, dismissive scoff escaped the older man. "She’s under pressure. In our world, that’s normal."
"No," Jack countered. "That’s damage."
Your father waved a hand, the cigar glowing bright for a second as he dismissed the air between them. "If this is a lecture—"
"It’s not," Jack cut in, his tone sharp and clinical. "I’m here to make sure what’s hurting her doesn’t keep happening. I’m a trauma surgeon; I don't just patch the wound. I stop the bleeding."
Silence settled between them, heavy and suffocating.
Your father shifted slightly in his seat. It was a subtle movement, but Jack’s eyes were trained for it. He caught the way the man's shoulders adjusted, the way his breath came just a fraction heavier than before. His fingers tightened briefly around the cigar, revealing a faint, rhythmic tremor.
Jack’s gaze sharpened. "You should get yourself checked."
The reaction was immediate. Your father’s brow furrowed. "...What?"
"Your blood pressure," Jack continued, his voice devoid of emotion. "You’re flushed. Your breathing isn't even. There's a slight tremor in your hand. You’re compensating, but your body is redlining."
Your father frowned, his posture stiffening. "I’m fine."
Jack didn’t argue. He just looked at him with the cold, honest stare of a man who had seen a thousand hearts stop beating.
"You’re not," he said simply.
A long pause followed. Your father shifted again, this time more deliberately, straightening his spine as if posture alone could override biology. But his breath still caught slightly on the exhale.
Jack saw the vulnerability through the expensive suit. Then, quieter, he spoke again. "You won’t last a year like this."
The air on the terrace changed. Your father stared at him now, his irritation edged with a flickering shadow of something else. "Is that supposed to scare me?"
Jack shook his head once. "No."
A beat.
"It’s supposed to give you time."
The silence returned. Jack stepped back, the conversation already over in his mind.
"Fix things with her," he said. "While you still can."
"Are you threatening me?" your father asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low register. "I could have you removed from here. From everything."
Jack didn’t react. Not even a flicker of doubt crossed his face. He simply stood his ground, immovable.
"Try it."
Your father went quiet. The threat hung in the air, empty and useless.
Jack held his gaze, a dark, knowing glint in his eyes. "I have her. And last I checked, you’ve already stepped down. She’s the one running everything now."
A brief pause.
"And she has lawyers who don’t lose."
Something in your father’s expression tightened. It was the look of a man realizing the board had been flipped while he wasn't looking.
Jack gave the smallest hint of a smirk—a cold, jagged thing—then turned and walked out, leaving the room as if it had never belonged to anyone else.
******
You woke up slowly, the dull ache of a fever still lingering under your skin. For a second, you didn't move. You knew this feeling well—the aftermath. It was the familiar tax your body collected after you pushed yourself too far, after another round of psychological warfare with your father.
You hated the weakness of it.
Your eyes shifted, and that’s when you realized you weren’t alone. Jack was beside you, half-leaning against the headboard, his presence a grounded, immovable weight in the quiet room. One arm rested loosely near your side, his posture suggesting he had been there for a long time.
He noticed the moment you stirred. “You’re up.”
Your voice came out softer, thinner than usual. “Did I just shut down again?”
“Yeah,” he said, his gaze steady on yours. “You didn’t even realize I carried you.”
You blinked, turning your head slightly to look at him. “Really?” A small pause followed as you processed the image of him effortlessly taking the weight you couldn't carry. “…I missed that.”
The corner of his mouth lifted just a fraction. “You were out cold. Didn’t miss much.”
You exhaled, letting your head sink deeper into the pillow. The room was calm—too calm compared to the storm of the afternoon. Then, the sharp buzz of your phone broke the silence. You frowned, reaching for it with a heavy hand. Your eyes scanned the notification on the screen and froze.
“What?”
Jack’s attention shifted immediately. “What is it?”
You turned the phone toward him, your thumb trembling slightly. “My dad.” A beat passed as you stared at the words. “He wants to have dinner.”
The silence that followed was heavier than before. Jack looked at the screen, then back at you, reading your reaction more than the message itself.
“He’s never asked first,” you said quietly, the disbelief clear in your tone. “Not once. It’s always a summons, never an invitation.” You glanced back at Jack, suspicion creeping in. “Did you do something?”
Jack held your gaze for a second, his expression unreadable.
“I made it clear that I don’t let my patient get put back in that condition,” he said, his voice as calm as a deep tide. He didn't blink. “And I don’t repeat myself.”
The weight of it settled in your chest. You looked at him a second longer than necessary, something shifting behind your eyes. Not a shock. Not confusion. Realization.
“…You went to see him,” you said. A beat. “And came back alive.”
Jack frowned slightly at that. “I told him you’re the CEO now.” His tone stayed even. “That was enough to shut him down.”
You let out a quiet chuckle, shaking your head against the pillow. “Yeah… you didn’t just shut him down. You pressed right where it hurts.” Your eyes flicked back to him. “He hates that I won.”
“He should start getting used to it,” Jack said.
*******
The Time He Realized He Meant Everything to You
Jack never got sick. He was the one who stitched the world back together, a man built on adrenaline and steady hands. But even the best armor has a chink, and during a high-stakes SWAT call-out, a stray round found the space the Kevlar didn't cover.
This time, the bullet hadn't just grazed him. It had torn through his upper quadrant, shattering a rib and nicking the hepatic artery.
This time, Jack was the patient.
The Pitt was a blur of controlled violence. Robby, Garcia, and Al-Hashimi moved with a frantic precision they usually reserved for strangers, their faces slick with sweat under the harsh fluorescent lights.
"He’s losing too much blood!" Garcia shouted. Her hands were buried deep in gauze, pressing down on the entry wound in his upper quadrant with every ounce of her weight. "Pressure! I need more pressure! The packing is soaking through!"
"We can’t move him to the OR like this," Robby grunted. His face was a ghostly shade of pale as he used both hands to squeeze a bag of O-negative, trying to force life back into Jack’s collapsing veins. "His systolic is dropping through the floor. Stay with me, Jack. Stay with me, buddy."
Inside the fog of shock, Jack was fighting a silent, losing war. Every time his heart thumped, he felt a sickening, hollow slide deep in his chest—the sensation of his own life spilling out onto the trauma table. The voices around him were beginning to warble, stretching out into a low, distorted hum that sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a deep well.
Don't close your eyes, he told himself. The command was a flicker of a thought, weak and flickering like a dying candle. If you close them, you don't wake up.
He tried to draw a breath, but his shattered rib grated against the pleura, a jagged spark of agony that nearly pushed him over the edge into the black. His vision was tunneling, the edges of the room turning into a frayed, gray vignette. He could feel the cold now—a deep, marrow-chilling frost that started at his fingertips and was rapidly claiming his heart.
"He’s in V-fib!" Al-Hashimi yelled, the sharp, rhythmic alarm of the heart monitor suddenly flatlining into a terrifying, continuous shriek. "Get the paddles! Charge to two hundred!"
The team scrambled. Garcia never let go of the wound, even as the air in the room seemed to vibrate with the sheer desperation of their effort.
"Clear!"
Jack’s body arched off the table, a violent, mechanical jolt that felt like a lightning strike to his soul. For a second, there was only the smell of ozone and the heavy metallic scent of blood.
Fight, he thought, his mind clutching at a single image—you, sitting across from him at lunch, laughing at a joke he hadn't finished. Not yet.
Suddenly, a heavy, rhythmic thrumming vibrated through the trauma bay walls. It started as a low growl in the floorboards and escalated into a deafening roar. Outside the glass, the unmistakable downdraft of a heavy helicopter flared, kicking up debris and rattling the medical instruments on their trays.
Robby glanced toward the window, then leaned down, his mouth inches from Jack's ear. "Look. Your girl is here." He gripped Jack’s shoulder, his voice thick with a raw, desperate hope. "She just landed a private bird on our roof, Jack. You can’t disappoint her, right? You know she’ll sue this entire city into the ground if you quit on her. You stay. You stay for her."
The flatline on the monitor stuttered. A single, weak blip appeared. Then another.
Jack’s fingers twitched against the cold metal of the rail. The darkness was still pulling at him, but the roar of that engine felt like a tether. You were here.
You’re here? Jack thought through the fog. You were supposed to be in Japan. The Prime Minister... the meeting...
You had moved heaven and earth to reach him, and he realized with a sudden, sharp clarity that he couldn't leave you alone in a world that didn't deserve you.
"I've got a rhythm," Al-Hashimi breathed, his voice cracking. "It’s faint, but it’s there."
Robby let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for a lifetime. “Thank you, Jack.”
“I’ll take it from here,” Garcia said, her voice firming up. “Let's get him upstairs. Now!”
As the gurney disappeared into the elevator, Robby stepped out into the hallway. He found you standing there, still in your professional suit, your hair windblown from the heli-pad. You looked smaller than he’d ever seen you.
“How is he?” you asked, your voice trembling, a stark contrast to your usual command.
“We stabilized him,” Robby said quickly. “He’s going into surgery now.”
“But?”
“There’s no but,” Robby insisted, placing a steadying hand on your shoulder. “We have the best surgeons in the state in that room. I promise you, Jack is going to make it.”
The dam finally broke. You let out a jagged, broken sob, and Dana was there in a second, pulling you into a hug.
“I can’t lose him,” you whispered into her shoulder, the "CEO" completely gone. “I can’t lose him.”
*****
Four hours later, the world had gone quiet.
The chaotic violence of the trauma bay was a ghost of a memory, replaced by the steady, sterile rhythm of recovery. The soft hiss of the ventilator and the slow, reassuring beep of the heart monitor were the only sounds in the private room.
Jack opened his eyes.
For a second, everything felt distant, as if he were submerged in heavy water. Then, the reality of his own pulse hit him, sharp and grounding. He was alive. He had been on the absolute edge—he knew the physics of the wound too well to think otherwise—and yet, he was still breathing.
The next thing he saw was you.
You were sitting far too close to the bed, your posture uncharacteristically slumped. Your hand was wrapped tightly around his, your knuckles pale from the grip, as if letting go would mean letting him drift back into the dark.
Something in his chest eased, a sensation far deeper than any physical relief.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in Japan?” he croaked, his voice a dry, jagged rasp.
You looked up immediately. Your eyes were red-rimmed and unmistakably shaken, stripped of the polished mask you wore for the world. “Is that the first thing you ask after four hours of surgery?”
“I thought it would be an icebreaker,” Jack murmured, a faint smirk pulling at his lips. “I swear I heard you crying in my dreams. It was loud.”
“Of course I cried, you idiot,” you said, your voice breaking despite your attempt to sound sharp. You shook your head slightly, a jagged breath escaping you. “Unbelievable. You wake up and that’s what you say.”
Jack let out a weak breath, something close to a quiet laugh. Even through the haze of the painkillers, he noticed the way you were trying to hold yourself together.
How come this man still tries to make a joke? you thought, staring at him. Even now.
He lifted his hand slowly. It felt heavier than lead, but you were already leaning in before he even finished the movement. His fingers brushed your cheek, rough and careful at the same time, wiping away a tear you hadn’t realized was falling.
He looked at you, really looked, past the exhaustion and the lingering panic. He looked right into the vulnerability you spent your life protecting.
“The meeting could be rearranged,” you said, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Being here with you is more important than any contract. Any of it.”
Jack’s chest tightened, a pull that had nothing to do with the surgical site. He understood the gravity of those words. You hadn’t just moved things around; you had walked away from the empire you spent every waking hour building. You had walked away for him.
“I made you afraid,” he said quietly, his gaze softening with a heavy, honest guilt.
You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you rested your forehead against his arm, your grip on his hand tightening as if to anchor him there.
“Don’t leave me alone in this world,” you whispered against the sheets. “I need my night-crawl doctor. Who else is going to tell me I’m being ridiculous?”
Jack exhaled slowly, his thumb brushing lightly across the back of your hand. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. His voice was weak, but it carried a certainty that filled the room. “You’re stuck with me.”
He paused, a flicker of the old Abbott returning to his eyes. “And someone has to make sure you actually take care of yourself.”
You let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, the tension finally beginning to drain from your shoulders. Your eyes drifted to the bandages wrapped around his torso, your fingers carefully tracing the edge of the gauze as if making sure he was solid, real, and still yours.
“It’s a battle scar,” you said softly. “A badge of honor.”
Jack closed his eyes for a second, leaning into your touch. “I’d prefer a quieter hobby. Golf doesn’t sound bad now. Maybe I’ll try tennis.”
You shook your head lightly, but your hand didn’t leave his. For the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you had to be in control of everything. You didn't have to be the boss; you just had to be the woman who loved him.
And for the first time in his life, Jack didn’t feel like he was walking into the fire alone. He tightened his hold on your hand just slightly, the rhythmic beep of the monitor sounding more like a victory than a warning.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register. “I’ve still got to get you to eat those vegetables.”
You huffed quietly, resting your head against him again. “We’ll negotiate that.”
Jack’s lips curved faintly. That was fine. He had time now. And more importantly, he had you.
Summary : He’s cold, older, and always in control. You’re the intern who just outplayed him in front of a billion-dollar client. Now you work late nights under his watch, daring him to look. He keeps his distance. You want to ruin his composure.
The tension isn’t the only thing growing between you.
Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi🙏🏻
The conference room gleamed with glass and polished tension. Suits filled every seat around the oval table, sleeves creased, smiles taut. Someone poured still water into tall glasses without ever making eye contact. The city burned behind the floor-to-ceiling windows, but inside, everything felt colder. The kind of cold that came with money.
You sat at the far end. Quiet. Watching.
Across the room, James Buchanan Barnes, adjusted his cufflink with mechanical precision. He didn’t glance at anyone once since walking in. Only focus at his client. His voice, when it came, was low and clipped, made to be obeyed. This was your boss. The one and only. The reason you chose this place to work.
“Our firm understands that Rawlston doesn’t just want results,” Bucky said, pacing. “You want impact. Visibility. Scale.” He clicked the remote. The slide changed. His jaw was set so tight you could see the tension from across the room.
The client, a younger executive named Doyle, leaned back in his chair. Restless. Flashy watch. Legs crossed too easily. He was new money, no doubt, with the sharp instincts of someone who’d built his way out of nothing. He didn’t look convinced.
“I know your portfolio,” Doyle said. “And it’s clean. Polished. But we want something that bleeds a little. The old rules don’t thrill people anymore. Give me something with an edge. I want my competitors to be nervous.”
The room shifted. A few glances. Silent calculations. Bucky, to his credit, didn’t flinch.
“We’re prepared to scale back-end logistics and maximize exposure through exclusive markets. The numbers are conservative but strong. You’ll lead with strength.”
Doyle tilted his head. “That’s nice. But I don’t want to be nice. I want adrenaline.”
Your pulse flicked. Maybe it was the word. Maybe it was the silence that followed, wide and heavy like a held breath.
You leaned forward.
“Then take the risk,” you said.
Every head turned.
You felt the weight of the room twist toward you, like the wind suddenly changing direction. Bucky stilled mid-stride.
You didn’t blink.
“Scale now. Fast and loud. Don’t wait for safe margins. Corner the Southeast market and flood socials with strategic leaks before you finalize anything. You’re not selling polish. You’re selling disruption.”
Doyle sat up. “Finally. Now that sounds like a move.” He smirked. “And who are you?”
You smiled. “Just the intern.”
Laughter broke the surface. Doyle laughed loudest. “Give her a raise. That’s the first honest pitch I’ve heard today.”
Bucky didn’t move. His hands were clasped behind his back, a pose too clean to be natural. He let Doyle shake his hand, jaw locked in a smile so tight it might have cracked bone. And when Doyle reached to shake yours too, Bucky stepped half a second too late to intercept. Too late to stop Doyle from saying, “Bring her along next time.”
Then the door closed behind the client, and the room emptied like someone had cut the air out. Silence returned. And it was heavier this time.
You could feel him before you saw him.
“You think that was smart?” Bucky’s voice cut from behind. He didn’t sound angry. Not exactly. He sounded quiet in the way fire is before it explodes.
You turned, slowly. He was standing by the window now, hands still behind his back, spine straight like a blade. You could see his reflection in the glass. Not looking at you. Not yet.
“How dare you. That wasn’t your place.”
The words dropped like stone. No inflection. Just steel.
You crossed your arms. “The client liked it.”
“He liked the idea,” Bucky said, turning now, “because he’s young, cocky, and new. He wants fire. Fine. But most clients don’t. They want control. You gamble like that in front of anyone else, and they’ll laugh us out the door.”
You shrugged. “Then let them. Maybe we should stop pitching to people afraid of new.”
“You’re an intern.” His voice sharpened. “Not a partner. You don’t get to dictate risk. You observe. You learn. You do not interrupt. And you definitely do not undercut me in the middle of a billion-dollar meeting.”
Your stomach turned, but your face didn’t show it. You stared at him instead, letting silence stretch too long. He hated that. Hated the way you wouldn’t back down.
“This is not a game,” he said again, lower now. “This is real life. And we play with billions.”
You studied him. His tie was perfect. His voice was crisp. His control was still intact.
Mostly.
He didn’t expect you to smile. So you did.
“Perhaps this is the game I want to play.”
The line slipped out quieter than you intended. And still, it cracked something.
Bucky stared at you. Fully, finally. Something in his expression changed—only for a second—but enough to notice. His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite a warning. You couldn’t tell which one you preferred.
His jaw clenched. “Since you’re the one who proposed the idea, give me the proposal as quick as possible.”
You met his stare. “Okay, boss.”
You turned first.
Didn’t look back. But your spine burned as you walked to the door, each step echoing louder than it should in the hollow quiet.
When the latch clicked shut behind you, you didn’t breathe. Not for a second.
Then, finally, you exhaled—and it came out jagged. Heat pooled beneath your skin. Not just nerves. Not even pride. It was fire.
You’d finally gotten his attention.
Not just as an intern. Not as someone they sent to fetch coffee or organize calendars. He’d seen you today. Really looked. And you saw it in the way his mask cracked, barely, when you smiled. You saw it in the pause—one beat too long—when your words landed.
You weren’t wrong about the client. Doyle didn’t want polish. He didn’t want a folder of safe numbers and recycled slogans. He wanted adrenaline. And you gave it to him. Because you knew. You’d read his profile, his press history, his pattern of aggressive acquisitions and his obsession with being the loudest man in the room.
Bucky hadn’t underestimated the client. He never did. But he played the long game. Controlled. Measured. Always playing safe, like the company trained him to.
You weren’t like that.
And neither was Doyle.
So you took the risk. You stepped into the fire and let the whole room see you. And now—now—you’d caught the attention of both the client and the man you’d been watching since the first day you walked through this building.
Bucky.
Your boss.
The man who never raised his voice. Never lost control. Who never even looked at you unless he had to.
Until now.
You made your way back through the corridor, past glass offices and blurred silhouettes. The heels of your shoes clacked sharper now, like a drumbeat. Your fingers tingled.
Your desk was tucked near the back corner of the floor, a little too close to the copy room. Temporary. Disposable. Like most interns. But tonight, it felt like a base camp before a war.
You dropped your blazer over the chair and rolled up your sleeves. Pulled open your laptop. There was a faint scratch of your breath as you powered through your bookmarked tabs, client briefings, market trend forecasts, and Doyle’s business history. You’d already prepared most of it. You always did. You’d been waiting for a moment like this.
If you had to stay here until dawn, you would. If you had to miss the last train, fall asleep on your desk, run on nothing but vending machine coffee and spite, you would.
Because this wasn’t about the proposal anymore.
This was about him.
About the way his voice tightened when he said your name. The way his eyes sharpened—not with anger, but something buried deeper, something more dangerous—when you challenged him. You saw it. In his posture. In the way his jaw ticked. The way his control slipped for half a second.
He noticed you.
And God, you wanted more.
You opened a blank document and titled it Doyle Pitch: High-Risk Expansion Strategy. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.
But not you.
You weren’t just doing this to impress the client. You were doing this for the man behind the glass office with the door you still weren’t allowed to knock on.
'Finally, Bucky, my handsome boss. You notice me.'
You wanted him to see what you could do.
You could’ve worked anywhere after graduation. Columbia, cum laude, top of your class. Offers lined up like dominoes.
But no. You wanted this firm. His floor. And the only opening?
Internship.
Damn Bucky. The things you’d do for him.
You sighed and clicked open a blank document. Time to make a billion-dollar proposal. Or die trying.
You wanted to make him lose that control he guarded like armor.
So you typed. Faster. Sharper. Every word is a message. Every strategy is a challenge. And outside the glass, the lights of the city bled against the night like fire on water.
To get his attention, you won’t play safe.
***************
His headache was a slow throb behind the eyes. Too much noise in that boardroom. Too much heat in your voice.
Bucky sat alone in his office, the city a quiet smear of lights behind him. He reached for the aspirin tucked inside the drawer beside a stack of contracts and unopened HR memos. He rarely needed them. Today was an exception.
The folder on his desk was your intern profile.
He flipped it open. Your credentials were solid. Too solid for someone just getting coffee. Dean’s List. Research assistant. Fluent in Mandarin and sarcasm, apparently, if he factored in how you looked at him.
Then his eyes landed on the last line: Alma mater: Columbia University.
His brows furrowed.
Same as him.
He hadn’t made the connection earlier. He stared at the name longer than he needed to, his jaw tightening.
That’s why you went easy on him? Why you smiled like you knew something about him no one else did?
He leaned back in the chair and reached for his phone.
“Steve Rogers,” the voice answered after the first ring, still clear, still too chipper for a tenured professor working at night.
“Steve. It’s Bucky.”
“Bucky. You’re alive. I thought you’d finally been consumed by one of your three-piece suits.”
“Not tonight,” Bucky said dryly. “I’m calling about an intern.”
There was a pause on the line.
“I didn’t think you talked to your interns.”
“I don’t,” Bucky muttered. “But this one… She cut me off in front of a client.” He gave Steve your name.
Steve laughed. Full-hearted. “She have sharp eyes, little smile? Smarter than everyone in the room and knows it?”
Bucky froze. “Yeah.”
“Of course I know her. She’s a menace. I’m glad she graduated. Finally, some peace.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Bucky blinked, shook his head. “Why?”
“Because she doesn’t sit still. She doesn’t wait her turn. Every class was a war zone. She’d poke holes in my syllabus for sport. Refused to accept anything just because I said so.” Steve exhaled, then softened. “But she’s brilliant. Relentless. If she’s in your office, watch her. She’ll either burn the building down or save it.”
Bucky rubbed his temple. “Both seem likely.”
“Yeah, well. I always said she reminded me of someone.”
“Don’t start,” Bucky said.
“I’m just saying,” Steve chuckled, “if she makes you nervous, it’s probably because she reminds you of the version of yourself before you became allergic to feelings.”
Bucky hung up before Steve could say anything else. He stared at the call log for a second too long, then set the phone down carefully. Deliberately.
He didn’t like the mess of it. The unpredictability. The way you hadn’t even looked scared when you interrupted him.
No intern had ever challenged him like that.
No intern had ever made him feel like they were watching him before he could watch them.
He turned toward the glass wall of his office.
You were still at your desk.
Everyone else had gone home. But not you.
You had your legs tucked under you like you forgot this was a billion-dollar firm. Head bowed over your screen, hair falling over your cheek. Fingers moved fast. Eyes sharper than ever. Focused. So focused it almost unnerved him.
He watched the way your lips pressed together when you were thinking. The way you moved without hesitation. Like you belonged here more than anyone.
His headache hadn’t left. But now it had changed. It throbbed differently. Lower. Deeper. Like something waking.
He knew what this was.
It was the beginning of trouble.
And he couldn’t look away.
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FLASHBACK
It was hot. Not the kind of heat people complained about. The kind that simply existed, heavy and relentless, pressing down on him until breathing felt like its own small effort. The fans overhead rattled, pushing the same hot air back and forth without doing much of anything that he could feel.
No one spoke much. Not today.
Jack sat against the canvas wall, knees drawn up, his body aching with the kind of exhaustion that came from too many hours awake. His eyes burned. He hadn't slept. Every time he closed them he saw Gabriel laughing at something stupid, making fun of somebody across the mess tent, completely alive.
Then not.
Across the tent a soldier stepped out from behind the partition and wiped a hand across his face. Jack looked up.
"Is it done?"
The soldier glanced back the way he'd come. "She needs a minute."
Of course she did.
Jack already knew without being told that you'd been in there nearly an hour. Long after everything that needed doing had been done. Long after Gabriel had been cleaned and prepared, long after the paperwork, long after everyone else had said what they needed to say and stepped back out into the heat. He knew because he'd been watching the curtain the whole time, waiting for it to move, and it hadn't.
He stood and crossed the tent slowly. When he stepped through he found you beside the transfer case, gloves off, hands clean but trembling, your eyes red in a way that had nothing to do with dust. He'd seen you exhausted before. This was different. This was the kind sleep couldn't touch.
Clark stands quietly beside you. "Kid."
"His collar wasn't straight." Your voice cracked on the last word. "I fixed it."
Jack didn't say anything. He understood exactly what you meant and exactly what you didn't. The collar had never been the problem. You weren't ready to let him go, and there was nothing in his training, nothing in any of his years out here, that told him what to do with that.
He stepped closer anyway. It hurt him to watch you standing there, frozen, unable to move toward the door. He kept his voice low, the only thing he knew to offer. "His family's waiting for him."
Your body flinched. "Right. Yes." You took a breath and finally stepped back. "I'm sorry."
Jack gave Clark a small nod. The signal that it was clear.
A few minutes later the transfer case was brought out into the heat, and the tent went completely silent around it. Six soldiers stepped forward to carry it. Jack was one of them. Clark too. He focused on his hands, on the weight, on keeping his steps even, because if he thought about anything else right now he wasn't going to make it across the compound.
Outside the sunlight was blinding after the dim canvas interior. The helicopter pad sat in the distance, the transport aircraft waiting beyond it. The camp had gathered along the path without anyone telling them to. Nobody spoke. Jack didn't expect them to.
When the case reached the vehicle, the soldiers stopped and stepped back into formation. Jack moved to one side. Clark stood beside him. Across from them you stood with your spine straight and your chin level, holding a stillness that Jack recognized immediately, because it was costing you everything you had left and he knew exactly what that looked like from the inside.
For a moment nobody moved.
Then Clark raised his hand in salute.
Jack's came up with it, automatic, trained, and it was returned down the line by every soldier present, the only sound the wind and somewhere distant the low building hum of the aircraft's engines. His throat tightened as he held the position. Across from him you were still standing at attention, perfect posture, perfect form, and he understood that you were holding it together through nothing but sheer will, because that was the only thing keeping you upright at all.
The vehicle began to move.
Only then did your hand lower. Only then did Gabriel actually start to leave, the case disappearing slowly up the ramp while the camp watched a piece of itself go with it.
That was when you broke.
Jack saw your shoulders drop first. Then your knees seemed to lose whatever certainty had been holding them, and the sound that came out of you was quiet and raw, the sound of someone who had held the wall up for exactly as long as duty required and not one second longer.
He was already moving before he'd decided to. He reached you in two steps and pulled you in, wrapping both arms around you, one hand coming up to rest against the back of your head without him thinking about it at all.
You didn't pull away. You pressed your face into his shoulder and let it come.
Jack didn't say anything. There was nothing true enough to say, and he'd learned a long time ago not to insult grief with empty words. He just held on, steady, while the engines spun up behind you both and somewhere over your shoulder Clark stood with his hand still raised, watching the two people he had left from that tent try to hold each other together in the middle of everything that had just been taken from them.
******
After Gabriel's transfer ceremony, the aircraft disappeared into the horizon. Yet somehow his presence stayed everywhere. In the empty chair near the mess tent. In the half-finished deck of cards still sitting on a crate. In the silence that followed every conversation now, the particular gap where his voice used to fill the space. In the jokes nobody told anymore.
War kept moving. It always did. Orders still came down, patrols still happened, the camp still woke up the next morning whether anyone was ready for it or not.
Jack hated that. Part of him wanted the world to stop, just for a day, just long enough for everyone to fully acknowledge that Gabriel was gone. Instead soldiers reported for duty, vehicles rolled out, radios crackled with the same routine traffic, and life continued like one man hadn't left a hole in the middle of all of them.
So Jack did what everyone else did. He kept moving. Checking equipment, checking ammunition, checking routes that didn't need checking. Volunteering for patrols, for sweeps, for anything that kept his hands and his attention occupied. Because the second he stopped moving, he started thinking, and every thought led back to Gabriel. Every single one.
Across camp you weren't much different. You worked every shift available, took every patient, stayed longer than necessary, found reasons to be useful long after the necessary work was done. The two of you were doing the exact same thing. Just in different uniforms.
A few days later Jack was checking his gear when your voice cut through the quiet.
"You volunteered."
Not a question.
Jack didn't look up. "Yeah."
"You don't have to go."
"I'm going."
"You just got back."
He kept adjusting a strap that didn't need adjusting, checking a weapon he had already checked twice.
"Jack."
Nothing.
"Look at me."
Slowly he lifted his head, and the second he did he knew you could see straight through him. You always could. Not physically exhausted, not really. Something colder than that. Like part of him had shut down after Gabriel died and simply never bothered switching back on.
"Don't go," you said.
His jaw tightened. "It's a sweep."
"You volunteered." You stepped closer. "And you haven't rested properly in days."
He almost laughed. The irony would have been funny if it weren't so depressing. "You too."
A tired breath escaped you. "True." You folded your arms. "But if I pass out, at least there's a hospital bed waiting for me."
A small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, the first one in days. Then it disappeared, because the truth came out before he could stop it.
"To make sure nobody else ends up like Gabriel."
Silence settled between you. There it was. The thing he hadn't said out loud yet. The thing everybody already knew without needing it confirmed.
You stared at him. Then slowly closed the distance. "But what about soldiers like Jack Abbot?"
The question hit harder than he expected. For a second he couldn't answer, because the truth was ugly. The truth was that he hadn't thought about himself at all. Not since the explosion. Not since watching Gabriel die. Not since watching you cry.
A muscle jumped in his jaw. His eyes dropped away. "The day I signed up," he said, voice rough, "the day I got on that plane." A pause. "I stopped putting myself first."
You shook your head immediately. "No."
"Yeah."
"No." The anger in your voice surprised him. "You think Gabriel would've wanted this?"
Jack barked out a laugh with no humor in it at all. "Gabriel would've volunteered before me."
That hurt because it was true. Gabriel would have been first through the door, first on the helicopter, first running toward danger without a second thought. Which was exactly why he wasn't here anymore. The thought settled heavily between you.
"Jack."
He looked at you. Really looked. And suddenly you didn't seem angry anymore. Just tired. Heartbroken. Scared.
Your voice dropped, quiet and small and entirely honest. "I don't want you to go."
Something cracked inside his chest. The silence that followed felt endless.
Then you whispered, "Please stay."
Your eyes glistened. And for the first time since Gabriel died, Jack wanted to. God, he wanted to. If it had been anyone else asking he would have walked away without hesitation. But it wasn't anyone else. It was you.
For one terrible second he imagined dropping the bag. Telling command no. Staying. Choosing himself. Choosing you.
Instead he stepped forward, wrapped his arms around you, and pulled you close. The hug was brief and tight, the kind soldiers gave before deployment, the kind neither of you actually wanted but both needed anyway. His voice came low against your hair.
"I'll come back."
You closed your eyes. "This is weird."
He huffed softly. "What is?"
"The first time we haven't argued."
That finally earned a real chuckle, small and tired. "That means hell froze over."
You didn't laugh. Somehow that felt worse.
When you pulled back your eyes searched his face. "Promise me you'll come back in one piece."
Jack froze. Because he should have promised. He should have lied. He should have given you something, anything, to hold onto. Instead, "I won't promise that."
The hurt that flashed across your face followed him for weeks afterward.
He squeezed your shoulder once. Then picked up his gear and walked away. He didn't look back. Because he knew if he did, he wasn't leaving.
******
The location looked abandoned. A cluster of damaged buildings sat beneath the afternoon sun, broken walls, collapsed roofs, too quiet. Jack hated quiet. Quiet usually meant somebody was waiting.
The team moved carefully through the compound, weapons raised, eyes scanning every doorway, every window, every shadow. Jack's instincts were screaming. Something was wrong.
Then gunfire erupted. The first shots shattered the silence and soldiers dove for cover, more shots following in rapid succession until the entire compound dissolved into chaos.
"Contact left!"
"Move!"
Jack returned fire, called positions, directed movement as the team pushed forward. Then someone screamed.
He turned. One of the younger soldiers was down, hit, bleeding out fast. Without thinking he moved, exactly the way Gabriel would have, exactly the way Gabriel always had. He sprinted toward the soldier, dropped beside him, grabbed his vest, and started dragging him toward cover while bullets cracked overhead and concrete exploded somewhere close. Somebody was yelling. Jack barely heard them, because all he could think was not again, not another one, not today.
Then somebody shouted a warning.
Too late.
The world turned white.
The explosion hit with enough force to lift him off the ground entirely. Pain erupted everywhere at once. His ears rang, his vision blurred, the sky spun above him in a way that made no sense. For a second there was no sound at all. No gunfire, no shouting. Nothing. Just darkness.
And then a voice. Familiar. Terrified.
"Jack!"
The darkness shifted.
"Jack! Don't you dare leave me!"
Again. Closer. Louder.
"Jack!"
*********
PRESENT TIME
Jack woke up with a sharp inhale.
For a second he didn't know where he was. The darkness of his bedroom slowly replaced the battlefield, the walls and ceiling and silence settling into place where dust and gunfire had been a moment ago. Pittsburgh. His chest rose and fell heavily, sweat clinging to his skin, his heart hammering against his ribs while the phantom ringing from the explosion still echoed somewhere behind his ears.
He dragged a hand across his face. "Jesus Christ."
His head hurt. The familiar ache behind his eyes that only ever showed up after nightmares. Nightmares he hadn't had in years. He thought he'd buried that day, buried Gabriel, buried the explosion, buried your scream along with everything else.
Apparently not.
A sudden stab of pain shot through his prosthetic side and he tensed immediately. "Ugh." The ache spread upward, deep and persistent. His residual limb always acted up when the weather changed, or when stress got bad, or when old memories decided to crawl out of the grave uninvited. Today, apparently, checked every box at once.
"Fuck."
He sat on the edge of the bed for a minute, waiting it out. The pain didn't leave. He groaned and dropped backward onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling like it owed him an explanation.
He grabbed his phone from the nightstand.
Jack: Gonna take sick leave.
The reply came faster than expected.
Robby: You?
Jack snorted.
Jack: My leg hurts.
The three dots appeared immediately.
Robby: Say no more, brother.
Honestly, that was more than enough explanation. Jack tossed the phone onto his chest and closed his eyes again. Sleep wasn't happening. Neither was work.
At the Pitt, Robby took off his reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Abbot can't come in today."
Dana looked up from her chart. "That sudden?"
"His leg's acting up."
Her expression softened immediately. "Oh." A pause. "He should come here instead."
Robby raised an eyebrow.
Dana shrugged. "We literally have all the medicine."
Robby laughed. "I'll tell him."
"You should." She pointed toward the floor. "We're not letting him win Employee of the Month while sick at home."
"He has never once cared about Employee of the Month."
"Exactly my point."
Princess, who happened to be passing the desk at precisely the wrong moment, heard the entire exchange. Which was unfortunate for everyone involved. Her eyes widened and her phone appeared in her hand before either of them had finished the sentence.
Thirty seconds later, the Pitt group chat lit up.
Princess: 🚨 BREAKING NEWS 🚨
Princess: Dr. Abbot called in sick.
The three dots appeared instantly. Then another set. Then five more in quick succession.
Shen: impossible
Ellis: impossible
Javadi: impossible
Garcia: impossible
Princess: apparently his leg hurts
Shen: old man disease
Ellis: did he finally discover he's fifty
Garcia: he's not fifty
Shen: spiritually he is
Princess: should we send flowers
Ellis: send him a walker
Javadi: send him a retirement brochure
Across the hospital phones buzzed one after another in a chain reaction that spread faster than most actual trauma alerts. And just like that, the entire Pitt knew Jack Abbot had taken a sick day, which was somehow bigger news than anything that had happened in the trauma bay all week.
A few floors above the ER, you were in the middle of surgery.
The operating room was quiet except for the steady beep of monitors and the occasional request for instruments. Your focus was absolute. Scalpel. Suction. Clamp. Every movement precise, every decision deliberate.
Garcia stood across from you, assisting. For several minutes neither of you spoke. Then, casually, as if discussing the weather, "Abbot called in sick."
You didn't look up. Your eyes stayed on the surgical field. "Okay."
Garcia narrowed her eyes behind her mask. "He never calls in sick."
"Sounds like a personal achievement."
The scrub nurse bit back a smile. Garcia wasn't discouraged.
"His leg's acting up," she said.
Your hands kept moving, steady and controlled, exactly the same as before. Not a single hesitation. Nothing in your posture shifted at all.
Garcia glanced toward the anesthesiologist. The anesthesiologist looked at the circulating nurse. The circulating nurse shrugged. Nobody in that room could read you when you were operating, which was one of the many reasons you were good at this.
The surgery continued. Sutures, final checks, closure. A little while later you stepped away from the table.
"Good work, everyone."
The team began their post-op routine. You stripped off your gloves, then your gown. A few minutes later you stood at the scrub sink washing your hands. Garcia moved beside you and did the same. For a moment neither of you spoke. Water ran over your hands. You dried them carefully.
Then, finally, "I'll go out for a while."
Garcia didn't even try to hide her grin. "Yes, boss."
You shot her a look. It only made the grin wider.
She tilted her head. "You know his address?"
You looked at her slowly. A smirk pulled at the corner of your mouth. "I'm not that ignorant."
Garcia burst out laughing. "Oh my God."
You tossed the paper towel into the bin. "Don't start."
"Too late." She pointed at you. "You pretended not to care for an entire surgery."
"I didn't pretend anything."
"You absolutely did."
You started walking toward the door. Garcia called after you, "Tell him the Pitt survived without him."
Without turning around, you lifted a hand. "I'll let him know."
The second the door closed behind you, Garcia turned to the rest of the staff. "Told you."
The anesthesiologist sighed. "We all knew she was going."
The scrub nurse nodded. "Honestly, it would've been weirder if she didn't."
"By the way," the circulating nurse said, peeling off her own gloves, "did the Pitt make a bet on whether she'd go visit him?"
Garcia froze for a second. "Damn it. We're too late to join."
*******
Later, you showed up at his apartment.
Jack opened the door and went completely still. He hadn't been expecting anyone. Especially not you.
"You're supposed to be resting."
"I am."
"You look terrible."
"Thank you."
"You should moisturize."
"Get out."
He let you in anyway, and eventually he sat down on the couch with the particular care of someone managing pain he wasn't admitting to. You noticed him rubbing the stump absentmindedly, his thumb pressing into the same spot over and over.
"Still hurts?" you asked.
He shrugged. "Sometimes."
It was a lie. It hurt a lot, and you both knew it, but you didn't push. You sat down beside him without saying anything else and reached for his leg.
He let you.
You looked down at his leg. Hesitated. Then slowly reached for it.
Jack raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"
"Checking."
"Checking?"
"Do you want my help or not?"
That shut him up.
Carefully you rested your hands against his leg. You weren't entirely sure what you were doing, not because you didn't understand the injury, you knew exactly what you were looking for and where the tension would be sitting. It was harder because this was Jack, and somehow that made every step of it feel different than it should.
Your fingers pressed lightly against the tight muscle along the residual limb, working slow circles into the spots where the strain had built up.
"Still hurts?" you asked.
"Sometimes," he admitted. "If I have the nightmares."
You didn't answer immediately.
Your fingers kept moving, carefully working through the tension gathered in the muscles.
"I should've bought you that bike the day we met."
You rolled your eyes. "I would've said no."
"No, you wouldn't have."
"I absolutely would have."
"You accepted one now."
"Because you're annoying."
"And persistent."
"Mostly annoying."
"And handsome."
You shook your head and kept massaging his leg, your fingers steady and methodical. Then, quieter, "I'm sorry I couldn't save it."
Jack looked at you for a long moment. The thought sat in his chest before he said it out loud. "Hey. I never blamed you. It wasn't your fault."
"I know. Still." You didn't look up from his leg. "In my head, every time I see you, there's a million different ways I run it back. Trying to make it work out differently."
He reached down and covered your hand with his, stopping the motion gently. "Hey," he said again, softer this time. "Look at me."
You did.
"You did everything right," he said. "I'm still here. I'm still standing. That's because of you, not in spite of you."
You held his gaze for a moment, and something in your chest loosened slightly, the old guilt shifting just enough to breathe around.
"You're still annoying," you said finally.
"I know." The corner of his mouth curved upward. "Mostly annoying. Handsome, too."
You scoffed.
"Didn't deny it, huh?"
Jack looked entirely too pleased with himself.
Like he'd just won an argument nobody else knew was happening.
****
FLASHBACK
The medic tent was chaos. Blood, dust, shouting. Stretchers coming in one after another faster than anyone could process them.
Then they brought in Jack.
For a second your heart stopped. His uniform was soaked through, dark and wet in a way that told you everything before you'd even looked at the wound. His face had gone pale, that particular gray that meant his body was already starting to shut down peripheral systems to protect the core. The lower half of his leg was barely recognizable.
You moved before you'd finished registering what you were looking at. Airway. Pulse. Blood pressure. You ran the checks the way your hands had been trained to, on autopilot, because the part of your brain that wanted to stand still and stare was not allowed in the room right now.
"You can't panic." Clark's voice cut through the noise beside you. "We need to save him."
"Yes, sir." Your voice came out steadier than you felt.
The next few minutes blurred into a single continuous motion. Assessment, medication, blood transfusion, everything moving faster than you could fully track. You worked the line, you called for supplies, you watched the monitor with one part of your brain while the other part screamed at you to look at his face, to confirm he was still in there.
Then came the leg.
You stared at the wound and then at the imaging once it came back, and you felt something in your chest go very still. The damage to the blood supply. The crush injury extending higher than you'd hoped. Tissue that had already started dying from lack of perfusion, the kind that didn't come back no matter how skilled the hands trying to save it were.
"No," you said.
Clark looked at you. "The leg lost the golden hour."
"There has to be another way." You said it too fast, the words tumbling out ahead of the part of you that already knew the answer.
"There isn't."
"There is." You pointed at the scan, at the section of tissue that was still pink, still arguably viable if you moved fast enough, if you were good enough, if the universe gave you one single break today. "We can try."
Clark's expression didn't change. "Kid."
"We can try." Your voice cracked slightly on the second word and you hated that it did.
"We're out of time." His voice hardened, not unkind, just final. "You know what this looks like as well as I do."
You looked down at Jack. Unconscious, pale, alive, the rise and fall of his chest the only thing in the room that mattered right now. Then back at the scan. Then back at him again, and your chest tightened so hard it was difficult to draw a full breath.
"There has to be something," you said, quieter now, the fight starting to drain out of the sentence even as you said it.
Clark was silent for a moment. Then, "Amputate."
You shook your head immediately. "No."
"Amputate."
"No." You said it again like saying it louder would change the anatomy in front of you. Like refusing hard enough could rebuild a blood supply that no longer existed.
For the first time Clark's voice hardened completely. "With or without you, this surgery happens. The only question is whether you're the one doing it."
The words landed harder than anything else in the room. Because suddenly it wasn't your decision to make at all. It never had been, not really, not once the tissue had died the way it had died. You had been arguing with biology and biology did not negotiate.
You looked at Jack again. Unconscious. Bleeding. Alive. You hated this. You hated the choice in front of you, hated that there even was a choice, hated that every version of this ended with you taking something from him that he hadn't agreed to lose. You hated, more than anything, that saving him meant losing part of him, and that you were the one who was going to have to be the hands that did it.
You closed your eyes. Took a breath. Then another, slower this time, the kind you used to talk yourself back into the work when your body wanted to fall apart and didn't have the time for it.
When you opened your eyes again the surgeon had come back online behind them, pushing the rest of you down where it couldn't interfere.
"Get him to surgery ," you said. What mattered right now is to keep his heart beating through the next hour.
If Jack Abbot was going to survive, you were going to be the one standing there when he did. Even if it meant being the one who had to take the leg to do it.
******
PRESENT TIME
Jack leaned back against the couch and let out a slow breath.
"The next thing I remember." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I woke up in the States."
You nodded. "You needed further treatment. That's why Clark sent you back."
Jack snorted. "Could've at least warned me." His gaze drifted toward the window, somewhere past it. "I wake up, look around, and suddenly I'm surrounded by strangers." A pause. "Didn't even know where the hell I was."
Then his eyes came back to you. Softer this time.
"At least—" He stopped.
You already knew where the sentence was going. At least there had been you. At least one familiar face. At least someone.
Your expression shifted before he could finish it. The teasing dropped away.
"I didn't know you were transferred," you said.
Jack frowned. "What?"
You looked down at your hands. The memory still sat uncomfortably even after all these years, a part of the story you hadn't told him because it had never felt necessary until right now.
"I found out afterward."
"What do you mean afterward?" His voice had gone careful.
You hesitated, then sighed. "I fainted."
Jack blinked. "You what?"
*******
FLASHBACK
After Jack's surgery, something inside you broke.
You had saved his life. Everyone kept telling you that. But every time you looked at the empty space where his leg used to be, it didn't feel like a victory. It felt like a debt you'd paid with someone else's currency.
So you worked. One shift became two. Two became three. Patients came and went and you barely remembered their names, just the blood, the sutures, the next emergency, the next life. Because if you stopped moving, you'd think what you could’ve done to save Jack.
People started noticing. A medic quietly handed you water you forgot to drink. Someone told you to sit down and you didn't.
Then Clark found you.
You were halfway through another chart when his shadow fell over your shoulder.
"Get out."
You didn't look up. "I can still work."
"Get out."
"I'm fine."
"Get out before I ban you from this tent."
That made you look at him, because you knew he meant it. You stood, your body heavier than it should have been, and the moment you stepped outside the heat hit you like a wall. Two steps. Three. Then the world tilted sideways and the last thing you heard was someone shouting for a doctor.
When you woke up everything hurt. Your head, your neck, your pride. A canvas ceiling. An IV in your arm. The cot creaked when you shifted.
"Good. You're awake."
Clark sat nearby, arms crossed.
"How long was I out?"
"Two days."
"What?"
"Congratulations. You finally beat everyone else's record."
You stared at him. "Two days?"
"You collapsed. Your body decided to remind you that you're human, not a machine that runs on coffee and stubbornness."
You groaned, which made your headache worse. "How is he?"
Clark's expression shifted, just slightly. Enough that you sat up straighter.
"How is Jack?"
He rubbed his thumb against his palm, thinking before he answered. "You can't see him. I transferred him back to the States. He needs treatment we don't have here."
The words landed harder than you expected. "I didn't even get to say goodbye."
“It’s better this way.” Clark was quiet for a moment. Then, "Because I've seen soldiers like him before. He's drowning right now. No mission, no team, no leg. He doesn't know what his life looks like anymore."
"I could help him."
Clark studied you for a long moment, and something about it made you feel eighteen again, sitting in front of a commanding officer who saw straight through you.
"That," he said quietly, "is exactly what scares me."
"What does that mean?"
He leaned back. "Kid. You have a habit of trying to save everyone. You spend every day fighting death in that tent." His voice was gentle. "You don't need to turn a man into another project."
That hurt more than it should have. "I care about him."
"I know you do."
A beat passed. Then you muttered, "Did you separate us, because he's older than me?"
Clark sighed dramatically. "No." A pause. "Maybe a little."
You laughed despite yourself. "My parents have an age gap."
"Your parents met during peacetime." That shut you up, because he wasn't wrong. War changed people. Sometimes permanently. He looked out toward the camp. "And Abbot. War already took too much from him."
You thought about the nightmares, the exhaustion, the silence you'd already seen settle into him. "I could still help."
"And what happens if he leans too hard on you?" Clark asked. "What happens if you lose yourself trying to hold him together?"
You didn't have an answer.
Clark sighed, and for the first time he looked less like your commanding officer and more like family. "I already see you as my own kid," he said. "You're talented. Far too selfless for your own good. You fight the angel of death every day." A faint smile. "And somehow you keep making it wait."
"I don't know about that."
"I do. We all do." He leaned forward. "When this contract ends, what are you going to do?"
You shrugged. "Vacation. Therapy."
"Both good answers." He pointed at you. "I want you back in school. Another specialty."
"Me?"
"I'll write the kind of recommendation letter universities fight over."
"Why?"
He looked genuinely confused by the question. "Because someone with your talent shouldn't stop here. And because you saved my soldiers."
"It wasn't just me." You smiled faintly. "Abbot taught me a lot."
"He did." A grin. "He's the anchor of this unit. I'm still the leader though."
That earned a real laugh, the first one in days.
Months later, your contract ended. Your bags sat beside you on the tarmac, the transport plane waiting in the distance. The future felt wide open and uncertain in a way that made your chest tight.
Clark walked up beside you while you stared at the runway.
"Go out there," he said. "Travel. See the world." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Meet someone."
Your chest tightened immediately, because you already knew exactly who he meant.
He studied you for a moment. "If after all of that, you still think about him." A pause. "Then go see him."
The words hurt, but not because he was dismissing what you felt. The opposite. He was treating it like it mattered, like it might survive time, like it might survive everything you'd both been through.
Then he snapped his fingers. "Oh."
A soldier appeared behind him carrying a very familiar puppy. Your eyes went wide. "Riot?"
The puppy squirmed immediately, trying to reach you.
"Can I?"
Clark looked offended. "Of course."
The moment Riot landed in your arms he started licking your face, and you laughed for the first time in days. Clark watched with quiet satisfaction.
"Kid's already attached to you anyway," he said.
Riot barked happily, like he completely agreed.
***********
PRESENT TIME
Jack stared at you for a second. Then groaned. "I'm gonna kill Clark."
You laughed. "He'll beat you first."
He looked genuinely offended. "You underestimate me?"
"He's eighty."
"Exactly."
You raised an eyebrow. "That's not helping your argument."
"It helps mine."
"You realize he could still throw you across a room?"
Jack thought about it for a second. Then sighed. "Yeah. Probably."
That earned another laugh from you, and the sound settled something warm in his chest. For a moment neither of you spoke. Then he leaned back against the couch and the amusement faded from his face.
"I blame him sometimes," he said.
You glanced over. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "But he had more experience than both of us." A pause. "And he was right."
You stayed quiet, letting him take his time with it.
Jack stared at the ceiling. "I pushed people away." His voice was calm. Too calm, the kind that only came from years of sitting with the same thought until it stopped hurting and started just being true. "I couldn't accept it." His hand rested unconsciously on his thigh, or where his thigh used to end. "I couldn't accept that I lost part of myself."
Your chest tightened. You remembered. The angry version of him. The distant one. The one everyone warned you about later, the one who shut doors before anyone could walk through them, who refused help, who disappeared into rehabilitation and therapy and silence and didn't come back out for a long time.
Jack let out a quiet huff of a laugh. "I was an asshole."
You smiled slightly. "A little."
"A little?"
"A lot."
"That's fair." The corner of his mouth twitched. Then his gaze drifted toward the coffee table, toward a frame sitting beside it.
You followed his eyes and froze.
The photograph. Old, slightly faded, taken with your Polaroid camera years ago. Gabriel in the middle, grinning like he owned the frame. Clark pretending to look annoyed. Riot small enough to fit under one arm. Jack looking irritated because he'd complained about pictures five seconds before it was taken. And you, laughing behind the camera, caught mid-motion in the background reflection of the tent's metal trunk.
"You still have that?" you asked.
Jack glanced at it and nodded. "Of course." His voice softened. "It was sent to me during therapy."
That made you look at him directly. He was already watching you, carefully, too carefully.
"Was it you?" he asked.
"What?"
"The nurse." His gaze didn't move from yours. "The one who gave it to her."
Your stomach dropped. "Oh."
He tilted his head. "I noticed things changed after that."
You looked away, suddenly very interested in absolutely nothing on the wall.
He kept going anyway. "My pain medication changed." Silence. "The grape juice disappeared." More silence. "They started giving me apple juice."
You pressed your lips together.
Jack almost smiled. "I hate grape juice."
"I know." The words escaped before you could stop them.
The room went quiet. His smile widened immediately. "Exactly."
You closed your eyes. Damn it. He had you.
"There were only a few people who knew that," he said, his voice gentle now, not teasing, not pushing, just warm. "You were one of them."
You bit the inside of your cheek and twisted your fingers together in your lap, because the apartment suddenly felt smaller, quieter, more intimate than it had five minutes ago.
Jack kept looking at you, patient, like he already knew the answer and was simply waiting for you to be ready to give it to him. Which, honestly, he probably did.
You finally sighed. "I left instructions."
His expression softened immediately. "You did."
********
FLASHBACK
After you got back to the States, you secretly visited. Not once. Not twice. More times than you were willing to admit, even to yourself.
The rehabilitation center was almost an hour away from your apartment. You learned the route by memory. The receptionist eventually stopped asking questions. The nurses started recognizing you. But you never signed in as a visitor. Never walked into his room. Never knocked on the door.
You stayed where he couldn't see you. The hallway. The observation window. The corner near the physical therapy room. Close enough to know he was alive. Far enough to leave when it hurt too much.
And it always hurt.
The first time you saw him standing on the prosthetic, he fell. Hard. The therapist tried to help him up and Jack shoved the hand away immediately. You almost walked into the room. Almost. Instead you gripped the edge of the observation window until your knuckles went white.
The second time, he threw the prosthetic across the room. The metallic crash echoed down the hallway and several patients looked over. Jack didn't care. He sat there breathing hard, angry, humiliated, broken in a way you hadn't seen on him before. You left before he could see the tears in your eyes.
Another time you heard him yelling at a therapist through the door.
"Just leave me alone."
The therapist stayed calm. Jack got louder.
"I said leave me alone."
You froze outside the door, listening. Not because you wanted to. Because you couldn't make yourself walk away.
The therapist said something too quiet to hear. Jack laughed, a bitter, ugly sound that didn't sound like him at all.
"My friend's dead." Silence. "My leg's gone." Another silence. "So tell me exactly what I'm supposed to be positive about."
Your chest tightened, because suddenly it wasn't about the leg. Maybe it never had been. He wasn't fighting rehabilitation. He was fighting everything. Gabriel. The explosion. The future. The guilt.
The realization followed you home that night, and every night after.
One afternoon you were standing in your usual spot outside the therapy room when a familiar voice appeared beside you.
"How long have you been standing here?"
You didn't need to look. Clark. Of course. That man noticed everything.
You kept your eyes on the glass. Said nothing.
Clark followed your gaze. Inside, Jack was practicing walking again. One step. Another. Another. The therapist beside him, ready to catch him if he fell.
"You come every week."
Still no answer.
Clark sighed. Not annoyed. Just tired, the kind that came from watching too many people hurt for too long.
"You're waiting for him to become himself again," he said quietly.
Your throat tightened, because he was right. That was exactly what you were doing. Waiting for the old Jack. The one before the explosion, before the funeral, before the nightmares. The Jack who laughed easier. The Jack who believed he could save everyone. The Jack who had two legs.
Silence stretched between you.
Then Clark said the thing you would remember for years.
"He won't."
Your breath caught. You finally looked at him. His expression wasn't cruel or cold. It was sad, because he understood exactly what he was taking from you by saying it.
"The old Jack is gone." He let that sit for a second. Then looked back toward the therapy room. "So is the old you."
That hurt even more, because he wasn't wrong. War had taken pieces from all of you. Gabriel was gone. Jack came back different. And somewhere along the way, without quite noticing it happening, you had changed too.
Clark folded his arms. "Staying here won't save him. He has to want to get better."
Inside the room Jack took another step. Then another. His jaw was clenched, his face pale with the effort of it, still fighting, still refusing to quit even when every part of him wanted to.
Clark watched him for a moment. Then looked back at you.
"And right now," he said, his voice softening, "that's a fight he has to win himself."
For the first time since the war ended, you didn't argue. Because deep down you already knew. You just weren't ready to let go yet.
"Leave," Clark said finally. "While he's fixing himself and fighting his own demons, you go fix yourself. Improve your skills. Become better than the version of you that's standing in this hallway right now."
You looked at him. "And just leave him?"
"Not forever." He held your gaze steadily. "One day, perhaps, the two of you could work together again. But not like this. Not you hiding in hallways and him throwing prosthetics across rooms. That's not a reunion. That's two people drowning next to each other and calling it support."
Something in that landed. You felt it settle, slow and certain, the way truth did when it finally arrived after you'd spent weeks circling it.
"I will," you said.
You stood, and before you could think too hard about it you leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to Clark's cheek. "I'll see you again, sir."
He crossed his arms, but something in his expression had gone soft around the edges. "Make me proud, kid."
************
PRESENT TIME
"You were there," Jack said, staring at you. "You were there, and I pushed everyone away so hard I didn't even realize it."
You looked down. "There wasn't much to realize."
He laughed quietly. "I thought I was alone."
"You were never alone."
His eyes lifted to yours. "Then why didn't I see you?"
You swallowed. "Because I was dealing with my own grief too."
The answer seemed to hit him harder than he expected. "Huh." A small smile appeared. "You were close." His voice softened. "I didn't know."
Then he rested his head against your shoulder. For once neither of you joked. Neither of you moved away. The silence felt comfortable, the kind that didn't need filling.
"You know," Jack said quietly, "Clark was right."
You raised an eyebrow. "That's a dangerous sentence."
"He'd love hearing that."
"He absolutely would."
Jack chuckled. Then his gaze lifted toward you at the same moment you looked down, and the conversation stopped without either of you deciding it should. Your faces were closer than either of you had realized, close enough to notice the tiredness still sitting in his eyes, close enough to notice where his gaze kept drifting.
The moment settled between you. Neither of you looked away. Neither of you moved.
Just a little closer. Just enough.
Then your phone rang.
Both of you blinked. Reality crashed back in at full volume. You looked at the screen. Emergency.
Jack sighed dramatically and dropped his head backward against the couch. "I hate this hospital."
You laughed, already standing. "I need to go."
For one brief second he wanted to ask you not to. Just stay. Five more minutes. Ten. An hour. Anything. But he knew better, because this was you, and you would never ignore a patient for anything, least of all him.
So instead he nodded. "Go."
You stood and reached for your bag. Then Jack suddenly held out a key.
You frowned. "What's that?"
"My house key."
You stared at him. "Your house key?"
He shrugged, trying very hard to look casual about it. "My leg still hurts."
"Uh-huh."
"I need someone to check on me."
"Uh-huh."
"In case I fall asleep and can't open the door."
You narrowed your eyes. "That is the worst excuse I have ever heard."
"It got you to take the key."
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then pointed at him. "You are impossible."
"And yet you're taking it."
With a sigh you slipped the key into your pocket. "I'll give it back."
"No rush." The corner of his mouth lifted.
Your pager buzzed again. You headed for the door.
"Try not to die," you said.
Jack scoffed. "Pretty sure that's your job."
You shook your head and left.
The apartment fell quiet. Jack stared at the closed door for a moment, then at the empty spot beside him on the couch where you'd been sitting a minute ago.
A slow smile appeared.
Because for the first time in a very long time, when you left, he knew you were coming back.
Summary : What if Jack Abbott ends up with a rich wife instead of being the provider?
Character: Jack Abbot x rich wife!reader
Words Count: 7,560
Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3
A/N: This is supposed to be a headcanon idea, but it ended up turning into a long paragraph.
More Jack Abbot stories :2nd Masterlist
The night shift at the Pitt was in its usual state of surreal chaos. Mateo was busy de-escalating a patient who believed he was a sentient radio, while Shen worked on a local mime who refused to break character, even while getting stitches. It was the kind of unpredictable atmosphere where the staff expected the weird—but they didn't expect the arrogant.
The double doors hissed open as a man swept in, draped in an expensive charcoal suit that was just wrinkled enough to suggest a long lunch that had devolved into several rounds of scotch. The scent of high-end whiskey trailed behind him like a physical wake, clashing sharply with the sterile, antiseptic air. He didn’t wait to be called; he marched straight to the triage desk, his lip curling at the sight of the linoleum floors.
“I’ve been waiting ten minutes,” he snapped, his voice booming across the quiet area. He adjusted his silk tie with a sneer. “Do you know who I am?”
Ellis didn’t look up from her monitor. Her fingers moved with practiced efficiency as she reached for a blood pressure cuff. “I don’t,” she said, her voice flat. “But I do know your blood alcohol content is likely higher than your IQ right now. Arm, please.”
He scoffed, yanking his arm back. “I don’t sit in waiting rooms with... these people. Move me to the front of the line. One call from me, and I can personally ensure the massive donation my company is about to make to this hospital disappears. I am from Ardentis Holdings.”
Ellis paused. Just for a second. She finally looked up, her eyebrows migrating toward her hairline. “Ardentis Holdings? Really?”
“Does that name sound familiar now?” he sneered. “I suggest you start acting faster.”
Ellis didn't look intimidated. If anything, she looked like she’d just found a very interesting bug on the sidewalk. She turned toward the doorway and called out, “Jack, could you come here for a second? We have a... VIP.”
Jack stepped into the room, his expression the picture of clinical boredom. He scanned the chart briefly before his eyes settled on the drunk man in the expensive suit. “Problem?”
“This gentleman is asking for priority treatment,” Ellis said, a small, dangerous smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “He says he’s from Ardentis Holdings.”
Jack’s eyebrows lifted. A flicker of recognition crossed his face, but it wasn't the groveling respect the patient was looking for. It was more like mild amusement.
“Oh,” Jack said, tilting his head. “My wife works there.”
The man let out a short, bark-like laugh. He looked Jack up and down—from his sensible shoes to his stethoscope—with pure disdain. “Your wife? What does she do, handle the filing? Clean the breakroom?”
Jack didn't flinch. “Y/N,” he said simply. “Do you know her?”
The man snorted, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Know her? She’s the CEO of Ardentis Holdings. She’s the most powerful woman in the sector. And you’re telling me you’re married to her?” He laughed again, a wet, arrogant sound. “Please. In what universe?”
Without a word, Jack pulled his phone from his pocket. He tapped the screen once and set it on the counter, angling it toward the man. The call connected almost instantly.
“Yeah?” Your voice came through the speaker—crisp, authoritative, and clearly focused on a dozen other things.
Jack leaned against the counter, looking completely relaxed. “Hey. Quick question. Do you happen to know a manager who is currently in my ER?”
There was a brief, sharp silence on the other end. “I know which one isn't at the board meeting he's supposed to be at,” you said, your voice dropping an octave. “He told my assistant he had a family emergency. Why?”
Jack turned the phone slightly, the camera capturing the man’s face.
The man went from flushed red to a ghostly, sickly white in three seconds flat. The smugness evaporated, replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated terror. He was looking straight at his boss—and she was looking back.
“Oh,” you said quietly. It wasn't a shout. It was worse. It was the sound of a closing door. “Did you forget this meeting only happened because of your mistakes?”
“Ma’am,” he stammered, his voice cracking as he tried to straighten his wrinkled suit. “Ma’am, there’s been a massive misunderstanding—”
“He also mentioned,” Ellis piped up from the corner, “that he could cancel the company’s donation if we didn't give him special treatment.”
“Did he?” you asked. The air in the room seemed to turn to ice. “Be in HR at nine a.m. tomorrow. Don't bother bringing your briefcase.”
The man sat paralyzed, his world crumbling into the glowing screen. Before Jack could pull the phone away, your voice drifted through the speaker one last time.
“Oh, and Jack?”
Jack brought the phone back to his face, his expression softening instantly. “Yup.”
“Since I’ve already found someone to take the blame,” you said, your tone losing its icy edge for something warm and intimate, “I’m coming home as soon as I can.”
A rare, genuine smile broke across Jack’s face. “Can’t wait,” he murmured, ending the call.
The man stared, breathless. He had seen you dismantle boardrooms with a single glance, but he had never heard the "shark" speak with such gentleness—let alone to an E.R. doctor.
The call ended with a definitive click.
Jack slipped the phone into his pocket, his face returning to clinical boredom as he clicked his pen. “Let’s finish your vitals.”
“Well,” Ellis said, breaking the quiet with a satisfied sigh. “That solved triage. You’re back to being a ‘Level 4’ priority. Sit tight.”
The man didn’t argue. He sat perfectly still, eyes fixed on the floor, while Jack checked his vitals with methodical precision.
“…How did you even meet her?” he muttered after several minutes, his voice small and defeated. “She’s a shark. She’s always working. No one gets close to her.”
Jack paused for a fraction of a second, his pen hovering over the paper. “She’s stubborn,” Jack said quietly. “A workaholic.”
He clicked his pen.
“So am I.”
********
Flashback
The first time Jack met you.
The ER was unusually quiet. Jack was at the station, flipping through charts, when a nurse waved him over. "Got a walk-in. Abdominal pain," she noted. Jack nodded and stepped into the exam room.
You were sitting on the bed, one hand pressed lightly against your stomach. Your posture remained rigid, as if you were refusing to acknowledge the discomfort. Jack glanced from your face to the clipboard. "What do we have here?"
"Stomachache," you replied, exhaling slowly. "Probably gastric. I don’t have medicine at home."
"Probably?" he echoed, snapping on his gloves. He stepped into your personal space, calm and focused. "When did it start?"
"A few days ago."
"Pain level?"
"Manageable."
He raised a brow. "That’s not a number."
You gave him a dry look. "Fine. Five."
Jack didn’t push, but his hands were already moving. "Any nausea? Vomiting?"
"A little nausea. No vomiting."
He pressed lightly on your abdomen. "Tell me if it hurts."
It did. Your fingers tightened against the bedsheet, but you didn't make a sound. Jack’s eyes flicked to your hands—he noticed. He always noticed. "You work?" he asked, continuing the exam.
"Yeah. Office work."
"Hours?"
"Flexible."
He glanced up, meeting your eyes. "That usually means long."
A small, weary smile touched your lips. "I work better at night."
Jack let out a quiet breath, a faint smile mirroring yours. "Same. Night shift."
The ease of the gesture caught you off guard. "...So you get it," you murmured.
"I do." He stepped back, pulling off his gloves. "And you rest during the day?"
"Yes," you answered, perhaps a second too fast.
Jack didn’t call you out. He just looked at you for a moment longer than necessary—not judging, just noting the truth you were hiding. "Alright. Sounds like gastritis, maybe an early ulcer. It can be serious if you keep ignoring it."
He began writing on a prescription pad. "I’ll give you something to reduce the acid. But you need to eat regularly. And actually rest."
"I'll try," you said, though the words felt hollow.
"You don't sound convincing," Jack remarked, handing you the paper.
You looked at him properly then, curious. "Are you always like this with your patients?"
"Only when I think they’ll come back," he replied.
A beat of silence passed between you. You slid off the bed slowly, smoothing your clothes. "I won't."
"Hope you're right."
You reached for the prescription, your fingers brushing his for a brief, unintentional second. The air in the small room suddenly felt heavy.
"Thanks, doctor," you said, stepping toward the door.
"Abbott," he corrected quietly. "Jack Abbott."
After you left. He never thought this first meeting could lead to another.
The second time Jack met you
Same week. Different day.
Jack stepped into the exam room and stopped for half a second, the chart already in his hand. “You again.”
You were already sitting on the bed, one hand pressed to your stomach, your posture still stubbornly straight. “Don’t sound too excited, doctor.”
“I told you to follow the plan,” he said, his voice dropping into that calm, authoritative register.
“I did.”
Jack gave you a long, skeptical look as he pulled on fresh gloves. “No, you didn’t.”
You exhaled, shifting slightly to get comfortable. The movement cost you—a sharp flicker of discomfort that made your breath hitch—and he caught it. He always did.
“When did the pain get worse?” he asked, moving into your personal space.
“Last night.”
“Pain level.”
You hesitated, looking at the sterile white tiles of the floor. “…Seven.”
He didn’t comment, but his jaw tightened. “Lie back.”
You did as you were told. He pressed gently along your abdomen, his touch clinical yet oddly grounding. You flinched this time—not a subtle movement—and his hands paused for a fraction of a second before continuing.
“Still eating irregularly?” he asked, his focus entirely on the exam.
“Yes.”
“Sleeping?”
“A little.”
He exhaled through his nose, a sound of quiet frustration. He straightened up, snapping his gloves off. The movement pulled the fabric of his scrubs tight across his chest and forearms, revealing the quiet strength in his veins. It was annoyingly noticeable. You found yourself looking away first, clearing your throat.
“You need labs and imaging,” Jack said. “Blood work, and I want a CT scan. Now.”
You frowned. “That sounds excessive for a stomachache.”
“It’s not,” he replied calmly. “Your symptoms are progressing, and I’m not interested in guessing.”
“I just need stronger meds.”
He crossed his arms, leaning back against the counter. The posture was casual, but his eyes were sharp. “Is your boss the problem? We see a lot of patients who are scared to take time off because of a demanding superior.”
Shen, passing by the open door, leaned in with a helpful nod. “We can advocate for you if that’s the case. No job is worth a perforated gut.”
You blinked, caught off guard by the genuine concern. “Oh—no. It’s not like that. It’s… complicated.”
Jack didn’t move. “Complicated how?”
You exhaled, the weight of the company and the board meetings suddenly feeling very heavy. “…Family business.”
Something shifted in Jack’s expression. It wasn’t sympathy—he didn't seem like the type to offer pity—but it was a cold, hard understanding that this wasn't just about a paycheck.
Time passed in a blur of needles and the sterile hum of the CT machine. When Jack finally returned with the results, he didn't sit down. He didn't soften the blow.
“You have a peptic ulcer,” he said. “And it’s worsening. If this continues, it will bleed or perforate.”
A beat of heavy silence followed.
“You need surgery.”
You shook your head immediately, the instinct to protect your position at the firm overriding the pain. “Not now.”
Jack’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened. “It’s not optional.”
“I can’t,” you said, your voice firmer, your eyes locking onto his. “I can’t risk my position. Not this week.”
Jack studied you, his gaze tracing the lines of exhaustion and defiance on your face. “If you delay this, it gets worse. The recovery gets longer. The risk gets higher.”
The irritation rose in your chest because he was right, and you hated being managed. “I’ll hold it,” you said, your voice tight. “Dr. Jack Abbott.”
That made him pause. Not because of the refusal, but because of the way his name sounded coming from you—a mix of a challenge and an acknowledgement.
Jack nodded once. “Then you’ll be back,” he said.
You didn't rebuke him. You couldn't, because deep down, you felt the truth in his words.
As you walked out of the Pitt, clutching your side, Shen watched your retreating figure. He turned to Jack, scratching his head. “Where does she even work? I wonder what kind of evil boss she has to be that terrified of taking a sick day.”
Jack didn’t answer. He just watched the doors close behind you, his thumb tracing the edge of your chart. “The worst kind,” he murmured to himself. “The kind that doesn't know when to stop.”
The third time Jack met you
A sharp screech of tires shredded the night. Inside the pit, Mateo and Shen sprinted toward the sound while Jack stayed focused, his hands moving with surgical precision over a teenager’s arm.
Outside, a sleek black sedan was skewed across the ambulance bay. Your assistant, Greg, scrambled out and threw open the rear door. "Please, help her!"
You were slumped against the leather, knuckles white as you clutched your abdomen. When Shen reached for you, your eyes flickered open, hazy with pain. "Just... an injection," you whispered, the words strained. "I need to get back."
"You again?" Shen muttered, recognizing you. Mateo shook his head, already pulling out a wheelchair. "We can’t treat you in a car. Let's move."
Inside, the ER hummed to life. Vitals were taken, IVs started. Shen palpated your stomach, his expression darkening. "Pain level, one to ten?"
"Ten," you choked out, your usual composure shattered.
"We need a CT scan immediately," Shen said.
You looked up, eyes wide with genuine fear. "How long? I... I have a meeting. I just need to stop the hurting." You weren't barking orders anymore; you were desperate. "Please, just tell me if I can leave."
Greg hovered at the curtain, his voice trembling. "Boss, the paracetamol didn't work. You can't just keep going like this."
You didn’t look at either of them. Your gaze was fixed on the ceiling, your voice low and dangerously clear. “If I don’t get the results fast,” you said, “I will drive that car out of here myself.” A heavy pause hung in the air. Then, your eyes flicked to Greg. “And I’ll fire you before I hit the exit.”
There was an awkward moment. Shen didn’t waste time and went outside. “Abbott, I need you.”
Jack peeled off his gloves, his expression neutral. “What’s up?”
“Your gastritis patient is back,” Shen said, already mid-stride toward the trauma bay. “Same one. Still stubborn, still refusing surgery.”
Jack exhaled, a shadow of frustration crossing his face. Of course it was you. He followed, but Shen glanced back, a strange look in his eye. “I think you’ll be surprised by who she actually is.”
They reached the door where Mateo stood waiting, tapping a video on his phone. He held it up—a TikTok clip of fast cuts and aggressive headlines featuring your face. “The one percent,” Mateo said. “Executive Director of Ardentis Holdings.”
“Now I get the stress,” Shen muttered.
“It’s not just the job,” Mateo added, lowering his voice. “Succession rumors. Apparently, her father wants to hand the empire to his mistress.”
“It’s not a rumor,” a voice cut in. Greg stepped forward, looking frayed. “It’s happening. That’s why she won't stop.”
Jack remained silent, absorbing the information. He wasn't looking at the headlines; he was looking at the clinical reality. “Does she eat?”
Greg let out a dry, hollow breath. “Crackers and coffee. Maybe once a day if I’m lucky.”
“Sleep?”
“Barely.”
Jack’s jaw tightened. The damage finally made sense—it wasn't just an illness; it was a slow-motion collapse.
“Please talk to her, Doctor,” Greg pleaded. “I practically had to kidnap her to get her here.”
“Didn’t she just threaten to fire you?” Shen asked, raising a brow.
“She says that every Tuesday,” Greg waved it off. “I’m the only one who can deal with her.”
Ellis approached then, the CT results gripped in her hand. She handed the films to Jack. He scanned them once, then again, his focus narrowing until the rest of the room faded away.
“Yeah,” Jack said, his voice dropping into a grave, final register. “She needs surgery. Right now.”
A heavy silence fell over the group.
“Who’s telling her?” Shen asked, looking around.
No one spoke. They all just looked at Jack. He handed the chart back to Ellis, his expression hardening into the one he used when a patient’s life was on the line.
“Of course,” he said.
He reached out and pushed the door open.
*******
Jack stepped into the trauma bay. You were lying back now, looking smaller than you had in the car. You were paler than before, a light sheen of sweat across your temples. One hand was still clamped over your abdomen, your knuckles white with tension.
You looked at him immediately, your gaze sharp even through the haze of agony. “What’s the result, doc?”
Jack didn't tower over you. He pulled a chair closer and sat down—not rushed, not distant. Just steady. “You need surgery,” he said. “Appendectomy. Today.”
“I’ll accept the surgery,” you said, your breath coming in tight hitches. “But can it be postponed until next week? There’s a project I need to finish. A board meeting I can't miss.”
Jack leaned forward slightly, his forearms resting on his knees. “Look,” he said calmly, “I know about the internal conflict in your company.”
Your eyes narrowed. “My noisy assistant.”
“You need this surgery now,” Jack continued, ignoring the deflection. “If you delay it, it will rupture. Then recovery won’t be one week of light work.”
You held his gaze, trying to find a loophole. “How long?”
“Up to three months,” he said. “Especially considering you haven’t been eating properly or sleeping. Your body is running on fumes.”
You let out a quiet scoff, though the movement clearly cost you. “Eight hours of sleep is for weaklings,” you rasped. “I can’t lose everything to that mistress. If I’m not there, she wins.”
On the monitor, your heart rate spiked. The beeping picked up pace, a frantic rhythm echoing your internal panic. Your grip on your abdomen tightened as another wave of pain hit, sharper and more demanding than the last.
Jack moved immediately. “Alright,” he said, his voice dropping into a soothing, authoritative register. “Easy.”
He reached for the IV line, his hands moving with practiced grace. He adjusted the flow and added a medication to the line—controlled, precise. “A small dose of morphine,” he said. “This will take the edge off.”
As the drug entered your system, the world seemed to soften at the edges. You exhaled slowly, your shoulders finally dropping an inch. Silence settled between you for a long second.
Then, Jack spoke again.
“He’s an idiot.”
You blinked, the morphine making the words feel like they were coming from far away. “…Who?”
“Your dad,” Jack said, as matter-of-factly as if he were reading a lab report. “You’re clearly the better choice for the company. Safer than whoever he’s trying to put in. Any doctor can see you’ve put your life into that place.”
“Huh…”The comment caught you completely off guard. No hesitation. No platitudes. Just the truth, delivered by a man who didn't even know who your father was. Ruthless and heartless even to his own daughter.
For the first time, the corporate mask cracked. It wasn't weakness that showed through, but a raw, startled realization. You almost laughed, but the movement pulled at your side, so you stopped, your breath catching in your throat.
“…Thanks,” you whispered instead, a small, genuine smile forming despite the circumstances.
Jack’s expression softened, just a fraction. “Yeah. Does she have the same mind for it that you do?” Jack asked, his tone casual, though his eyes remained sharp. “The mistress. Is she as smart as you?”
You let out a sharp, derisive scoff, “Yeah, right. The only way she made it into the executive suite was because she slept her way through the board. Strategy isn't exactly her forte.”
“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about. You have the brain. She doesn't.” he assured you that weirdly work on you “You could win the battle with your eyes closed.”
“I suppose you’re right,” you murmured, your voice losing its defensive edge.
He straightened up, returning to his professional posture. “So, for the surgery—I need your consent. Do you want to proceed?”
You looked at him. Really looked this time. Not at the white coat or the stethoscope, but at the steady man sitting in the plastic chair.
“Fix me up, doctor.” you kinda dragging the doctor because you want to know his name. “I trust you.”
That words was enough. Jack stood up, checked the monitors one last time, and stepped out of the room.
Greg was waiting right outside the door, pacing a hole into the floor. He stopped the moment Jack appeared. “Did she... did she agree? Did she want the surgery?”
Jack didn't stop walking toward the scrub sinks, but he gave a single, definitive nod. “Yup.”
Greg let out a breath so long it sounded like a deflating balloon. “Thank goodness.”
The fourth time Jack met you
By the time Jack made his way upstairs, the chaos of the ER had faded into the quieter rhythm of recovery floors. He hadn’t planned to come, or at least that’s what he told himself, but he still stopped outside your room.
The door wasn’t fully closed, and your voice slipped through, steady but impatient. “Greg, give me the laptop.”
“No,” Greg said, unusually firm. “Post-op orders. You just had surgery. You’re not working.”
A brief silence followed, the kind that meant you were deciding whether to argue or override him. Jack pushed the door open before you could.
You were propped up against the pillows, pale but composed, IV line taped to your arm. Even after surgery, you looked like you were still in control. Your eyes shifted to him, and for a second, you said nothing.
“You should be resting,” Jack said, glancing at the monitor, then back at you. “Eat, sleep, repeat. That’s how you recover faster.”
You went quiet.
Greg blinked. “See? I told you.”
Jack ignored him. His focus stayed on you. “You pushed too far,” he said, calm but firm. “Ulcers don’t get that bad overnight. Next time, you stop earlier.”
“There won’t be a next time,” you replied.
“Good.”
A pause settled between you.
“And don’t lose,” he added.
Your brows knit slightly. “Lose to what?”
“The pressure. Your father. The mistress.” His gaze stayed steady. “I put my bet on you.”
That caught you off guard.
“A bet?”
“Are you going to win or not?”
You leaned back, studying him. “Is this a challenge?”
He didn’t answer. Just checked his watch.
“My shift’s over. Focus on recovering.”
Then, almost as an afterthought, “I don’t like losing bets.”
He walked out like it was nothing.
The room felt quieter after he left. Greg lingered nearby, watching you like he was waiting for you to snap back and ask for the laptop again.
You didn’t.
You stayed where you were, one hand resting lightly over the bandage, your eyes still on the door he had just walked through.
A bet.
You let out a slow breath, then finally glanced at Greg. “Did he just challenge me?”
Greg gave a small shrug. “I guess?”
A faint smile pulled at your lips, almost against your will. “Oh, I’m going to show him.”
You adjusted your blanket to go back to sleep. "Send gifts to the doctors who handled my case in the ER," you commanded, your professional tone back in place.
Greg nodded, tapping into his tablet. "Yes, boss. Of course. All of them?"
You didn't look at him. "All of them."
A beat of silence followed. "And make sure it’s appropriate," you added. "Nothing over the top, but let them know the quality of care was... noted."
"Understood." Greg hesitated, his stylus hovering over the screen. "...Do you want to include Dr. Abbott separately? Maybe something personal?"
"No," you said, your voice steady. "Make it the same as the others."
Few days later, the discharge papers were signed. The hospital room, once a sanctuary of quiet, now felt too small, too restrictive. You stood by the window, dressed in a sharp, tailored suit that felt like armor. You straightened your sleeves, the familiar weight of your old life settling back onto your shoulders.
"Can I leave tonight instead?" you asked, checking your watch. "The evening air is better for travel."
Greg checked the itinerary. "If we want to land in Sweden and get ahead of her before the morning session, we really need to be on the afternoon flight."
You hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second, your fingers brushed the edge of the hospital bed—the place where you’d actually found a moment of peace.
"...Fine," you conceded.
Greg glanced at you, then added with a mischievous tilt of his head, "You know, if you want... I could probably get his number. For follow-up questions. Medical ones."
You turned your head sharply, your eyes narrowing. "Shut up, Greg."
"Yes, boss." But there was a hint of a smile he couldn't quite hide as he grabbed your bags.
As you stepped out of the room and headed toward the elevator, you didn't look back at the trauma bay or the quiet halls. But as you walked, your pace slowed—just a fraction. You weren't rushing. You weren't vibrating with the need to be somewhere else.
For the first time in a very long while, you weren't thinking about the company. Not entirely. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a steady, low voice lingered, grounding you.
Eat. Sleep. Repeat.
Back in the ER, the frantic energy of the night shift had smoothed out into the steady, mechanical rhythm of a Tuesday morning. The monitors hummed, footsteps squeaked against the polished linoleum, and the air smelled of fresh floor wax and stale coffee.
Shen looked up from a clipboard as Jack walked in, shrugging off his heavy jacket to reveal his scrub top.
“Your patient got discharged this morning,” Shen said, his voice carrying a teasing lilt.
Jack paused, one arm still caught in his sleeve. He hesitated for only half a second before continuing. “Hmm?”
“The princess of Ardentis Holdings,” Shen smirked, leaning back against the nurse's station. “Left in a motorcade about two hours ago.”
Jack let out a quiet breath, finally draping his jacket over the back of a chair and reaching for the chart rack. “She’s not a princess,” he muttered, his voice low and distracted.
Shen didn’t bother to argue the technicality; the smirk remained firmly in place.
“We got really good food the whole time she was here,” Ellis chimed in, leaning her elbows on the counter. There was a faint, satisfied look on her face. “Catering from places I can’t even afford to look at. The day shift was absolutely jealous of us.”
Mateo nodded in fervent agreement. “I had a lobster roll for a ‘snack’ at 3:00 a.m. I don’t think I can go back to vending machine granola bars, Jack.”
Jack flipped through a chart, his expression entirely unimpressed. “So that’s what you took from this case. A refined palate for seafood?”
Ellis shrugged, unbothered. “I’m just saying. High-standard patient, high-standard perks.”
“Don’t tell me you guys are hoping she comes back,” Jack said, glancing up briefly from his paperwork, his eyes narrowing slightly.
Ellis and Mateo exchanged a quick, knowing look before both letting out a chuckle.
“Not like that, doc,” Mateo said, holding up his hands in mock surrender as he began to back away toward a trauma bay.
“Relax, Doctor Abbott,” Ellis added with a wink, heading off to check on a fresh admission. “The drama was just a nice break from the usual drunks.”
Shen, however, stayed. He stepped a little closer, lowering his voice so it didn't carry across the pit.
“…Don’t you?” Shen asked.
Jack looked at him, one brow slowly crawling toward his hairline. “Don’t I what?”
Before Jack could press him, Mateo suddenly reappeared, his phone already out and glowing. “There’s an update,” he said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “Next week will be the decision. Swedish investors. Board control. It’s all going down right now.”
Jack frowned slightly, his pen pausing over a prescription pad. “How do you even know all of this, Mateo? Don't you have patients?”
Mateo rolled his eyes, as if the answer were obvious. “I follow an account. ‘The 0.1%.’ They track people like her—the moves, the scandals, the power shifts. It’s better than any soap opera.”
Jack didn’t comment. He just picked up his pen again, tapping it rhythmically once, twice against the edge of the metal clipboard. He looked back down at his work, his face a mask of clinical indifference.
“…So?” Jack asked quietly.
Mateo looked up, surprised by the prompt. Jack met his eyes, his expression as calm and steady as the day they’d met.
“Tell me when it’s decided,” Jack said, his voice barely audible over the hum of the ER.
A small, stunned pause followed. Mateo blinked once, a slow grin spreading across his face.
“Tell me who wins,” Jack added.
Mateo’s grin widened into a triumphant beam. “Yes, sir.”
The fifth time Jack met you
A few months later, the room was bathed in the glow of a hundred crystal chandeliers.
Soft gold lighting bounced off champagne flutes and silk gowns. It was a sea of people dressed in the kind of tailored luxury that signaled true power. Conversations were layered, voices kept to a practiced, elegant hum over the quiet swell of a string quartet. This wasn’t just a victory party; it was a statement.
The war was over. The board was yours, and the mistress had been removed—cleanly, efficiently, and without a single drop of blood spilled on the corporate carpet.
You stood at the center of the room, a glass of vintage sparkling water in your hand. You were calm, composed, and entirely untouchable.
Lilly, your closest friend and director of marketing, looped her arm through yours, a triumphant grin on her face. “You really did it. You actually pulled it off.”
You took a slow, deliberate sip. “Of course I did.”
Lilly laughed, ready to make a toast, but suddenly her posture stiffened. Her hand dropped to her stomach, her fingers digging into the expensive fabric of her dress.
“…Okay,” she whispered, her face draining of color. “That’s not good.”
You turned immediately, your focus shifting from the room to her in a heartbeat. “What’s wrong?”
She forced a tight smile, though her grip on your arm was becoming a vice. “Probably just the new diet. It’s brutal.”
You weren’t convinced. You had seen this look before—the pale sweat, the shallow breathing. You were already shaking your head. “We’re going to the ER.”
“What? No—this is your night,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “The things we do for beauty, right?”
“Greg,” you called out, your voice low but carrying that unmistakable edge of command. “Prepare the car.”
“I have medicine in my bag—” Lilly started.
“No,” you cut her off, already guiding her toward the side exit. “We’re going. Now.”
Greg, who had been hovering nearby with a watchful eye, squinted at Lilly. He looked from her to you, a slow, knowing expression crossing his face. “…Suspicious,” he muttered under his breath.
“Shut up, Greg,” Lilly groaned, leaning heavily into you as the pain spiked.
“Yeah,” you added, pushing through the heavy oak doors. “Shut up, Greg.”
The ER doors hissed open with that familiar, pneumatic sound.
The smell was the same—antiseptic and floor wax. The lighting was the same—stark and uncompromising. But this time, the reason was different.
Shen looked up from the nurse's station and immediately a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Oh. The queen is back.”
You frowned, not missing the irony. “What?”
“I’m dying here,” Lilly groaned beside you, her head lolling against your shoulder.
You pointed at her without a moment’s hesitation. “Stomach pain. High stress. New diet. Fix her.”
Shen was already moving, grabbing a wheelchair. “Of course it is. It’s always the diet.”
The machinery of the hospital picked up speed around you. Vitals were taken, questions were barked out, and Lilly was whisked toward a trauma bay. Then, the curtains parted, and Jack stepped in.
He looked exactly as he had months ago—sleeves rolled up, stethoscope around his neck, an expression of unshakable, quiet focus. He didn't react to your designer gown or the fact that you looked like you’d just stepped off a magazine cover. To him, you were just a person in a room.
“Ellis, IV line. Matteo, get me labs. Let’s not assume it’s the diet until we see the blood work,” Jack said, his hands already moving to assess Lilly’s condition.
“Yes, doctor,” Ellis replied.
Within seconds, the team had Lilly stabilized and moving toward imaging. The chaos receded, the curtains were pulled, and suddenly, the room felt much larger.
It was just you and him.
Jack pulled off his gloves, tossing them into the bin with a flick of his wrist. He turned to you properly, leaning back against the metal counter. A brief, quiet pause stretched between you.
“You look great,” he said. It wasn't a line. It was a clinical observation, delivered with a hint of genuine warmth.
You held his gaze, feeling the tension of the last few months finally start to ebb away. “Thank you.”
Another beat passed.
“Oh,” Jack added, as if it had just occurred to him. “And congrats. You won the battle.”
You tilted your head slightly, a flicker of amusement in your eyes as you remembered. “Right. So that means you won the bet too?”
“Yup.”
A real smile almost formed. “Glad I didn’t make you lose.” You paused, then added, “How did you even know?”
Jack shrugged lightly, leaning one shoulder against the counter, completely at ease. “Hard to miss,” he said, his voice dropping into that steady tone you remembered.
“After all… you were my patient.”
With a small nod, he pushed himself off the counter and walked toward the trauma bay, already shifting his focus to the next case.
You stayed where you were, silk gown catching the harsh fluorescent light, watching him leave. His movements were calm, unhurried, like none of the chaos around him mattered. Like your world didn’t touch his at all.
Without thinking, you caught your lower lip between your teeth, your gaze lingering on the doorway long after he disappeared.
Across the room, Lilly, still half-sprawled on the bed but far more awake now, exchanged a slow, knowing look with Greg.
They nodded at the same time.
“Yeah,” Lilly muttered, voice weak but satisfied. “I knew it.”
Greg adjusted his glasses, completely in agreement. “Exactly.”
The sixth time Jack met you
A few weeks later, the ER felt different.
It was cooler. Literally. Even the patients were shocked and unprepared with the coldness.
Mateo walked through the double doors, froze directly under a ceiling vent, and closed his eyes. He looked like a man who had just found religion.
“Is that... actual air conditioning?” he breathed, the faint hum of a powerful, brand-new HVAC system purring above him.
Ellis didn’t even bother to look up from her paperwork, though the lack of sweat on her brow spoke volumes. “Don’t question a miracle, Mateo. Just enjoy the fact that we aren't melting into our scrubs anymore.”
Shen leaned back in his chair, a rare, relaxed posture for a Tuesday afternoon. “The waiting room, too. Finally, No more broken chairs or flickering lights.”
Robby walked in, hands shoved deep into his pockets, glancing around at the subtle but expensive upgrades. The walls were freshly painted, the floors gleamed with a high-grade finish, and the equipment at the triage station was top-of-the-line.
“Donations came through,” Robby said casually, though his eyes were dancing with a certain knowing light.
Mateo smirked, finally stepping away from the vent. “Yeah. We know who.”
No one said your name. They didn’t need to. The precision of the renovation, the efficiency of the delivery, and the sheer quality of the materials had your signature written all over it.
Robby’s gaze shifted across the room, landing on Jack. As usual, Jack was leaning against the counter, focused on a chart as if the world hadn't just been upgraded around him.
Robby walked over and leaned against the opposite side of the desk. “We should thank her.”
Jack didn’t look up. “You’re the Head of E.R, Robby. You can.”
Robby shook his head, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. “No. It’s you who should thank her.”
That made Jack pause. Just for a second. The pen in his hand stilled over the paper. He slowly raised his head, his expression as unreadable as ever. “…Why me?”
Robby gave him a long, pointed look. “Don’t pretend you don’t know, Jack.”
Jack closed the chart. Slowly. Methodically. “I don’t.”
Robby let out a quiet breath, a sound somewhere between amusement and exhaustion. “Yeah,” he said, tapping the counter before walking away. “You do.”
Later that night, a rare, quiet moment descended upon the pit. The rush of the evening had bled out into a midnight lull.
Jack stepped out into the crisp night air to clear his head, but his gaze was immediately pulled to the parking lot. The black luxury sedan was back, and Greg was leaning against the hood. Greg caught Jack’s eye and gave a small, meaningful nod toward the hospital lobby.
He headed back inside, his boots echoing on the newly polished floors. He found you standing in the center of the lobby, head tilted back as you oversaw the progress of the renovation you had funded.
He approached, his steps unhurried and steady. “You’re doing inspections now?”
You turned toward him, showing no surprise at his sudden appearance. “Just making sure it works.”
His gaze flicked briefly to the new vents above—the ones currently pumping perfectly chilled, sterile air into the wing—then settled back on you. “It does.”
A beat of silence followed, the kind that usually felt awkward in a hospital but felt different between the two of you. “You didn’t have to do this,” he added, his voice a low rumble.
You held his gaze, your expression as calm and unreadable as ever. “It’s called gratitude, Dr. Abbott.”
Gosh. Every time his name slipped from your lips, it sent a sharp, electric tingle racing down his spine. He cleared his throat. “For the hospital?”
“For the people in it,” you corrected him. You took a half-step closer, the professional distance beginning to blur. “You helped me. And you helped my friend. Consider this a closing of the account.”
Jack studied you for a long second, his head tilted slightly as if he were deciding whether to accept that answer or look for the one you weren't saying. The silence that settled between you wasn't empty; it was close, heavy with the shared history of that frantic night in the ER.
“You’ve been eating properly?” he asked suddenly, falling back into the role of the doctor, though his eyes suggested he was looking for more than just a medical update.
You exhaled a light, weary breath. Of course he would bring it back to that. “Yes. Greg is a professional micromanager.”
“And sleeping?”
The question caused a pause. You shifted your weight slightly, your gaze drifting toward the darkened windows for a fraction of a second before returning to his steady, unblinking eyes. The air between you tightened, the hum of the new AC the only sound in the quiet lobby.
“I have trouble sleeping,” you said.
That got his attention. Jack’s eyes lifted from the chart, settling on you with quiet, undivided focus. “Since when?”
“Since a long time ago.” You tilted your head slightly, watching him. “Probably because my bed is too cold. Maybe you could fix that.”
Something in his expression shifted. He wasn't surprised or even particularly amused; he was just suddenly, intensely aware. “Cold bed,” he repeated, his voice dropping an octave. His gaze didn’t leave yours. “You're saying that’s the problem?”
“It’s one of them.” Your chin lifted a fraction, meeting his scrutiny.
He studied you for a long second, then gave a small nod, accepting the answer without pushing. “You don’t look like someone who waits around for problems to fix themselves,” he noted.
“I don’t.”
“Good.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. Instead, it seemed to tighten the space between you, pulling the air taut. You crossed your arms slowly, the movement deliberate this time. “Then what would you suggest, doctor?”
Jack didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you, steady and measuring, as if calculating a dose. “Warm shower,” he said finally. “Magnesium. No phone thirty minutes before bed.”
Your brow lifted. “That’s it?”
“That’s what works.”
You tilted your head, still watching him, refusing to let him off the hook. “And if I’m still not tired?”
There was a brief, heavy pause. His gaze dropped for a second, tracing the line of your throat before returning to your face. “You should have someone who makes you stop,” he said, his voice calm and certain. “Someone who drags you to bed.”
The words landed heavier than they should have. You felt it in the sudden hitch of your pulse. “Do you give that advice to all your patients?” you asked, your voice dropping to a whisper.
He shook his head once. “No.” He let the word hang there for a beat. “Just you.”
He turned slightly, acting as if he were done, as if the line had already been crossed and he wasn’t going to linger on the edge. “If it’s still a problem,” he added almost casually, “you know who to call.”
You watched him, the sharp edges of your corporate persona shifting into something softer, more intrigued. “I didn’t know you had this in you.”
That made him glance back, looking just over his shoulder. “You don’t know much about me yet.” He paused, his eyes dark. “But you could.”
Now he turned fully, stepping closer. He wasn't near enough to touch, but he was close enough to change the atmosphere between you. “There’s a bar down the street,” he said. “If you want to fix the sleep issue properly.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing your face. “You’re skipping your shift?”
His mouth curved, just a little. “I’m stepping out.” He took another step, his voice dropping into a low, private register. “I’m not letting the biggest donor of this hospital go home alone and pretend she’s fine.”
It wasn’t a tease. It was a statement of pure intention. You held his gaze for a second longer, the weight of the night and the hospital falling away, before letting a small smile slip through.
“Lead the way, Dr. Abbott.”
Since that night, it didn’t stay just one night.
What started as something simple turned into a pattern neither of you questioned. You showed up after his shifts. He started expecting you there. Some nights you waited in the car, some nights you walked straight into the ER like you belonged there.
People noticed. The quiet way you stood near him. The way he always looked up when you entered, even in the middle of work.
You stopped going home alone. He stopped leaving without you.
