Dreamer

Kay. She/her. 23. Brazil. “Never be cruel. Never be cowardly. Remember, hate is always foolish and love is always wise. Always try to be nice, but never fail to be kind.”

[doormatty3]

Almost Nothing - Chapter 1 (Jack Abbot x Reader)

Masterlist Ao3

Summary:

[Jack Abbot x Female Reader] [Jack Abbot x You] Doctor Jack Abbot had survived grief, war and the daily violence of the Pitt by learning how to keep himself separate from the things he wanted. Then you transferred to nights with your careless hands and your impossible warmth, touching him like it meant nothing while looking at him like it might. He told himself that a man like him had no business wanting someone like you. But restraint is only useful until it breaks. OR: When Jack’s carefully held control slips, you know you’re in for a ride

Wordcount: 15,719

Warnings: 18+, fluff, yearning, romance, kissing, soft Jack , smut, dirty talk, flirting, oral sex, vaginal sex, love

A/N:And another old man to add to the collection. I may have or may not have binged The Pitt in my time off… (maybe also binged a shitton of Shawn Hatosy thrist traps) But seriously, he is CRIMINALLY hot. I need peepaw in ways that are unimaginable. I had… ridiculously much fun writing this and just really trying to paint Jack’s emotional state. Anyway…I feel like Abbot would yearn for someone he shouldn’t have. So yeah this is that: a lot of yearning and fluff. And then smut. Ofc.

The Pitt never really slept; it only changed its shape. 

It swelled and recoiled upon itself, though the hours of the day like some great wounded organ under electric light. At midnight, it was all sharp, almost hectic movements and shouted orders; at three in the morning, it gave way to some kind of delirium, low and airless, soaked in the bitter smell of antiseptic and cold coffee.

Three ambulances had rolled in within the last twenty minutes. Somewhere beyond the partition curtains, a man was screaming in great bursts while a monitor answered in shrill protest. 

The waiting room had long since overflowed with bodies occupying every chair, every stretch of the wall. The air itself was stiff and stuffy, as if it had been handled too many times. 

Doctor Jack Abbot, the attending physician of the night shift, stood in the middle of it all with drying blood beneath his fingernails and the blunt iron ache of exhaustion driving steadily beneath his left eye. 

The overhead fluorescent lights caught the silver in his hair and turned the curls fallen across his forehead damp with sweat into something almost feverish-looking. His scrub top hung slightly crooked beneath the weight of the stethoscope. There was a hard line set to his mouth that had settled sometime around hour ten of the shift and probably wouldn’t leave until he got home. 

“Abbot.”

He looked up at once.

You were crossing the department towards him with a patient chart tucked beneath one arm, weaving through motion with the unconscious certainty of someone long accustomed to catastrophe. A strand of your hair clung to your temple.

You stopped close, closer than most people ever came to Jack willingly anymore. 

Without hesitation, you reached up and caught the folded edge of his scrub collar between your fingers, straightening it with a small, distracted frown as though the gesture belonged to habit. 

“There,” you murmured with a smile. “You looked insane.”

Your knuckles brushed the side of his neck as your hand fell away. 

It was hardly anything, almost only the barest contact. A passing warmth against skin still cold from over-air-conditioned hallways and way too many hours on feet. 

And yet Jack felt it with almost embarrassing certainty. 

The rough drag of your finger against the pulse in his neck. The faint pressure of your palm briefly brushing over his shoulder as you adjusted his collar. The clean, sharp smell of hospital soap clinging to your skin beneath the copper-rot scent of blood that saturated the entire department. 

His body reacted before his mind could catch up. Every muscle in him tightened at once. His breath caught somewhere low and hard beneath his rips.

For one terrible instant, he became aware of himself with unbearable precision: exhaustion humming under his skin, sweat cooling at the base of his spine, the sudden, violent thud of his pulse against the place you had touched.

You were already moving away before he remembered how speaking worked, disappearing towards Trauma Two while calling something over your shoulder to Lena.

Jack just remained where he was. Neither moving nor speaking.

Simply staring after you with the stunned disorientation of a man struck unexpectedly across the mouth. 

“You good?” Shen asked after a moment.

Jack blinked hard. Only then did he realise that the other physician had been watching him.  He dragged his gaze away from the doorway.

“Fine,” he said roughly, but the lie sat heavily in his throat.

Meanwhile, trauma two had swallowed you at once as you slid into the room, bright and hot and appallingly alive beneath the white glare of the overhead lamps.

There was a man on the table with rainwater still darkening the shoulders of his jacket, one paramedic talking too quickly at your left, another trying to untangle a blood pressure cuff from the mess of tubes and blankets. Somewhere behind you, a monitor had begun its beeping. 

Dr. Ellis was already there with one hip braced against the bed, listening and assessing.

“Motorcycle versus guardrail,” the paramedic was saying. “Helmeted at least. But brief loss of consciousness at the scene. Pressure’s soft, pulse one-thirty. Decreased breath sounds on the left.”

“Chest tube tray,” Ellis said, without looking away from the patient, blood darkening the torn front of his shirt in a widening, theatrical bloom. 

You were already reaching for it before she had finished her sentence.

There was comfort, in a strange and grim way, in the shape of instructions. In the crisp obedience of the body when the mind might otherwise have chosen panic. Clamp. Gauze. Betadine. Gloves snapped at the wrist.

The world narrowed itself to hands and numbers and the thin animal sounds of pain. 

You had been on nights for less than two weeks, not long enough for the altered rhythm of the place to feel natural, but long enough to understand that the Pitt after midnight was not the Pitt of daylight. It was another creature entirely. 

You moved because there was moving to be done. You smiled because sometimes people needed a human face more than they needed another instruction shouted over their bodies.

And if, sometimes, your hand found a shoulder or a wrist or the back of someone’s arm while you spoke, it was only because people were less likely to drift away from you when they could feel that someone had hold of them.

At least that’s what you told yourself. 

Outside Trauma Two, Jack remained where you had left him for half a second too long.

It irritated him, that half a second.

He was not a man prone to standing uselessly in corridors because a nurse had dared to straighten his collar. He had been shot at, cut open, widowed, rebuilt, and put back into rooms where people died noisily under his hands. He had survived the great, crude indifference of the world in more forms than he cared to name.

And yet the ghost of your fingers at his throat persisted. 

He stood long enough that Shen said his name again, more pointedly this time.

“Abbot!”

“What?” Jack blinked, a bit annoyed, having acknowledged his colleague already.

“Trauma One needs you.”

“Then why are you still talking to me?”

Shen lifted both hands and wisely retreated.

Jack moved then because Jack always moved when he was needed. Whatever strange paralysis had taken him released at once, vanishing beneath the old machinery of training and fatigue. His expression sealed itself, and his shoulder squared. 

The man who had forgotten language at the brush of your fingers disappeared completely as if he had never existed. 

There was a patient waiting, a pressure dropping, a room full of people who would obey him if he spoke clearly enough. 

That, at least, he understood. You, unfortunately, he did not. 

In Trauma One, there was an elderly woman with a fractured hip and a blood pressure that would not behave, and Jack gave himself to the work with almost punitive focus.

Orders came clearly from him. 

“Two large-bore IVs. Type and cross. I want repeat vitals in five.”

His hands were steady, his voice calm. Nothing in him betrayed the absurd fact that a few rooms over, the ghost of your hand was still lingering.

It was ridiculous.

It was, if he was honest, worse than just ridiculous. It was borderline humiliating. 

He was too old for this, too tired. 

You had likely already forgotten the moment. You had probably straightened three collars that night, squeezed five shoulders, leaned against half the department in passing. 

That was the cruelty of this, he thought. Not that you touched him. But that you touched him as though it cost you nothing. 

“Dr. Abbot?”

He looked up. The resident beside him had gone slightly pale, waiting with a syringe in hand. 

Jack blinked once, hard, trying to regain his composure that he seemed to lose at only the thought of you. 

“Now,” he said, and hated the roughness in his own voice. “Push it now.”

The old woman stabilised by slow degrees, and the room settled. The monitors, having exhausted their shrill objections, returned to a rhythm that suggested not peace exactly, but permission to breathe once again.

Jack stripped off his gloves and dropped them into the bin with more force than necessary.

Then he heard you laugh. Neither loudly nor carelessly.  

It came from Trauma Two, brief and breathless, tucked between Ellis’s clipped instructions and the patient’s groans. A small sound, almost absurdly human in the middle of all that blood. 

He turned before he consciously decided to.

Through the open doorway, he saw you at the patient’s side, one hand braced against the mattress while Ellis and the intern worked. 

There was a smear of red across the blue of your glove, another at the edge of your wrist. Your hair had loosened further, escaping in damp strands at your neck, and your mouth was set in that concentred line he had begun, against all sense, to recognise. 

You were good. And that was the part that made it more dangerous. 

Not merely warm. Not merely beautiful. Not merely younger than him in the way that made him feel the years in his own bones with particular cruelty. 

You were good at the work. You listened before you answered. You learned quickly. You touched frightened patients with the same unthinking steadiness with which you touched everyone else, as though your hands carried with them some private conviction that people were still people even when they were bleeding under fluorescent lights. 

Jack wandered to Trauma Two and told himself he was there because Ellis might need an attending. 

Instead of going in, he stopped at the doorway. His arms were folded tightly across his chest, one shoulder braced against the metal frame of the entrance. Fatigue had settled into him, roughening the edges of his expression. 

And yet there remained in him something unmistakably alert, almost controlled. The sort soldiers carried long after wars had finished with them.

You did not notice him at first. 

You were standing beside Ellis at the patient’s side when someone handed you a suction tube, and you took it without hesitation and without needing instruction, calm amidst the ruinous choreography of the room. 

Jack just watched you move. Not openly enough to be caught by it. His gaze moved here it ought to move - the monitor, Ellis’s hands, the ultrasound screen - but it always returned to you afterwards with the stubborn inevitability of a tongue seeking the gap left by a missing tooth. 

You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear with the back of your wrist.

His jaw tightened.

He had seen prettier scenes than this. God knows he had. Women untouched by the fluorescent hospital lights and way too long shifts, and the strange erosion this work inflicted upon the soul. 

But none of them had ever looked at him the way you did, touched him the way you did.

And that was the problem.  

Ellis glanced up, relief in her eyes when she saw him, unaware of his inner struggle, “Abbot, perfect. Stop haunting the doorway and take a look at this ultrasound?”

You looked up at the sound of his name, too.

Your eyes wandered over him, taking note of how he stood half inside the opening. The overhead light flattened the colour from everything around him, bleaching the walls and turning the air itself a tired grey, but somehow it sharpened him instead.

The black of his scrub top stretched across the breadth of his shoulders; his forearms, bare and muscular, the tendons at his wrist standing out where his fingers tucked against his bicep.

He looked tired. Not just ordinarily tired or sleepless. It seemed like the tiredness had settled deep into his bones.

And still, absurdly, he was devastatingly handsome. 

Of course, you had noticed it before; it would have been difficult not to. Everyone noticed Jack Abbot. Some because he was brilliant. Some because he was intimidating. Some because grief clung to him in ways people sensed before they understood. But you had noticed him because of his stillness.

The Pitt was full of loud men. Jack never needed to raise his voice. 

Your gaze caught briefly on the rough shadow of his jaw, the silver threaded through his curls, the slight crease between his brows that deepened whenever he was concentrating. Or worrying. You had not yet learned which. 

Then his eye lifted fully to meet yours, and something in your stomach shifted. 

“There you are,” you said, your voice kind and soft as if you had been expecting him. 

Something unreadable moved briefly across his face, and then he crossed the room.

The space around the trauma bed was cramped with carts and tubing and bodies moving in practised collision. Ellis angled the probe again while you stepped automatically aside to make room for him, your hip brushing against the metal rail of the bed. 

That was what he would remember later. Not that you meant to touch him. Not that you intended anything by it.

Only that your body, without pause or question, made place for his.

Your shoulder brushed his arm as you stepped closer to the bed. The contact was brief, compressed by necessity, but your warmth passed through the thin cotton of your sleeve with indecent clarity. 

Jack looked at the ultrasound screen. 

He did not look at you, but you were suddenly aware of him beside you in a way that felt almost grave. You kept your eyes on the patient because that was what the patient deserved, but your attention was split in two. And only one half remained useful while the other noticed Jack Abbot breathing. 

“Free fluid?” you asked, because speech was safer when it belonged to work.

“Maybe,” Jack answered, his voice was steady while his pulse was not. 

Ellis angled the probe. The dim screen flickered with its lunar shades and swimming uncertainties “Here, see that?’

You leaned in for a better look, and the movement brought you closer still. Your arm crossed Jack’s for one second as you reached for a packet of gauze near his elbow. 

“Sorry,” you mumbled.

It should have ended there. 

And it would have ended there, if you hadn’t almost lost your balance, if the room had not been as crowded as it was, if his presence had not seemed to take up more space than his body alone could explain. 

Instinctively, your hand found the centre of his back as you steadied yourself around him.

It was nothing. It was everything. Under your palm, Jack went still.

Not enough for Ellis or anyone else to notice. Not enough for the room to falter. But you felt it: the minute arrest of muscle beneath fabric, the sudden held breath of a man who had learned too well how to conceal reaction and not quite well enough to conceal it from touch. 

So your fingers spread slightly before you thought better of it. 

Warm. Solid. Tense. 

“Sorry,” you said again, this time quietly as you withdrew your hand, “I’m in your way.”

No, thought Jack. The word rose in him with an immediacy that was almost violent. 

You were not in his way. You were, perhaps, too close. Too perceptive. Too capable of disturbing the delicate machinery by which he moved through the shift. But you were not in his way.

But the thought remained soundless, imprisoned somewhere behind his ribs.

He gave the ultrasound another hard look, as though the answer to the catastrophe of his own body might be hiding there amongst the grainy shapes.  

His jaw tightened as the patient groaned faintly.  

At least he said, “Call surgery. Now!”

The order cut clean through the air, and everyone moved. The other nurse moved first, then Ellis shifted the probe. Someone reached for the phone. The stretcher wheels gave a protesting click as another pair of hands appeared at the rail. The room, which had been suspended for half a breath around the uncertainty of the scan, abruptly became motion again. 

You moved too. You had been trained for this, knew how to fold yourself back into function, how to become hands and eyes and clear speech, how to take everything human and inconvenient and set it aside because the body on the bed could not wait for anyone’s private confusion. 

But before you turned fully away, your eyes flicked back to him once more.

It was barely a glance, quick and questioning beneath your lashes, there and gone so fast that anyone else might have missed it. Yet Jack saw it. And for a moment, he did not look away.

By the time the patient was wheeled out towards surgery, the room had been stripped of its emergency and left with the strange, intimate wreckage emergencies always seemed to leave behind.

There was torn packaging scattered across the counter, bloodied gauze abandoned in a shallow metal tray, a smear of red where the stretcher was and the flattened impression of a human already gone elsewhere. 

The air still held the sour metallic trace of blood beneath the sharper notes of antiseptic and plastic. 

You stripped off your gloves and threw them into the bin. 

Jack was still near the foot of the bed, speaking low to Ellis, his body angled half away from you. His voice had resumed its usual steadiness, that low, clinical economy that gave very little away. 

There was a smear of crimson near his collar. It sat just below the line of his jaw, stark against his skin. You took a clean wipe from the counter, not really thinking about what you were doing. 

“Hold still,” you said to him. 

Jack stopped speaking and looked at you with furrowed brows.

Ellis, mercifully, had already turned her attention to the chart, her pen moving with precision.

You stepped closer to him, almost on autopilot, driven only by the need to help and lifted the wipe to the side of his neck.

“There,” you murmured, “Blood. You’re collecting bodily fluids, Doctor Abbot.”

Something in him locked at once. It was immediate and humiliatingly complete, the hard, instinctive stillness of a body that had learned too much about pain and restraint; like the stillness of an animal that froze beneath unfamiliar hands. 

Your fingers were cool through the thin material of the wipe.

He felt them anyway. He felt the precise place where your hand hovered near his throat. The light pressure of the wipe. The nearness of your knuckles once again. 

A moment ago, the room had been all noise and utility: Ellis speaking in clipped phrases, equipment rolling, wrappers tearing, shoes moving briskly across the floor. 

Somewhere to his left, someone was still saying something. Beyond the door, someone pushed a cart down the corridor, one uneven wheel tickling faintly with each rotation. 

But Jack heard it all as though from underwater. 

You meant only to wipe the blood away and step back. He knew that. Of course, he knew that. 

You had seen the mark, taken a wipe, stepped close and done what any decent colleague might have done in the brief pause after a shared emergency. There was nothing in the gesture that required interpretation.

But that knowledge did nothing to save him. 

The antiseptic smell of the wipe rose faintly between you, clean and chemical and impersonal. And beneath it, maddenlingly, was something warmer - the scent of your skin after too many hours under hospital lights. 

It should not have registered. It should not have mattered.

His throat moved once beneath your fingers. A swallow, involuntary and unforgivable.

He saw the instance you noticed. 

Not because your expression changed much, you were too controlled for that, but because your hand hesitated. Only slightly, only long enough for the pad of your thumb to settle, absurdly, right against the side of his pulse. 

Jack had stood in rooms full of blood and screaming and stayed steady. He had walked into danger with a clear head. He had made calls that would have shaken younger doctors to the core. He had endured fear, grief, violence, exhaustion, and the long, grinding attrition of a life spent pretending that the body could simply be willed to continue. 

Shit, he had endured gunfire with steadier nerves than this. 

His jaw tightened, and he could not decide where to look.

Your eyes were dangerous because they were too close, and he didn’t want you to know how affected he was by this. Your mouth was worse. Soft with concentration, parted faintly around the quiet breath you had taken before speaking, close enough that some ungoverned part of him began measuring the distance without permission. 

There was a loose strand of hair near your cheek, dampened at the end by sweat or sink water or the long brutality of the shift. It clung there, out of place, human in a way that nearly undid him.

The urge to reach for it came so suddenly and violently that his hand almost moved.

Almost.

He imagined tucking it back. Not with purpose or with excuse. Only with the slow, careful intimacy of his fingers at your temple, the back of his knuckles near your cheek, your face turned slightly towards his hand. 

The thought was somehow even worse because it wasn’t desire, it was tenderness. 

He wondered, not for the first time, whether you understood what you were doing to him. 

Whether some part of you had begun to recognise the small betrayals his body committed in your presence. But Jack had never considered himself an easy man to read…life had taken care of that. And the hospital had taken care of the rest. 

Yet you just kept finding him. 

Not all of him. Not the whole ruin of him, not the darkened rooms he kept locked even from himself. 

But enough. 

You found the place where his breath caught. You found the pulse beneath his jaw. You found, with the terrible innocence of touch, the part of him still capable of wanting. 

So perhaps you did understand. And that possibility was somehow more terrifying than ignorance. 

Because if you understood, then Jack no longer knew which outcome frightened him more. That you wanted him back. Or that you did not. 

That you knew exactly what you were doing and had chosen him anyway. Or that this was nothing to you beyond the kind of careless warmth you carried without knowing what it could do to those who had learned to live without it.

That you might be playing not cruelly, maybe, but lightly. And that could wound too.

He was ashamed by the thought as soon as it came, since you had given him no reason to suspect cruelty. 

In fact, it was quite the opposite. 

Your kindness was not theatrical, which he had learned in the short time he knew you. It did not announce itself. It was almost instinctively, almost before thought, towards whatever looked hurt. A frightened patient gripping the rail too hard. A resident blinking too quickly after a reprimand. Ellis pretending not to be exhausted. A fellow nurse quietly swallowing tears in the medication room.

You noticed such things. You just noticed the small fractures people tried to hide beneath competence.

Perhaps that was all this was. Perhaps Jack Abbot was only one more damaged creature in a long line of damaged creatures. Perhaps the shape of your hands had simply learned to soothe. 

But God help him, he wanted to be more than that. 

He wanted to be more than another injury your kindness had found. More than a tired man at the end of a shift. More than a guarded colleague whose silence invited your gentleness. 

He wanted, shamefully and with a force that made him almost whole again, to be singular to you. Not merely cared for. But chosen. To be the person you touched, not because he needed gentleness, but because you could not quite keep yourself from giving it to him.

The desire was selfish. He knew that. Still, there it was. And it terrified him. 

“Got it?” he asked. The question came out lower than he intended, the words scraped by the roughness in his throat, and the sound of his own voice irritated him immediately. 

It gave too much away. Not to anyone else, perhaps. Ellis would only hear impatience. The room would hear only efficiency. But you would hear the fracture beneath it. 

You should have stepped back then. 

Jack wanted you to step back. 

He wanted the relief of distance, the restoration of ordinary air, the clean simplicity of no longer feeling the almost-touch of your thumb against his pulse. He wanted professionalism to return with its familiar walls and bright, sterile surfaces. He just wanted to be Dr. Abbot again, which was easier than being Jack under your hand. 

But you did not immediately step back.

You’d later blame it on the tiredness or the adrenaline. In the end, it was because he was looking at you with that terrible, restrained intensity, the kind that suggested a man holding a door shut from the inside. Because some reckless, increasingly curious part of you had begun to suspect that Dr. Jack Abbot was not nearly so unaffected as he pretended to be. 

Your fingers lingered another heartbeat at the edge of his collar. It was barely anything, just a breath of contact.

“Mh-hm,” you murmured softly, and Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. 

Only briefly, but not briefly enough. 

And he wondered what it would be like to kiss you, what it would be like to stop resisting.  

Then Ellis cleared her throat, and the sound cut through the moment with surgical precision. 

You withdrew your hand at once. Heat rising unhelpfully beneath your scrub top, spreading from your chest to your throat. You turned towards the counter and started to busy yourself with the discarded wrappers there, gathering torn plastic and empty gauze packets with a concentration far beyond what the task required. 

Jack stood there frozen for a second longer; he remained exactly how you left him: shoulder still, jaw set, head angled slightly aside. Cold rushed unpleasantly into the place your touch had occupied, and he felt the loss with humiliating clarity. 

Then he turned away. But not before you saw his hand flex once at his side. 

It was a small movement, almost nothing. His fingers opened and closed against empty air, controlled again almost as soon as it happened. You noticed because you had spent enough hours beside him now to understand the scale of his restraint. It looked like there had been something he almost reached for or something he had almost pushed away.

The thoughts arrived so suddenly that you almost dropped one of the wrappers. 

It couldn’t have been more than a minute, maybe less.

Thirty seconds, if anyone had been cruel enough to count them. Thirty seconds from the instant you stepped closer with the wipe to the instant Ellis’s throat-clearing returned you both to yourselves. 

That was all. Nothing, really.  If there were an official report of everything that happened during the shift, it would not have appeared at all. 

The patient went to surgery. 

He gave a few more orders.

Someone cursed at a jammed supply drawer.

The hallway swallowed the stretcher, and the room emptied by degrees and became once again just a trauma bay waiting for its next occupant. 

Nothing had happened. Nothing that mattered. Nothing that anyone else could have named. 

And yet, Jack carried those thirty seconds out of Trauma Two as though they had the weight of the world. As though they had been folded into his pocket. As though they had been ingrained in him now.

This irritated him greatly, because nothing had happened to him. 

You had seen blood. You had wiped it away. Your hand had been steady. Your voice had been low because the room had quieted, not because there was anything secret in it. Your thumb had rested at his pulse by accident, because bodies had edges and hands needed somewhere to go.

That was all.

Nothing except the sudden, catastrophic awareness of how long it had been since anyone had touched him with such unguarded care.  

Nothing except the disgraceful fact that for one wild instant, he had wanted to turn his face into your palm. 

Neither metaphorically nor sentimentally, but rather physically, shamefully. With the tired, aching hunger of a man who had spent too many years convincing himself that wanting comfort was a private weakness, best hidden under confidence clipped instructions and the occasional funny remark. 

He could only hope that you hadn’t noticed.

Jack moved towards the sink, washed his hands even though they were already clean and kept his eyes on the water until the rush of it was louder than the memory of your voice.  

But he suspected that your words and the simple act of kindness would trouble him for the rest of his shift. 

_____

After that, the nights began to arrange themselves around small catastrophes. 

Not the visible kind or the ones that seemed to announce themselves in alarms and rapid footsteps, that summoned surgery from upstairs or left blood drying in the seams of the floor. Those catastrophes belonged to the hospital, and Jack knew how to meet them. He had built a life out of meeting them.

They had protocols, names, and consequences. They demanded action and, therefore, gave mercy in some twisted kind of way. 

No, the kind that devastated him in ways he could never have imagined were the smaller things. The quieter things. 

The brush of your hand against his in an overcrowded room when you both reached for the same box of gloves. Your fingers closing briefly around his wrist as you passed him a pen without looking up from the chart. The absent, thoughless pressure of your palm between his shoulder blades as you slipped behind him at the nurse’s station, murmuring behind you under your breath, as though the warning could possibly prepare him for the touch. 

And those moments only existed in the narrow, treacherous space between bodies too tired to maintain perfect distance and too aware to call that failure meaningless. 

With each day you worked nights, the department made more room for you with the unconscious certainty of a place recognising one of its own. A mug appeared in the cabinet that no one else used. One of the residents began saving the last decent pudding cup because you had once mentioned liking it. The charge nurse started giving you the complicated patients because you understood quickly and did not rattle easily. 

But it was not an easy thing, belonging there. 

So you learned the nights’ own grim and tender rituals, when the coffee turned bitter enough to become a warning instead of a comfort. You learned where the extra blankets were hidden, when the warmer ran empty, which supply drawer jammed unless struck with the heel of the hand.

You learned the routines of every resident and fellow. Which ones panicked loudly and which ones panicked in silence. 

And despite every sensible boundary and every professional instinct screaming at you, you learned Jack’s rhythms too. Perhaps it was just impossible for you not to.

Dr. Jack Abbot did not make himself easy to know. He offered little freely and even less when pressed. His silences had edges. His patience, though real and kind, was often disguised as irritation so that sometimes new colleagues mistook the two. He had a talent for appearing immovable even when exhaustion had hollowed him from the inside. 

But you watched. Never obviously or enough to shame him. Only with the steady, quiet attention you gave to all you did. 

So you learned that he took his coffee black when the shift was bad and abandoned it half-finished when it was worse. How he rubbed the bridge of his nose before giving bad news, not afterwards, as if preparing his face to become something useful.

You noticed how he grew quieter when the pain threaded itself into his leg, his words becoming shorter, his movements more economical, the line of his mouth tightening in increments too small for most people to see. 

He never asked for help unless the asking could be disguised as an order:

Hold this. Come here. Tell Ellis to check her patients. Tell Shen I need another line. Walk with me.

And you noticed it all too well. 

Against all sense and every better judgement he had ever possessed, Jack learned yours as well. 

At first, he told himself it was just observation. Occupational habit. The natural consequences of working alongside someone in a department where the difference between competence and collapse could be measured in seconds. He noticed everyone, that was, after all, the job.

But there was noticing, and then there was knowing.

The way you hummed under your breath while restocking cards, always so softly that he suspected you may not even realise you were doing it. Sometimes it was a song he knew. More often, it was something shapeless, a thread of sound pulled through fatigue. 

He became aware of the way you touched people before you asked them to breathe - fingertips to a shoulder, a palm, to the back of a trembling hand, a physical reassurance offered before the instruction came. 

He even learned that you laughed differently after three in the morning.

Earlier in the shift, your laughter came quick and bright, a spark struck against the roughness of the place. But later, when the halls thinned and the lights seemed harsher, it softened. 

The tiredness changed you. Not in the way that you became less capable, if anything, the fatigue stripped you down to something more instinctive, more honest. Your voice grew gentler. Your movement slowed by fractions. 

You forgot, now and then, the careful distances other people kept as if your body, once exhausted, returned to some older language of warmth and nearness. 

When you were tired, you leaned closer to patients, to Ellis and Shen and the residents, when they looked ready to come apart.

And most dangerously towards him. Especially towards him. That was the intolerable part.

Because Jack could have survived your kindness if it had remained general, he could have endured being one more recipient of your impossible gentleness, one more tired colleague steadied by your hand in passing, one more creature briefly warmed by the careless mercy you gave everyone. 

But did it feel general? He wasn’t so sure anymore. 

Not when you glanced at him across the nurses’ station before smiling at whatever Ellis had said, as though some private part of the joke belonged to him. Not when you brought him coffee without asking and set it near his charting hand, black and no sugar, exactly as the night demanded. 

Not when, after a brutal case, you appeared beside him without a word and pressed two fingers lightly into the file he was holding, pushing it down so he would stop pretending to read it. 

“Jack,” you had said softly.  

Not Dr. Abbot. Jack.

And he looked at you because he had forgotten how not to. That was the true shape of the catastrophe. 

The slow, impossible accumulation of these things. The way each small contact refused to remain small. How every ordinary moment gathered weight because it belonged to you. 

The night shift, with all its fluorescent cruelty and exhausted mercy, had begun to feel less like a place he survived and escaped and more like a place where he might be seen. 

Jack did know what to do with being seen. 

He only knew that each night, when you came into the department, it seemed to alter around him. The coffee tasted worse. The lights seemed brighter. His pulse became less obedient. And all the catastrophes began anew. 

_____

There was the night you fell asleep for eight minutes at the nurses’ desk. 

Eight minutes, not more. Jack knew because he had looked at the clock when you head first began to dip, and then, for no reason, he refused to examine too closely, looked again when you finally started awake. 

You had not meant to sleep, that much was obvious. The night had been quiet, and you had been charting with a stubbornness that was becoming increasingly decorative, your cheek propped against your fist, pen still resting between your fingers, eyes lowering and opening and lowering again until your body gave you the pretence of being governed by will. 

For eight minutes, you were still.

Jack had passed you once and did not stop. Then he passed again with coffee. 

He set the cup beside your elbow, not loudly enough to startle you but close enough for the heat of it, or perhaps the smell, to reach whatever portion of you remained on duty.

Your eyes opened, startled and confused by the world’s reappearance, before you saw him.

“You looked dead,” he said dryly. 

Your mouth curved slightly, “Oh, you say the sweetest things.”

You reached for the coffee, and your fingers closed briefly over his before taking the cup. 

There was nothing deliberate in it, Jack told himself once again. After all, you were still half asleep.

Your hand had just gone where the coffee was, and his fingers happened to be there too. That was all, no mystery, no invitation, no evidence of anything except fatigue and proximity. Just the careless imprecision of a person dragged back from sleep too quickly. 

That’s what he told himself as he returned to his chart. What he told himself again when you took the first sip and made a face at the taste, then drank it anyway.

He told himself this a third time, hours later, when he realised he could still feel the warm, loose weight of your fingers closing over his.

Another of those catastrophes happened the night a combative patient caught you hard in the shoulder.

It happened quickly, as such things always did. One moment, the room was crowded with negotiation, restraint, the careful voices of people trying not to escalate fear into violence. And the next, the patient twisted with surprising force, and an elbow struck the upper part of your arm with a dull sound, Jack felt in his bones. 

You stepped back neither far nor dramatically. 

But Jack’s voice sharpened as it cut through the turmoil in the room. “Enough.”

Ellis and your fellow nurse looked, not because the word was unusual. Jack gave orders all the time. He corrected, interrupted, redirected, and cut through panic with the clean brutality of certainty. But this was different, too fast, too hard and too stripped of its usual professional distance. 

The patient stilled shortly after, beneath the hands restraining him. 

Afterwards, in the narrow stretch of hall where the light always seemed worse, you rolled your shoulder and tried to laugh it off. 

“I’m fine.”

Jack looked at you, unconvinced, “You always say that.”

You blinked, then tilted your head at him with an expression so dry it might have been amusement if he had not also recognised the tenderness under it. You just stepped closer as if the distance between you had been decided badly and required correction. Your hand came to his forearm, fingers wrapping lightly around the muscle there, gentle and sure. 

It was not gratitude or reassurance. Rather, it felt like forgiveness. As if you had understood the worry in him, the sharpness of his voice, the way concern had risen too quickly to be made polite and had decided not to punish him for it. 

He watched your hand leave his arm again, and the absence seemed unreasonable. Absurdly, he felt bereft.

And then there was the night rain battered the ambulance bay doors so hard the whole department seemed to breathe around it.

Water came down in sheets, turning the windows black and restless. Every arrival dragged the weather in with it: wet shoes, damp hair, the cold mineral smell of the street. 

The floors grew slicer near the entrance no matter how often someone mopped them. The wind pressed itself against the building, and each time the automatic doors opened, the night outside flashed with rain.

The ache in Jack’s leg had started before midnight. By two, it had become difficult to ignore. By three, ignoring it required enough concentration that he grew quieter than usual. 

You noticed, because of course you would.

He should have known that you would eventually pick up on it. Pain altered people in small, specific ways, and you had become uncomfortably fluent in reading his silences by then. 

So you saw the shorter stride, the careful stillness when he stopped walking. The hand braced against the counter for one second too long before he let it drop. 

But you said nothing in front of the others.

That was another thing about you that unravelled him. You had a talent for protecting dignity while tending to injury. 

You did not ask if he was all right in the hallway, where he would have had to lie. You did not fuss at him near the desk, where he would have had to make you stop.

You simply appeared beside him in the empty staff room some minutes later, carrying two paper cups of terrible coffee and a packet of ibuprofen tucked beneath one thumb.  And you placed both on the table in front of him.

Jack looked at the packet and then at you, “You always this bossy?”

“Only when people are being stupid,” you retorted, raising one eyebrow.

He should have resented it. He survived in stubbornness for too long not to recognise an attempt to manage him. And how he disliked being read, being handled. Above all, he disliked the sensation of needing something that someone else had seen before he could disguise it.

And yet? The coffee was warm. The pills necessary. Your face held no pity, only attention. So instead of getting up or ripping into you, he remained seated.

You took the chair beside him, close enough that your knee brushed his for the length of one quiet breath before you shifted away. And he wondered whether the contact was just accidental.

The staff room hummed around you with the old refrigerator’s incessant buzzing. Somewhere outside, someone called for transport. Neither of you spoke for a while as he took the ibuprofen and drank the coffee. 

Perhaps it would have been easier had you remained ignorant. 

Not ignorant of medicine, nor of pain, nor of the thousand small ways people revealed themselves under pressure. But ignorant of him. That would have been safer. 

If you had never learned where his restraint thinned. Never noticed how his body betrayed him when yours came too close. If you had continued to believe that Jack Abbot was simply difficult, competent, tired and impenetrable. 

He was controlled and disciplined. A man built out of restraint and old damage, every sharp edge held carefully beneath the practised calm of a physician who had seen too much and learned to continue anyway. 

But control was not indifference. And after enough nights beside him, you began to recognise the tiny failures.

The way he went still when your hand touched his arm, not with rejection but with the stunned obedience of someone touched where he had forgotten he was lonely. 

The way his eyes dropped, unwillingly and only for a moment, to your mouth when you stood too close. 

The way his voice changed when he said your name after a difficult patient.

The way he looked away first. Always first. And Jack Abbot did not look away from much.

You did not know what to do with that knowledge. It frightened you to no end, though not because you didn’t like it. Rather, because each small discovery felt less like proof of conquest than proof of responsibility. If he yielded, even by a fraction, it cost him something.

And, god, if you were honest, you had begun to want him to yield. 

You did not want to corner or embarrass him, did not want to make him feel hunted. There was too much damage in him for that. Too much restraint that seemed less like pride to you and more like survival. And yet you wanted to know whether the thing passing between you was only your foolish invention or whether he felt it too. 

So for a while, you did nothing at all - almost nothing. 

For Jack, it turned out, almost nothing was still enough to ruin him. 

You never crossed any line. No breach of professionalism that could be examined beneath the cold light of sense and condemned accordingly. But there was none of that. There was only almost nothing.

And that had become impossible for him. He endured it because he had not yet found a way to ask you to stop without revealing how badly he wanted you to continue.

_____

By the eighth week, Jack had begun to dread and anticipate you in equal measure, which disturbed him more than he cared to admit. 

Dread, at least, was familiar and something he could understand. It had shape and function. He had known it in operating rooms and field hospitals, in the seconds before bad news was spoken out loud, in the thin silence after a monitor changed its rhythm.

Anticipation, on the other hand, was another matter.

It was unreasonable. Undignified. It had no place in a man of his age and temperament, certainly not in a man who had taught himself, over the long and punishing course of his life, to expect little and need even less. 

He had endured months in the desert heat with torn skin and less physical awareness of his own body than he now possessed whenever you stood too close beside him.

And that irritated him to no end.

He despised how some part of him had quietly made a study of you and could no longer stop. It was as if the night had begun to arrange itself more sensibly when he knew you were within it. 

If you were busy with another resident, he found reasons to pass by. 

Good reasons, of course…defensible ones. He was the attending after all, and there was always a chart to check, a resident to correct. A patient whose labs he wanted to review personally again, even after Shen already did it. 

Jack was not stupid enough to wander aimlessly after you like a boy, so he wrapped every detour in purpose and carried it with sufficient authority that no one questioned him. 

Except you. You had begun to look up when he appeared. Not obviously, of course. But sometimes your eyes lifted before he spoke as though some part of you had started to anticipate him as well. 

That was dangerous enough to make him avoid you for almost an entire hour one night. But of course it did not help. 

If your name was not on the night roster, the ER seemed colder. 

That was absurd. He knew it was absurd. The temperature did not change because you were absent. The lights remained the same merciless white. The coffee tasted just as shitty. The stretchers rattled, the monitors beeped, and the residents panicked with ordinary regularity.

And yet the place seemed altered without you. Emptier in some quiet, structural way. 

As though someone had removed a source of warmth he had not meant to depend on. 

If you laughed with someone else, something old and unbecoming moved in him before he could will it into silence. 

Jealousy. 

It disgusted him that he was jealous over laughter of all things. Over the tilt of your head towards a young resident. Over the easy touch you gave Shen on the shoulder. Over the way, a paramedic leaned too close while telling you some story from the ambulance bay and was rewarded with a tired but nonetheless delighted smile. 

It was ridiculous and downright shameful. 

As if he had any right. Made any claim on you. Had offered anything that might justify the dark, brief tightening of his chest when your warmth turned elsewhere. As if standing still beneath your hand and then looking away first constituted a promise. 

He had no right. 

None.

And even if he had wanted one, what exactly did he imagine he could offer you?

A complicated body. A leg that punished rain and long shifts and the arrogance of pretending he was younger than he was. 

A dead wife whose absence still occupied rooms in him, he rarely opened. 

A history full of locked doors and old wars, of choices made under pressure and consequences that had outlived the circumstances that created them.

A temperament built more for endurance than joy. And exhausting that had settled so deeply into him, it might as well have been character.

You, meanwhile, moved through the department with your tired eyes and your quick hands and your reckless tenderness. Young enough still (or so he told himself) to expect that life might give something back if you loved it hard enough. You deserved someone unburdened. Someone uncomplicated. Someone who could take your warmth without flinching as though it were a wound. 

After all, he was sure that there was someone waiting for you at home. A boyfriend, perhaps or more. 

Jack imagined someone decent. Someone with clean hands and an unbroken history, someone who texted you before your shift and kept dinner warm badly but honestly. Someone who did not measure desire against grief and guilt and the arithmetic of age, Someone whose body didn’t ache. 

Someone who could accept your careless affection without making a religion of it.

Your imagined partner served a purpose. He transformed restraint into decency, into professionalism, into something cleaner than fear.

Wanting a woman who belonged to someone else was pathetic enough, but reaching for her? That would have made him cruel. And Jack, wherever else he had been, whatever he had failed at, refused to be cruel to you.

So he let the imagined man stand between you as a useful ghost. 

He disliked the idea of him with an intensity that embarrassed him every time it surfaced. 

But he needed him. Because the man made restraint noble, sensible, clean. 

And, god, Jack was desperate for cleanliness in a thing that had begun to feel anything but clean.

Because the truth, when stripped of all its careful justifications, was far simpler and far more humiliating:

When you touched him, he wanted. 

Not in a weird philosophical way, nor a tragic one and neither in the elegant, distinct manner of a man nobly suffering from some doomed attachment. But rather, he wanted with a terrible simplicity.

Wanted your hand close there when your fingers brushed against his. Wanted your knee touching his when your legs touched under the table. Wanted to hear you say his name - Jack, not Dr. Abbot, in a room where no one else could hear it.

Every time that wanting rose in him, all his noble restraint began to change shape into something that looked less like virtue or decency. Less like the necessary discipline of an older man protecting a colleague from the ruin of his own desire. 

Instead, it began to look very much like fear. Fear of being seen. Of being wanted. Of not being able to refuse you when you reached for him with any true intention. 

And worst of all, fear that you would not reach for him at all. 

You examined this thing between you way too much. 

You thought about him while washing your hands. While restocking carts. While walking home in the pale, exhausted morning after a shift, when the city looked too clean and unreal, and your body still felt tuned to the artificial brightness of the Pitt. You thought about the impossible carefulness of him, the way he let you come close and then seemed furious with himself for wanting it. 

You were afraid you’d misread him, that all his stillness was not wanting but discomfort. 

So you gave him chances, touched him, and then left space for him to move away. Smiled and let him look first. He never stepped away, never hardened against it, but also never reached for you either. 

And you were blissfully unaware that Jack had conjured up a man by your side in his head that, over time, had become strangely useful to Jack. Because as long as this ghost existed, the thing growing steadily and silently between the two of you remained impossible by default. 

He could stand beside you at the nurses’ station while your shoulder pressed warm against his arm and tell himself that the warmth belonged to someone else. He could endure the small, unbearable mercies of your touch because they were, in the end…. Harmless. 

They had to be just that because you were unavailable. That made restraint simple… simpler. But not easy. 

You continued touching him with the same careless familiarity that had first disturbed the machinery of his peace weeks earlier. Each contact lasted seconds and remained with him absurdly long afterwards. 

The worst of it all was that the touches did not remain the same.

Maybe they did, and Jack was only losing the ability to interpret them sensibly. That was a possibility.

After all, he was tired, older than he felt, and more affected than he wished. And desire had a way of falsifying evidence. He knew that. A starving man could make a feast out of crumbs. 

And yet, to him it seemed that your hand sometimes lingered. Not long enough to name or accuse. But only a fraction longer than they should remain. Your eyes sometimes held there for one dangerous heartbeat too long, as if you were waiting for him rt do something with the silence between you. 

He refused to examine this too closely, because he didn’t want to chase after hope. He had no patience to deal with the fact that hope would inevitably soften the walls that kept him functional.

So he returned to the boyfriend again and again to keep himself in check.

Until Thursday night.

The Pitt had settled into one of its uglier moods, and the waiting room had become its own nation of misery. Someone was vomiting loudly into a plastic basin near triage, Lena was threatening a resident with bodily harm over misplaced paperwork and from the tone of her voice, Jack suspected she had advanced beyond metaphor. Ellis had sworn at two separate monitors and the wall itself. Shen’s mood was just as bad, with Dunkin’ having closed due to a burst pipe and him not getting his sugary coffee in before the shift.  

Jack himself had perhaps slept three hours, and that would be the explanation he’d later use. 

He was due upstairs shortly before surgery, already running through labs and images and the sequence of calls he had to make today, when you appeared in front of him with that focused look you wore when your body had decided before your mind had finished justifying it. 

The night had scraped your nerves raw, and you were tired of pretending you did not want excuses to touch him. 

“Hold still,” you said. 

Jack should have stepped back. Should have taken the chart in his hand and used it as a shield. Should have turned towards anything else. Should have said something dry enough to restore the distance between you before your fingers reached him. 

But he did none of those things, and you stepped into his space before either of you could pretend it had happened by accident. One hand catching the edge of his collar when it had twisted and smoothing it back into place with absent concentration.

It was the same gesture as before, but then your palm flattened once briefly over the centre of his chest. 

Warmth, through cotton and t-shirt and skin and bone, Jack felt it everywhere, 

The exhaustion of the week, the months of hunger carefully buried beneath professionalism. The imagined boyfriend standing between Jack and the thing he wanted. All the structures he had built around restrained all the arguments he had polished until they looked like virtue, all the locked rooms in him that had remained obedient for years.

Something simply gave beneath the pressure of your hand. 

He looked down at your palm resting against his chest as though it had some right to be there.

“Does your boyfriend know you touch people like this?” The words were out before he could recall them.

Silence, not long but long enough for the full, catastrophic stupidity of the sentence to reveal itself. 

Jack felt the room stop around him, though of course it had not. The hospital carried on with its usual indifference, but between the two of you, everything became still.

You could not make sense of the words at first. It landed between you as an object dropped from a height, strange and heavy and weird. 

And so Jack experienced the full humiliation of what he had done. The jealousy. The nakedness, the pathetic hope dressed badly as accusation. He had asked a question he had no right to ask in a tone that he could not quite excuse as professional. 

He had dragged the imagined man into the space between you and, in doing so, revealed precisely how long he had been thinking about him. 

About you.

His jaw tightened, and he prepared himself for the worst: offence, withdrawal and the measured kindness with which you might decide to spare him. 

Part of you wanted to laugh at the misunderstanding; there had been no one for years. But another part of you, quieter and more vulnerable, hurt with the knowledge that he may not feel the same. And yet you realised that beneath the edge of his words, something frightened and exposed had taken root in him. Something that made your irritation soften before it could fully become irritation again. 

So when you looked up, you didn’t look offended, just startled with a flicker of understanding and something softer still that Jack was suddenly far too frightened to name. 

“Jack,” you said slowly and a little breathless with the sudden rearranging of everything you thought you knew about his silence, “I’ve been single for years…”

Years. Years.

That word struck him almost with physical force. Not now or recently or between things. 

For a moment, Jack felt suspended. The air between you became too close, too warm, too full of all the meaning he had spent weeks refusing to gather. 

You watched all that move through his face almost invisibly. The brief blankness, the tightening in his jaw, the way his eyes sharpened as if the room had tilted. 

Behind you, Ellis shouted for him from down the hall, but neither of you moved. 

Your palm remained on his chest, and you could feel his pulse under your hand, fast and thumping. And you looked at him as though the rhythm had answered a question you had not yet dared to ask aloud. 

You saw him realise that you were not beyond reach, and the sight frightened you because it did not make him look triumphant. It made him look undone.

Not dramatically, but enough. His jaw had gone slack slightly. Just enough to soften the hard line of his mouth to make him look less like the man who cut through emergencies and more like someone who had been struck by a truth he had not prepared himself to survive. His lips parted as if there had been a response in him once, but it had vanished before it could reach the air.

And his eyes - god, his eyes.

They had gone distant and exposed, fixed on you with a kind of stunned uncertainty as though he were looking not merely at your face but at the sudden collapse of every careful assumption he had built between you. 

You saw the muscle in his throat work one. Saw the small, almost helpless shift of his mouth as he thought he might speak and could not decide whether spelling would save him or ruin him faster. 

The fluorescent light caught in the tired lines at the corner of his eyes, the rough shadow along his jaw, the silver threaded through his hair and all at once, he seemed unbearably real to you. 

Not distant, not untouchable, not safely contained between the authority of Dr. Abbot. 

Just…Jack. 

A man standing very still under your hand, with his pulse beating hard and fast, realising that the person he had been denying himself was not safely beyond reach.

And that realisation did not make him look victorious. It made him look afraid.

As though the one thing that had protected him from hope had been removed without warning. 

So at least you stepped back, your hand falling from his chest, and cold air replaced it. 

The surroundings returned to Jack in a rush, and he could only muster a soft sound to comment on what you had just revealed, “Oh…”

Under the circumstances, it was an exceptionally inadequate response, but it was all he could say right now, and you wouldn’t push for more. 

Your mouth twitched slightly at one corner as Ellis called his name again and shattered the moment around both of you. 

You walked away first because you had to. If you stayed, you were afraid you might say something neither of you could take back. Something too honest for the hallway and too soft for the Pitt. Something like I thought you knew, or There really is no one, or even I don’t touch everyone like that. 

So you turned towards the noise of the department and made yourself useful. 

Jack remained where he was for several seconds longer, staring at the space you had occupied as though your absence had left a visible outline in the air. The place where your hand had reset still burned through his scrub top. His pulse had still not recovered. 

The man he resented for weeks did not exist. There was no boyfriend, no decent man waiting at home. 

The realisation continued to move through him, but he didn't feel relief or joy or anything so simple. It was too complicated for that, too threaded with fear and hunger and the brutal awareness of consequence. 

But beneath it all, low and sickenly warm under his ribs, something dangerously close to hope had begun to unfurl from its coil. And Jack hated it instantly.

And you, walking away with your hand still tingling from the shape of his chest, felt hope, too, but you did not hate it. 

But it did scare you enough that you did not look back. 

_____

After that question, Jack became careful, and you noticed almost immediately.

He didn’t withdraw with the intention of punishing you, and somehow that made it even worse. Because it meant he believed he was doing something decent. Something responsible. Something that hurt both of you and therefore must, by some grim equation of his, be right.

He changed so subtly that no one else in the department would have paused over it, and yet sharp enough that you felt it almost at once. 

He stopped lingering beside you after hard cases.

Before, there had always been those few quiet seconds when the patient had gone, when the room looked wrecked, and the two of you stood in the aftershock together. He would remain near, not speaking much, pretending to study a chart, wiping his hands, or listening for someone calling his name. 

You learned the language of that lingering. It meant I am still here, that was bad, or maybe even stay near me while I remember how to be ordinary again. 

Now? He left first and always with some reason in his hand. 

He no longer reached for the coffee you handed him. He glanced at it, then at you, and seething shuttered behind his eyes. 

“Thanks,” he said. Polite. Careful. Awful. 

When your arms brushed in crowded hallways, he moved aside first now. And that was maybe what bothered you the most because the hospital was cramped and bodies collided. It was perfectly ordinary.

But Jack began avoiding even the ordinary. He gave you space with the grave courtesy of a man offering an apology you had not asked for. 

You hated it. And Jack? He hated it too. That was maybe the worst part. 

You could see it in him, the cruelty of knowing someone too well. He was not unaffected by what he was doing. If anything, the carefulness had made him more visibly strained with his jaw tighter and his silences harsher.

He didn't watch you as often anymore, and yet when he did, it was with such hunger quickly disguised as restraint that it felt almost unbearable to catch him at it. 

Distance was supposed to restore proportion, which had been his intention at least. To step back before the thing growing between you acquired enough shape to be named. Before it became visible to Ellis, to Shen, to anyone with eyes and the misfortune of being awake at three in the morning.

Before it ruined you.  

Not himself. Jack had very little patience for his own preservation, had dragged his body and soul through worse things than longing and expected no sympathy for it. But you were different. Younger, warmer, and still capable of giving tenderness without flinching from it first. 

And he would not be the thing that taught you to.  

To Jack, the department felt wrong without your nearness in it. He noticed the missing warmth of your shoulder, the way you laughed without catching his gaze afterwards, and how you stopped reaching for him as easily.

The last one should have relieved him, but it did not. Instead, it irritated him with the sheer unfairness of a self-inflicted wound. He had created the distance and now restored the shape it made around him. 

It was pathetic, really. At his age, desire ought to arrive with dignity or not at all. But it had just reduced him to someone measuring entire shifts by the accidental proximity of a nurse.

You deserved someone lighter than him. That thought followed him everywhere. Through the endless hours of his shift. Through the ambulance bay. Through the staff room. Through the brief moments when he washed his hands and found himself staring too long at his own reflection in the dark window above the sink. 

Someone younger, whose body did not ache with old injuries. Someone who could still stand at the end of a brutal shift and imagine dancing or breakfast, or sunlight without first calculating how much pain the next hour might cost.

Someone who did not carry war quietly in the set of his shoulders. 

Someone who did not carry widowhood in the exhausted caution of his hands. 

Someone who could offer you uncomplicated things. Mornings untouched by nightmares, intimacy untouched by grief… a future not assembled awkwardly from surviving pieces. 

He feared all of that because wanting you made him feel breakable.

So he thought he could endure wanting you. Because wanting was private and could be locked away. He had survived worse than wanting, so he could survive this, too.

What he could not endure was the possibility that you might actually want him back, because then restraint would no longer be noble, but rather a refusal. He wouldn’t protect you; he would actively hurt you.

You missed the moments between the two of you immensely, and you suspected he felt the same.

Twice during this week, you caught him looking at you with an expression that made your pulse stumble. 

One time, you had been laughing at something someone said near the medication station, tired enough that the laughter came out softer than usual. When you looked up, Jack was watching you from across the department. 

Not with the ordinary irritated attention he gave noise in a place already too full of it. He was looking at you as though he had forgotten that looking could be seen. 

The second time was sometime after four in the morning. You were standing together at the nurses’ station, close but not touching, both exhausted. His shoulders were rounded with fatigue, one hand braced beside the keyboard, the other resting near a chart he had stopped pretending to read.

You needed a pen. Probably pens were everywhere, from drawers to pockets. But the nearest one was tucked behind Jack’s ear.

And before you could think, ask, or remember that things had changed, you reached for it. 

When your finger brushed his temple, he froze, went still under your hand. It was as if he had ceased to be the steady centre of anything and became a statue under the smallest possible kindness. 

Your hand closed around the pen, but you did not pull it free yet, and Jack just looked at you. No, not at you. More into you. 

As though your touch had interrupted something inside the machinery he had built to keep himself distant, as if it suffered a catastrophic failure at the contact of your fingers. 

Slowly, carefully, his eyes dropped to your mouth. Heat moved through you instantly. It struck low and sharp, almost carnal in a sudden awareness of your own mouth and the small distance between you. 

His gaze stayed there for longer than it should have. When he lifted his eyes again, he looked almost angry. Not with you. With himself, with the want that had become visible despite all his effort. 

You could have made it easy for him then. You could have laughed, taken the pen, turned away, restored the moment to something ordinary again. You could have pretended not to notice the way his pulse had changed, or how the tips of his ears turned red, or even how his eyes had betrayed him. 

Instead, you just stayed close, too. Just long enough to let him understand that you had seen him. 

Then he moved back gently. 

After that, you stopped pretending you didn’t know. 

Not loudly. There were still patients to be seen, families to call, rooms to turn over before the next emergency arrived. 

But still, you knew now. 

You knew in the way he went still, when you came too close with the sudden arrested quiet of a man holding himself back by force. Or how he stared at your mouth too often in a way that couldn’t be denied. And, of course, in the way he had asked about a partner and retreated the moment your answer removed the last clean excuse between you. 

He wanted you. But it felt like a man standing very still in a burning room because he was more afraid of harming you than of being consumed himself. And so you gave him the choice to leave. 

You wouldn’t - couldn’t - demand a confession from him when he seemed so torn between his inner demons and what he wanted so clearly.

So you started to behave normally again. Standing beside him instead of across, touching his shoulder or arm in passing once more. Nonetheless, you always made sure he could step away if he wanted to. 

Sometimes he would, and those times always hurt. Not because you thought he didn't want you, but because you know he did and chose distance. 

But sometimes, he did not. 

Sometimes, when you touched his wrist and said his first name, he looked down at your fingers, not like a man rejecting a boundary crossed, but like a thirsty man refusing to drink the water in front of him. 

These moments were almost nothing: a pause, a breath, a hand not withdrawn, a man allowing himself to be touched. 

And somewhere in those small permissions, the thing between you stopped being imaginary. 

It became waiting. 

_____

It happened after a child with appendicitis turned septic faster than anyone would have liked.

That was how Jack would have described it later, if anyone had asked. Nothing catastrophic, in the end: Surgery took him, and the vitals steadied. The boy was alive. His mother had only stopped crying after Ellis had told her that her son had arrived in time and that he was in the best hands. The machinery worked as it was meant to work.

And still, by the time you slipped into the medication room, your hands were shaking. Not enough for anyone else to notice in the hall. You had kept them useful when it mattered, held pressure, passed instruments on, spoken gently. 

But in the narrow privacy between shelves and drawers with the door half-closed behind you and the worst over, your body had demanded compensation. 

Jack found you there, your fingers trembling around nothing. 

“Hey,” his voice was low and careful. 

You looked down at your hands, “I’m fine.”

“I didn’t ask.”

His dry retort almost made you laugh, almost broke you too. 

The laugh rose first, small and helpless, because of how he had said it. But under it, something hot and sudden began to manifest itself behind your eyes; you had to press your lips together to keep it from becoming a sound you would not be able to take back.

 Jack stepped closer to you, not much. Just in the way it had been now for quite some time, only allowing proximity in measured doses as though closeness was some volatile drug to be administered with caution. 

For a moment, he only stood there, the war in him obvious. Something between you had been stretching for weeks now. Thin as wire. Hot as a live current. Every almost, every retreat, every glance too long had pulled it tighter. 

And as his hand rose and settled at the back of your neck, you knew something in him had snapped. 

Your breath caught, and for one second, the world seemed to stop turning. His palm curved around the nape of your neck with a restraint so delicate it was almost worse than hunger. His fingers rested beneath the fall of your hair, not gripping, not claiming, only there - steady and human and closer than he had allowed himself to be in days. 

The touch should have calmed you, but instead it felt like oil thrown onto the flame.

Your skin seemed to know him before the rest of you could decide what to do. The warmth of his hand spread down your spine, across your shoulders, beneath your ribs, until the shaking in your fingers became something else entirely.

Jack felt it too. Or maybe he only felt his own ruin answering yours.

“You did well,” he said, his voice was rougher than usual, and his thumb moved once, barely. 

In any other world, the words should have just steadied you. Returned the moment to something safe, something professional; just one colleague comforting another one. You should have just nodded, thanked him and stepped back.

Instead, you looked up. And his gaze dropped to your mouth again.

This time, he did not look away immediately.

That was the difference. That was the match. 

For weeks, he had glanced and retreated, wanted and punished himself, let his gaze fall to your mouth only long enough for both of you to know before turning away with the grim discipline of someone believing he was doing something right. 

But now he just looked. Really looked. 

“Jack,” you whispered, and whatever he saw in your face, your eyes, ruined him. 

You could watch it happen, the small collapse inside of him. The flare of want before restraint closed around it, and how his eyes darkened. 

His hand tightened by a fraction at the back of your neck. Not enough to hurt, but enough to tell the truth. 

You just stood inside the tiny room, close enough that the air seemed shared and everything beyond the door became distant and irrelevant. His hand was on your neck, your eyes on your mouth. And that was all that mattered. The fire had caught now, and all his carefullness, all his distance, all his noble, miserable retrauint had only fed it. 

Then someone shouted from the hall and tore through the moment. 

Jack stepped back so quickly that the absence of him felt like a slap. His face closed again, and then he left. 

And for the next hour, he was furious with himself. Not because he had touched you. No, it was because for one second he had believed he was allowed to.

That was the dangerous thing. Desire could be mistrused and eventually starved. Permission was worse. 

The look on your face had not been pity. And he couldn't make it pity no matter how hard he tried. It had been wanting. Unmistakable enough that even Jack’s considerable talent for self-denial could not fully disfigure it. 

You wanted him. Possibly. Probably. 

That thought moved through him like a second ignition, heat catching where he had already been burning. 

And still, he couldn’t let go of his thoughts. He was too old, too damaged. He was sure you only wanted the idea of him. The controlled version you saw.

You didn’t know the rest; the bad nights, the stiffness, the pain. 

You deserved better than a man who would have to explain himself before letting you undress him. 

Better than a body that came with history written into muscle and bone.

Better than a man who had learned to survive so thoroughly that he no longer knew whether he could be loved without first apologising for what survival had made of him. 

Better than Jack Abbot. 

That was what he told himself like a mantra through the rest of his shift. As he scrubbed his hands too hard. As he corrected a resident too sharply. As he avoided looking towards you because he knew if he saw you again, the thing in him might snap a second time.

And next time, he was not so sure he would step back. 

_____

The night that continued the unravelling began badly and then worsened with an almost theatrical dedication. 

Rain came down hard enough to turn the outside almost silver. It sheeted over the asphalt in violent, glittering bursts beneath emergency lights, gathered in gutters, and struck the roof with a steady metallic insistence. The city seemed to empty itself into the Pitt one siren at a time.

By midnight, every bed was full.

By two, the hallways had become waiting rooms. 

By three, even Shen had stopped making jokes.

Jack had not eaten since noon, and had only had half a cup of black coffee that now stood forgotten on the counter next to a protein bar he had taken one bite from. You had not sat down in six hours, and your body ached with it. 

Around dawn, the department seemed to quiet down a bit. At least it gave the illusion of rest, ten stolen minutes in the staff room beneath humming lights. When you entered, you found Jack already there.

He was sitting on the worn couch with his head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed, one hand resting loosely over his abdomen and the other along the cushion at his side. Exhaustion had stripped something from his face. Without the sharpness of command and the motion of work, he looked older.

Not weaker. Just… unbearably human. 

His hair was damp at the edges, curling even more than normally. The shadow of the stubble along his jaw was more pronounced than at the start of the shift. He looked like a man assembled out of duty, pain, caffeine, and refusal. And for one aching moment, you wanted nothing more than to touch the place where the world had rested hardest on him. 

“You should go home,” he said without opening his eyes.

“So should you.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” you mumbled as you sat down beside him, the couch dipping beneath your weight. 

Once again, you were too close. Your knee nearly touched his, and the heat of his body met yours in the narrow space between you. 

For a while, neither of you spoke. But silence did what speech could not: It softened the edges and let the hospital drift away inch by inch. Somewhere outside the ER continued breathing, but inside the room, the world narrowed down to you and him. 

Exhausted, you leaned against him in a small surrender. Jack went still beneath the contact, his body reacting with that familiar restraint as every muscle seemed to hold its breath. His arm was warm and solid against yours had become the nearest real thing in a room that had been moving all night.

Your temple came to rest against him next. 

“This okay?” you asked, barely above a whisper. 

It was not. It was the least okay thing that had happened to him all week. Because it was so gentle and the question gave him a chance to refuse you, but some starving part inside him knew that he did not want the distance.

“Yes,” he said. The word came out low and rough, nearly unrecognisable. 

You relaxed against him by degrees. First, your shoulder settled more fully against his upper arm, the tension easing from you in small increments. Then your head came to rest more heavily against him, your temple warm through the fabric near his shoulder, your hair brushing the side of his jaw whenever you shifted. Your hand, loose and tired and utterly thoughtless, drifted towards his forearm.

He had the kind of arms that made restraint look physical: broad through the forearm, corded not in any decorative way but with the practical strength of a man who had spent his life using his body because there had never been another option. There were small marks there too, old nicks and pale scars, the sort of evidence a life left behind without ever asking whether it would be welcome. 

Your fingers touched him lightly, and Jack stared down. 

You traced the inside of his forearm slowly, not with the deliberate confidence of someone trying to seduce him, but with the absent tenderness of a person too tired to keep desire and comfort in separate rooms. 

Your fingertips followed the raised path of a vein beneath his skin, then drifted over the firm muscle beside it, then back again, slow enough that every inch of contact seemed to enter him with impossible precision. You felt the warmth of him, the roughness of fine hair under your fingers, the faint tension that moved through his arm each time your touch passed near the bend of his elbow. 

He smelled closer like this. Less than the department and more like Jack. 

Beneath the traces of coffee, rain and disinfectant was the living warmth of his skin, the scent held at his collar and in the fabric of his scrubs after a night of work and fear and too little rest. It made you dizzy in a way that exhaustion could not fully explain. 

Jack watched your hand as though it contained instructions for his destruction. 

He knew he should move, should sit forward or should clear his throat. Should do any number of sensible things before the thread between you, stretched for weeks by almost-touches and almost-confessions and the cruel oil of hope poured again and again onto desire, finally snapped. 

But you were so warm against him with your fingers on his arm and your head beneath his chin. And Jack, who had spent weeks starving himself of the exact tenderness, found that self-denial had a limit after all. 

He didn’t decide to kiss the top of your head. Because a decision would have implied a process, a moment in which consequences had been weighed and accepted or rejected. But consequences belonged to a version of Jack Abbot who had slept, eaten, kept a better distance and had not spent the last several months becoming quietly and completely undone by the way you touched him when you thought you were being gentle.

So his mouth found your hair before he understood that he had moved. 

It was barely a kiss, barely anything, 

Just the lightest press of his lips to the crown of your head. It should have been innocent, but Jack felt it go through him like a match to oil.

Your hand stilled on his forearm, and you lifted your head, slowly but not startled or pulling away. And that, more than anything, destroyed the last fragile thing holding him back. 

Jack’s hand was still on your arm, though he had no memory of putting it there. His fingers curved around you with careful pressure, thumb resting against the soft skin just below your sleeve, not gripping, not yet, but holding enough that both of you knew he could not pretend this was merely fatigue. 

Your hand remained on his forearm, your fingers spread over the vein you had been tracing, and beneath your palm, his muscles were tense with the effort of not reaching for more.

For one suspended second, you looked at him with the same softness that had been ruining him for weeks.

“Jack,” you whispered.

His name in your voice was the final pull on the thread.

His hand rose from your arm to the side of your face as he leaned in, broad palm warm against your cheek, fingers sliding carefully into the hair near your temple as though even in surrender, he could not stop himself from being gentle with you. His mouth found yours slowly enough to give you one last chance to turn away and urgently enough to confess that he had been wanting this for longer than he could bear to admit. 

You did not turn away but moved into him. 

So he kissed you like a man arriving starving at his own destruction. 

Your hands caught his shoulders, fingers gripping the fabric of his scrubs as though some part of you needed more proof that he was solid and that this was real. 

He responded by deepening the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow stroke that made your stomach clench. 

His own fingers could not seem to decide where they were allowed to belong. 

They found your waist first, large and careful and so unsteady, drawing you closer and closer. Then one slid to your back, pressing between your shoulder blades as if he could keep you there. And then it rose to your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek with an overwhelming tenderness.

Your hand slid from his shoulders to the back of his neck. Your fingers found the short hair at his nape, and Jack made a sound, low and involuntary, that vibrated through the narrow space between your bodies. 

He pulled back just enough to look at you, to make sure that this was real. That you were real. His thumb brushed over your cheek again, and when you tilted your face up, he kissed you again. 

You shifted on the couch, turning towards him. His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, and you felt the gentle pressure of his palm. His tongue brushed against yours and responded in kind, tasting him and deepening the kiss even further.

Driven by hunger, his hands found your waist, and he lifted you up until you were straddling him on the narrow couch. You settled against him, your knees bracketing his hips, and the first thing you felt was the solid wall of his thighs beneath you. 

“Jack-” you started, voice breathless even to your own ears.

“I’ve thought about this,” he murmured against your throat, interrupting you. His lips moved over your pulse point, his stubble scraping over it. “Thought about you … for months.”

His thumbs started to trace slow circles against the jut of your hipbones through the fabric, and you arched into him instinctively. 

You felt him hardening beneath you. The thick length of his cock pressed against your cunt through too many layers of fabric, and you rolled your hips without thinking, chasing the friction. The sensation sent sparks up your spine, and you gasped against his neck.  

His head fell back against the wall with a soft thud, eyes closed and throat exposed. You took the opportunity to lean in and press your lips against the hollow of his neck. 

When he let out a low groan, you rolled your hips again, slower this time. His fingers dug into your hips, guiding you, pulling you harder against him. You could feel the tension coiling in his body, the way his thighs tensed, and the ragged catch in his breathing.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “Fuck, wait..I-”

But you were already moving again, lost in the heat of him and the taste of his mouth when he pulled you back in for another kiss. His hips bucked up against you, and you felt him throb against you.

Then he went rigid beneath you. 

A low, broken sound escaped his throat. Half groan, half something like aguish. Jack’s hands clamped down on your hips hard, fingers curled in the fabrics of your scrubs hard enough to wrinkle them, as his whole body shuddered. 

You felt the warmth spreading against you even through the fabric.

A flush of shame rose to his face. Colour high along his cheekbones now, through the stubble and the exhaustion of the shift.

“Fuck,” The word came out strangled. “I’m so sorry.”

His jaw tightened, and he couldn’t bring himself to look at you. He could feel the cooling wetness against his skin, the uncomfortable cling of fabric. It had been years since anyone touched him with intention. Years since he had let himself want something enough to lose himself in it.

“I need to change my scrubs…” He said quietly, words rough and scraped raw by embarrassment. 

“It’s been a while,” he said finally, the admission dragged out of him like a confession. “A long while. This doesn’t usually…”

He could not finish the sentence, couldn’t articulate the way his body had betrayed him, had responded to you with an intensity he had forgotten he was capable of feeling. 

You watched the shame move through him like a wave. Watching how his eyes could not quite meet yours, the way his jaw worked around words he could not say. Nonetheless, your body still hummed with want; you could feel the ache between your thighs that hadn't been satisfied yet. But you also felt a fierce tenderness for this man who looked at you like you were something precious and terrifying. 

“Jack.” You kept your voice soft and steady. “It’s okay.”

“It's not,” he exhaled sharply. “That wasn’t…I wanted to...”

“I know.”

You leaned in and pressed your forehead to his. The gesture was intimate in a way that made his chest tighten. He could smell your shampoo, feel the warmth of your breath against his lips.

You stayed where you were for another long moment. The fluorescent lights hummed. The clock on the wall ticked. Somewhere in the ER, the night shift continued without you, but here in this small room, time had become something elastic and strange.

Finally, reluctantly, you began to move.

His hands slid from your hips as you rose, but not before he squeezed them once - hard, deliberate, a silent promise. The fabric of your panties stuck to your cunt, and you were acutely aware of how muhch you wanted him. 

Jack watched you stand. He remained on the couch, making no move to rise, and you understood why. The evidence of his orgasm was visible if you looked, a slight darkening of the fabric at his groin. He kept his thighs pressed together, one hand resting casually over the affected area, but his ears had gone red again.

Then, very gently, you cupped his cheek.

Jack stopped breathing.

Your palm fit against the side of his face with a tenderness that made his expression change before he could prevent it. Your thumb brushed once beneath his eye, over the tired skin there, near the place exhaustion had settled into him so deeply that it seemed part of his bone structure. His stubble rasped faintly against your palm. He smelled of coffee and rain and hospital soap and the warm, human aftermath of being kissed past his own defences.

“It’s okay, really,” you murmured.

Finally, Jack looked at you properly again.

Something steadier had begun to settle behind the embarrassment now. Not calm exactly. Calm would have been too clean a word for it. This was darker, quieter, more deliberate. Determination, perhaps. Or surrender wearing the clothes of decision.

“Come with me after shift,” he said.

Not a question.

The command seemed to surprise him the instant it left his mouth.

His expression shifted, the old caution returning so quickly it almost hurt to watch, and his voice softened immediately afterwards, roughened by the effort of giving you room.

“If you want,” he paused and swallowed. “I’ll do better. I’ll make it good for you…I-”

“Yes.”

You answered before he could finish or spiral into self-doubt or find reasons why this was a mistake. 

“Yes,” you repeated softly. “I want that. I want you.”

Something low and helpless moved through Jack’s expression before he looked away from you entirely.

It was not quite a smile, not quite a grimace, not quite surrender, but some private combination of all three - desire and disbelief and the terrible relief of being answered. His hand flexed once against the couch cushion, as though he had to remind himself not to reach for you again when the door was unlocked, and the department still needed him.

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath.

You laughed softly.

And for the first time in weeks, he did not step back from the sound.

[fanficwritinggirl]

Due to Weather - Dr Jack Abbott x F!Reader}

Snowed in after a conference, you and Jack Abbott are forced to share a hotel room, where one bed, a power outage, and months of unspoken tension make “professional courtesy” harder to believe.

Jack Abbott looked like he would rather be intubating someone in a supply closet during a power outage than standing in the ballroom of the Philadelphia Grand Hotel wearing a name badge.

That was your first thought. Your second thought was that he looked unfairly good for a man who had spent the last twenty minutes silently judging an entire conference hall.

He stood beside one of the tall cocktail tables near the back of the room, one hand wrapped around a paper cup of coffee he had not actually drunk from, his conference lanyard hanging crooked against the front of his dark sweater. He had taken off his blazer sometime between the trauma systems panel and the keynote address on "Innovative Compassion in High-Pressure Emergency Environments," which was a title Jack had heard once and immediately decided was a personal attack.

The ballroom was too warm. Too bright. Too full of physicians pretending they had never once eaten a vending machine granola bar over a trash can at three in the morning.

There were banners everywhere. There were sponsored pens. There was a man from Boston wearing a bow tie and explaining airway management like he had personally invented oxygen.

Jack had been quiet for most of it. Not polite quiet. Jack quiet. The kind of quiet that made residents straighten their backs and consultants reconsider their tone. The kind of quiet that looked harmless from across the room right up until someone said something stupid near it.

You had watched three people attempt to make small talk with him already. The first had asked what hospital he was representing. Jack had said, "UPMC Mercy." The second had asked if Pittsburgh had "much trauma volume."

Jack had stared at him for one full second too long before saying, "Enough." The third had smiled too brightly and said, "I always think emergency medicine is really about resilience."

Jack had said, "It's mostly about staffing." You had nearly choked on your coffee. Now he was standing beside you at the back of the room, radiating the particular kind of irritation that came from being professionally trapped.

"You know," you said, keeping your voice low as the speaker at the front of the ballroom advanced to another slide full of stock photos and bullet points, "some people enjoy conferences."

Jack did not look at you. "Those people need hobbies." "You're a doctor. You're at an emergency medicine conference. This is technically one of your hobbies." "No," he said. "This is Robby losing a bet and somehow making it my problem."

You turned your head, smiling into your coffee. "He made you come?" "He strongly suggested." "That sounds like Robby." "He used the phrase 'good for department visibility.'"

"Oh, no." Jack finally glanced at you. There was nothing overtly warm in his expression, exactly. Jack did not really do overt. His face was all sharp restraint and tired intelligence, mouth set like he was holding back three separate complaints and a legal disclaimer.

But his eyes shifted when they landed on you. Only slightly. Enough that you felt it. Enough that you hated that you felt it. "You laughing at my suffering?" he asked. "Yes."

"Good to know." "I'm enjoying your commitment to misery." "I commit to things." "You do," you said, before you could stop yourself. It came out softer than you meant it to.

Not flirtatious, not exactly. But too honest for a ballroom full of laminated schedules and sponsored tote bags. Jack looked at you for half a second longer than necessary.

There it was again. That pause. That tiny, dangerous bit of space that kept opening between you lately. At work, you could usually avoid it. The ED was useful that way. There was always something screaming, bleeding, crashing, coding, ringing, paging, demanding. There was always a monitor alarm or a consult call or someone yelling for a blanket warmer key.

There was no room for pauses in the ED. There was no time to notice that Jack brought you coffee when he made some for himself. No time to wonder why he always seemed to appear when a patient's family member started getting aggressive near your workstation.

No time to think about the way his voice changed when he said your name instead of your title. No time to think about his hand at your back when he moved behind you in a crowded trauma bay, not touching exactly, but close enough that you felt the heat of it through your scrubs.

No time for any of that. Here, unfortunately, there was nothing but time. Time and bad coffee. Time and Jack standing too close beside you because the back of the ballroom was crowded and neither of you had moved away.

On stage, the speaker clicked to the next slide. COMPASSION FATIGUE: RECOGNIZING THE WARNING SIGNS. Jack made a sound low in his throat. You looked over. "Don't." "I didn't say anything."

"You made a noise." "A clinical noise." "A judgmental noise." "Same system." You pressed your lips together to keep from smiling too obviously. The woman seated in front of you turned halfway in her chair and gave you both a tight look.

Jack stared back with no change in expression whatsoever. The woman turned around again. "You're going to get us kicked out," you whispered. "From this?" "That would be a shame."

"Would it?" You tried to look stern. "We are representing the hospital." "We're standing in the back drinking burnt coffee while a man named Brent tells a room full of emergency physicians to try mindfulness."

"His name is Brett." "I don't care." You lost the fight with your smile then. Jack saw it. Of course he saw it. Jack noticed everything he had no business noticing. His gaze flicked to your mouth, barely there and gone so quickly you could have convinced yourself you imagined it.

Except you had stopped giving yourself that much credit. You had been imagining things with Jack Abbott for months. Or maybe you had not been imagining them at all. That was the problem.

The speaker's microphone crackled. Somewhere near the middle of the room, someone coughed. Outside the tall ballroom windows, snow pressed thickly against the glass, turning the city beyond it into a blur of white and grey.

It had started that morning as a pretty dusting. The kind of snow people from conference registration desks called seasonal atmosphere. By lunch, it had become an inconvenience.

By three, it was an advisory. Now, at almost five in the evening, it was beginning to look like a problem. You checked your phone under the edge of the cocktail table. Three weather alerts. Two emails from the airline. One text from Dana.

DANA: Heard Philly's getting buried. Tell Abbott not to pick a fight with cardiology. You snorted. Jack's eyes shifted down. "What?" "Nothing." "You laughed." "Dana says hi."

"She does not." "She said to tell you not to pick a fight with cardiology." Jack's expression did not change. "Cardiology started it." "You haven't even seen cardiology today."

"That you know of." You sent Dana a quick reply. YOU: Too late. He's fighting the concept of conferences as a whole. Dana responded almost immediately. DANA: Sounds right. Bring him back alive. Or don't. I'm flexible.

You tucked your phone away, still smiling. Jack watched you do it. "What did she say?" "Nothing." "You're a bad liar." "You're nosy." "I'm observant." "You're nosy with a medical degree."

"That's the profession." That pulled another laugh out of you, quiet but real. Jack's mouth moved like he was trying very hard not to let his own expression change. He failed, just slightly.

It was not a smile, not by normal standards. But for Jack Abbott, it was practically fireworks. You looked away first. You had to. The thing about Jack was that he made stillness feel loud. You could handle him in motion. In the ED, with his hands gloved and his voice clipped and his body angled toward disaster, he made sense. He was built for crisis. He was decisive, sharp, controlled. He moved through chaos like he had made some private agreement with it years ago.

But stillness made him harder to manage. Stillness let you notice the tired lines at the corners of his eyes. The scarred steadiness of him. The careful way he shifted his weight after standing too long. The fact that his left hand had settled near his hip, thumb brushing absently over the edge of his pocket.

Stillness let you remember that under all that competence was a person who got tired. A person who hurt. A person who, for reasons you were trying very hard not to interrogate, had started keeping track of whether you ate during twelve-hour shifts.

You looked down into your coffee. It had gone cold. "You okay?" Jack asked. It was so quiet you almost missed it under the speaker's voice. You glanced up. "What?" He was not looking at the stage anymore.

"You went quiet." "I'm listening." "No, you're not." "You don't know that." "What was the last slide?" You opened your mouth. Closed it. Jack raised his eyebrows. You sighed. "Fine. I wasn't listening."

"Good choice." "I'm okay," you said, because you understood then that the question had not really been about the presentation. Jack held your gaze. There were days when that look irritated you. The steady, unblinking attention of it. Like he could read your pulse without touching your wrist. Like he saw whatever you were trying to tuck out of view and simply decided whether or not he was going to let you get away with it.

Today, it did not irritate you. Today, it made something behind your ribs go a little unsteady. "Long day," you added. His expression softened by a degree. For anyone else, it would have been nothing.

For Jack, it was practically a hand offered. "Yeah," he said. You both looked back toward the stage. The speaker had moved on to a case study about physician burnout that somehow included a clip-art image of a candle.

Jack stared at it. "You've got to be kidding me," he muttered. You coughed into your cup to cover the laugh. The woman in front of you turned around again. This time, she looked only at Jack.

Jack looked back. You gently touched his sleeve. It was instinctive. Barely a touch. Your fingers against the dark fabric at his forearm for one second, maybe less. "Behave," you murmured.

Jack's eyes dropped to where your hand had been. You pulled it back too quickly. Too obviously. Heat climbed up your neck, which was ridiculous. You worked in emergency medicine. You had held pressure on arterial bleeds. You had told surgeons where to stand. You had been vomited on by strangers and once had to explain to a grown man that shampoo bottles did not belong there, no matter what the internet said.

You should have been able to touch Jack Abbott's sleeve without forgetting how breathing worked. Jack said nothing. That was almost worse. The room clapped suddenly, polite and scattered. The session was ending.

Chairs scraped. People stood. Voices swelled all at once, filling the ballroom with that post-lecture noise of professional relief. Lanyards swung. Tote bags rustled. Someone near the doors started talking loudly about dinner reservations.

You stepped back from the cocktail table, grateful for the movement. "Well," you said, "that was very informative." Jack looked at you. You managed to keep a straight face for two seconds.

"Okay, no. It was terrible." "Thank you." "But we survived." He glanced toward the windows. The snow was falling harder now, fast and thick under the streetlights outside. It moved sideways in violent gusts, smearing white across the glass. People were beginning to cluster near the lobby entrance, phones out, faces lit with the blue glow of cancellation alerts.

Jack's jaw tightened. "What?" you asked. "Storm's worse." You followed his gaze. "It was supposed to slow down." "It didn't." "You secretly a meteorologist too?" "No. I have eyes."

You rolled yours, but you checked your phone again. Another airline email. Your stomach dropped. FLIGHT CANCELLED: PHILADELPHIA TO PITTSBURGH. "Oh," you said. Jack looked over immediately. "Cancelled?"

"Yeah." He did not ask to see your phone. He just read your face. His mouth flattened. You refreshed the app pointlessly, because apparently denial had a user interface. "All flights tonight?" he asked.

"Looks like mine, at least." You tapped through the airline page. "The app says earliest rebook is tomorrow afternoon, but that's assuming the airport opens properly." Jack pulled his own phone out.

He did not look surprised by whatever he found. "Mine's cancelled too." "Great." "Roads?" You opened the weather alert. The words hazardous travel, whiteout conditions, and avoid unnecessary trips were not especially comforting.

"Also great," you said. Jack slid his phone back into his pocket. "We stay another night." You looked toward the lobby, where a line was already forming at the front desk.

"Everyone is going to try to stay another night." "Then we get there before the orthopedic surgeons." You laughed despite yourself. Jack started walking.

You followed him out of the ballroom and into the broad hotel corridor. The conference had spilled everywhere now — doctors and nurses and vendors in branded fleeces, everyone talking too loudly over everyone else. The lights overhead were warm and expensive. The carpet was patterned in a way that made you suspect someone had been paid too much money to make beige feel important.

At the far end of the hall, the lobby opened wide and bright, all marble floors and high ceilings and enormous windows looking out onto a city disappearing under snow. The front desk line was already fifteen people deep.

Jack stopped. You nearly bumped into him. He glanced over his shoulder. "You checked out this morning?" "Yeah. My room was only booked through today because my flight was supposed to be tonight."

"Conference block?" "Full. I tried earlier when the delays started." His face shifted. Not much. But you saw the calculation begin. "No," you said immediately. "I haven't said anything."

"You're about to." "You don't know that." "I know your face." That made him pause. Something flickered in his eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or something warmer pretending to be amusement.

"You know my face?" "I know your about-to-be-stubborn face." "That's just my face." "No, your regular face is more quietly judgmental." He gave you a dry look. You smiled sweetly.

The line at the front desk moved one person forward and somehow became more chaotic. A woman in a navy pantsuit was telling the receptionist that she was a keynote speaker and therefore needed a room. A man behind her was arguing with someone on speakerphone. Near the windows, two residents were sitting on their suitcases, looking exhausted.

Jack's attention moved over the lobby once, quick and assessing. Then he looked back at you. "You can take my room." You crossed your arms. "There it is." "It's a room." "It's your room."

"You need one." "So do you." "I can figure it out." You gave him a look. He gave you one back. The trouble with Jack was that he did not posture. He did not make generous offers with softness around the edges. He did not say things to be gallant. He simply looked at a problem, decided on the cleanest solution, and expected everyone else to fall into line.

Which was irritating. Because sometimes the cleanest solution involved him being quietly self-sacrificial in a way that made you want to shake him. "You are not sleeping in the lobby," you said.

"Neither are you." "Jack." His name came out sharper than you intended. He noticed. Of course he noticed. His expression eased by a fraction, but his voice stayed even. "I'm not arguing about this in a hotel lobby."

"Then stop being wrong in one." His eyes narrowed. Not angry. Almost amused. Almost. "You always this difficult?" he asked. "With you? Yes." "Lucky me." "You bring it out in me."

Jack held your gaze for one beat too long. The noise of the lobby seemed to pull back for a second. Around you, people were still moving. Suitcases rolled over marble. Phones rang. The automatic doors slid open and let in a blast of cold air sharp enough to make someone curse.

But Jack was looking at you, and you were looking back, and there was that pause again. That impossible little pause. The one neither of you ever knew what to do with. Then the front desk clerk called, "Next guest, please," and the spell cracked.

Jack stepped toward the desk. You caught his sleeve again. This time, you did not pull away immediately. "Don't give up your room," you said, quieter now. His gaze dropped to your hand.

Then back to your face. "Don't sleep in a lobby," he said. "That's not an answer." "It is if you listen." You let go of his sleeve. He moved to the desk before you could argue again.

You stood beside him, close enough that your shoulders nearly touched, and watched as he gave his name to the exhausted-looking receptionist. "Abbott," he said. "I have a room for tonight. Need to extend it."

The receptionist typed quickly, her face already apologetic in the way customer service workers got when the computer was about to ruin someone's day. "I'm so sorry, Doctor Abbott. We're completely sold out for tomorrow night at this point. The storm has stranded most of the conference guests."

Jack's expression did not change. "Existing reservation," he said. "Room 1117." "I understand, sir. But all rooms are currently booked. If housekeeping confirms no-shows or cancellations, we can add you to the waitlist."

You leaned in slightly. "What about my reservation? I checked out this morning, but with the flight cancellations—" The receptionist looked at you with genuine sympathy. "I'm sorry. We don't have anything available."

Jack looked at her. "Anything." "I'm afraid not." "A cot?" "No cots left." "Conference room?" "Sir—" "Not for me," he said, impatient now. "For her." Your stomach did something stupid.

The receptionist glanced between the two of you. A tiny, knowing sort of understanding moved across her face. You hated her a little. "I'm sorry," she said again. "We really don't have a safe accommodation option outside of existing rooms. The city has issued travel warnings, so we're advising all guests not to leave the property unless absolutely necessary."

Jack went still. You could almost see him biting back a response. You touched his arm again, this time with warning. "Jack." His jaw worked once. Then he looked at the receptionist. "Keep the room under my name."

"Of course." "And if anything else opens, call up." "Yes, Doctor Abbott." He gave a short nod and stepped away from the desk. You followed him toward the edge of the lobby, away from the worst of the noise.

"No," you said. Jack turned. "You don't know what I'm going to say." "You're going to say I should take your room and you'll do something ridiculous like sleep sitting upright by the vending machines."

"I wasn't going to specify vending machines." "Jack." "What?" "No." He exhaled through his nose. Outside, the wind threw snow hard against the windows. Somewhere overhead, the lights flickered once, just enough for half the lobby to pause and look up.

When they steadied again, Jack's face had changed. Not softened. Settled. Like something in him had made a decision and locked the door behind it. "You're not going anywhere tonight," he said.

"Neither are you." "No." "No?" "No," he repeated. "We're not doing the noble idiot routine." You blinked. "That was directed at you, right?" His mouth twitched. Barely. "Both of us."

"Oh, progress." "We share the room." The words landed between you with the subtlety of a dropped instrument tray. You stared at him. Jack, infuriatingly, looked completely calm.

"We what?" "We share the room," he said again, like saying it plainly made it less insane. Your voice lowered. "Jack." "It has a lock. Heat. Bathroom. Presumably fewer orthopedic surgeons."

"That is not the issue." "It's a room." "It's your room." "You already said that." "With one bed?" He paused. And there. There it was. Not much. Not enough that anyone else would have caught it.

But you did. The tiny hitch in his expression. The one beat where practical Jack Abbott, the man who could handle blood and death and impossible decisions without blinking, appeared to remember that you were not simply a stranded colleague but a woman he had been standing too close to for months.

His eyes shifted away first. That almost never happened. "I'll take the chair," he said. "You will not." "I've slept in worse places." "I know," you said, softer before you could stop it. "That doesn't mean you should."

He looked back at you. The argument died a little in his face. Not completely. Jack was not built for surrender. But enough. The lobby carried on around you. People complained. Phones buzzed. The storm kept pressing itself against the glass like it wanted in.

You could feel the heat in your cheeks now. Not embarrassment exactly. Something worse. Awareness. Sharp and immediate. One room. One bed. Jack Abbott standing in front of you, close enough that you could see the dark flecks in his eyes, telling you in that maddeningly practical voice that he was not going to let you be unsafe tonight.

He cleared his throat. "It's not ideal." You let out a small laugh, mostly because if you did not laugh, you might say something dangerous. "No. I'd say it's a little past ideal."

"We're adults." "Are we?" His eyes narrowed. You lifted both hands. "Sorry. Tension response." "Clearly." "We work together." "I noticed." "People will talk." "People always talk."

"You hate when people talk." "I hate when people are stupid. Overlap, not causation." Despite everything, you smiled. He looked at your mouth again. This time, you were sure of it.

The smile faded. Jack looked away, jaw tightening like he had caught himself doing something he had not given himself permission to do. "Room's there," he said, his voice lower now. Rougher around the edges. "You can have the bed. I'll figure out the rest."

You should have said no again. You should have insisted on the lobby or found another stranded doctor to double up with or called Dana and let her laugh you through a nervous breakdown.

Instead, you looked outside. At the snow. At the city disappearing. At the people sitting on suitcases under expensive chandeliers, trying to pretend they were not scared of being stuck.

Then you looked back at Jack. He was tired. You could see it now, in the way he held himself. The conference chairs had been bad for him; standing through the reception had been worse. The cold would not help. Neither would an argument that lasted another twenty minutes because both of you were too stubborn to admit the obvious.

You sighed. "Only if you don't sleep in the chair." His brows drew together. "That's not—" "No," you said. "We are not doing the noble idiot routine. You said it. It applies."

Jack stared at you. You stared back. "I'm serious," you said. "So am I." "You always are." "Someone has to be." "You're impossible." "You keep saying that like it changes anything."

You looked at him for a long second. Then, because apparently the storm had knocked all common sense out of the sky along with the snow, you said, "Fine." Jack blinked once.

"Fine?" "Fine. We share the room." His face was very still. Very controlled. Too controlled. "But," you added quickly, "we are establishing rules." "Rules." "Yes." "For sleeping."

"For survival." His mouth twitched again. That almost-smile. The one that should not have had the power to make your chest feel too small. "Fine," he said. "Rule one: no chair."

He looked annoyed. You pointed at him. "No." "I didn't say anything." "You were thinking loudly." "Occupational hazard." "Rule two," you said, trying very hard not to think about the fact that you had apparently agreed to share a hotel room with Jack Abbott. "No being weird."

Jack looked at you. "You think I'm going to be weird?" "I think we're both going to be weird." "That's probably accurate." "And rule three…" You stopped. Because you had no idea what rule three was.

Do not look at me like that. Do not stand too close. Do not make this feel safer than it should. Do not be kind in that quiet, gruff way that makes me want things I have no business wanting.

Jack waited. You swallowed. "Rule three," you said, "we pretend this is normal." His gaze held yours. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then Jack gave one short nod. "Professional courtesy," he said.

You laughed. You could not help it. It came out softer than before, edged with nerves. "Is that what this is?" His expression was unreadable. The storm threw another gust of snow against the windows.

"Sure," he said. But he did not sound convinced. And God help you, neither were you. The elevator ride to the eleventh floor was silent. Not peaceful silent. Not comfortable silent.

The kind of silence that had bones in it. You stood on one side of the elevator with your overnight bag tucked against your hip and your coat still buttoned to your throat. Jack stood on the other side, his conference tote hanging off one shoulder, his gaze fixed on the glowing numbers above the doors like they had personally offended him.

Four. Five. Six. The elevator hummed upward. You watched his reflection in the polished metal doors because looking at the actual man felt like a risky decision. He looked tired now.

More tired than he had in the ballroom. There was a set to his jaw you had learned to read over months of working beside him. Pain, probably. Or irritation. With Jack, the two had a habit of presenting similarly unless you knew where to look.

His weight was shifted slightly more onto one side. Not dramatically. Jack did not do dramatically when it came to his own body. He was careful in a way that pretended not to be care. Precise. Controlled. Almost invisible about it.

But you knew. You had no right to know, maybe. But you did. "You're doing it again," Jack said. You looked away so quickly you nearly gave yourself whiplash. "Doing what?"

"Watching me in reflective surfaces." Heat crept up your neck. "I was not." "You were." "It's an elevator. Everything is reflective." "Convenient." "You're very suspicious for a man who just invited me to share his hotel room."

He turned his head then. Slowly. "That was not an invitation." You raised your eyebrows. His mouth flattened. "It was a logistical decision." "Ah." His eyes narrowed. "Don't."

"I didn't say anything." "You made a noise." "A clinical noise." "That's my line." "I'm borrowing it." "You need better material." "You need better coffee." "I know." That, somehow, eased the air between you.

Not by much. But enough that you could breathe again. The elevator climbed past eight. A family got on at nine, two exhausted parents and a little boy in dinosaur pyjamas clutching a stuffed bear by one ear. The mother gave you both a brief, tired smile. The father looked like he had spent the last hour on hold with an airline. The little boy looked at Jack's conference lanyard, then at his face, and immediately decided Jack was the most interesting person in the elevator.

Jack stared forward. The little boy stared harder. You bit the inside of your cheek. Jack's eyes flicked sideways. "What?" "Nothing." "You're laughing again." "I'm not." "You are internally laughing."

"Can you diagnose that?" "Yes." The little boy tugged on his mother's coat and whispered, much too loudly, "Is he a spy?" His mother's eyes went wide. "Elliot." Jack did not move.

You looked at the ceiling. The father closed his eyes like he wanted to disappear. The little boy kept staring. Jack turned his head just slightly and looked down at him.

"No," he said. Elliot blinked. "Are you sure?" "Yes." "Because you look like one." Jack considered that. Then said, "I get that a lot." You made a small, strangled sound.

The little boy nodded seriously, apparently satisfied. The elevator stopped at eleven. Jack stepped forward as the doors opened. You followed him out, barely keeping your laugh contained until the doors slid shut behind you.

Then you lost it. Not loud. Not enough to carry far down the hotel corridor. But enough that you had to press a hand to your mouth. Jack glanced at you. "Don't start." "He thought you were a spy."

"I heard." "You told him you get that a lot." "He was under stress." "He was six." "Children are often under stress." You laughed again, softer this time. Jack's expression shifted.

You almost missed it because it was small and gone quickly, but there was something there. Something like satisfaction. Not smugness. Not exactly amusement. More like he liked making you laugh and did not know what to do with that information.

That made you stop laughing. The corridor was quieter than the lobby, muffled by thick carpet and expensive wallpaper. The air smelled faintly of linen, citrus cleaner, and overheated radiators. Somewhere far down the hall, an ice machine rattled. Beyond the windows at the end of the corridor, snow blew hard against the glass.

Jack started walking. You followed half a step behind. For some reason, that felt worse than walking beside him. Maybe because it made you look at things you usually avoided looking at. The slope of his shoulders under the dark fabric of his sweater. The careful steadiness of his gait. The conference tote knocking against his side. The back of his neck where his hair sat slightly mussed from the collar of his coat.

This was ridiculous. You were an adult. A medical professional. A person who could calmly handle a dislocated shoulder, a combative drunk, and a cardiologist with an ego the size of Allegheny County.

You could walk down a hotel corridor behind Jack Abbott without constructing an entire emotional crisis out of it. Probably. Room 1117 was near the end of the hall. Of course it was.

Because apparently the universe had decided to commit to the bit. Jack stopped outside the door and pulled his key card from his pocket. Then he paused. You stopped beside him.

"What?" you asked. He did not look at you. "Last chance." "Last chance for what?" "To decide the lobby's better." You stared at him. Jack kept his gaze on the door like it was suddenly fascinating.

The awkwardness of the situation had finally caught up with him, you realised. Not because he regretted offering. Jack was too stubborn and too protective for that. But because he was aware of you.

Painfully aware. The same way you were aware of him. You were both standing in a hotel hallway with snow trapping you inside and a single room waiting beyond the door, and the months of not saying things had followed you upstairs like another piece of luggage.

You shifted your bag on your shoulder. "Do you want me to say the lobby's better?" His jaw tightened. "No." The answer came too fast. Too honest. You looked at him. He still did not look back.

"No," you said quietly. "I don't either." That made him turn. Only a little. Enough. His eyes met yours, and for one breath, the corridor felt narrower. You had said nothing shocking. Nothing romantic. Nothing that should have made his expression change.

But it did. It softened in the smallest possible way. Then the ice machine rattled again, brutally loud, and both of you looked away like teenagers caught holding hands behind the gym.

Jack cleared his throat and tapped the key card to the lock. The light flashed green. He pushed the door open. "After you," he said. You looked at him. "Professional courtesy?"

His mouth twitched. "Don't push your luck." You stepped into the room. And stopped. Because the hotel room was not bad. That was the problem. If it had been cramped or ugly or strange, you could have laughed. If the carpet had been stained or the heating had sounded like aircraft failure, you could have turned the whole thing into a joke.

But the room was warm. Quiet. Low-lit. The curtains were partly open, showing a wall of storm-dark sky and snow-lashed glass. A small desk sat near the window with a conference programme folded beside the lamp. Jack's suitcase was open on the luggage rack, clothes folded with a level of military precision that should not have surprised you and still somehow did. His coat hung over the back of the desk chair. A pair of boots sat neatly near the wall.

And the bed. The bed was large, white, neatly made, and extremely singular. One bed. One. Not two small beds pushed together. Not a fold-out couch. Not even an ottoman that could plausibly become a desperate sleeping surface.

Just one king-sized bed sitting in the middle of the room like an accusation. You heard Jack come in behind you. The door clicked shut. Neither of you said anything. The silence immediately became unhinged.

You stared at the bed. Jack stared at the bed. The bed, smugly, remained a bed. Finally, you said, "Well." Jack dropped his key card on the desk with unnecessary precision. "Don't."

"I didn't say anything." "You were about to." "I was only going to say it's… roomy." He looked at you. You looked back. "It is," you said. "It's a bed." "Yes, Jack. That's the issue."

"It's a large bed." "Again. Not helping." He exhaled through his nose and turned away, moving toward the thermostat near the door. "Heat's on." "Good." "You can take the bathroom first."

"Fine." "And the bed." You turned. "We already discussed this." "We discussed the room." "We discussed the noble idiot routine." "I'm not being noble." "You are physically incapable of not being noble in the most aggravating way possible."

Jack shot you a look over his shoulder. "That is not a sentence that makes sense." "It does to me." "That's concerning." "You are not sleeping in the chair." He glanced at the chair.

You did too. It was a perfectly nice hotel desk chair, upholstered in grey fabric, with curved wooden arms and absolutely no business being considered a sleeping arrangement by any person over the age of twelve.

Jack looked back at you. "I've slept sitting up before." "Yes," you said, "and now you are older and more breakable." His eyebrows lifted. You froze. "Not breakable," you corrected quickly. "That came out wrong."

"Did it?" "Yes." His face was unreadable, but there was a dry edge to his voice. "Older, then?" You closed your eyes briefly. "I am making this worse." "You are." "I meant your leg."

"I gathered." You opened your eyes. Jack's expression had changed again, but not in the way you feared. He did not look angry. Not offended. Maybe a little guarded, but that was Jack's baseline around any mention of his body that did not come from a medical chart.

You softened your voice. "I meant you've been on your feet all day. Conference chairs are awful. It's freezing outside. You're not sleeping upright because of me." The guard shifted.

Just slightly. His eyes flicked over your face like he was trying to find the trick in what you had said. There wasn't one. That seemed to be what unsettled him. "I'm fine," he said.

You sighed. "Of course you are." "I am." "You know, when you say that, it has started to sound less like a status update and more like a legal defence." Jack turned fully toward you.

"You keep notes?" "Mentally." "On me?" The question was dry. The look was not. You should have had an answer ready. Something sharp. Something easy. Something that would put the conversation safely back where it belonged.

Instead, you said, "Sometimes." Jack went still. The room held its breath around you. The heater clicked on with a low rush of air, warm and dry, but you felt cold suddenly in the centre of your chest.

Sometimes. What a stupid thing to admit. Except it was true. You kept notes on him.

The way he preferred bitter coffee but drank bad hospital coffee without complaint if it was hot enough. The way he always stood between you and agitated family members without making a show of it. The way he hated fussing but tolerated directness. The way his patience with interns was better when no one was watching. The way grief seemed to live near him but not always in him, like a room he knew how to pass without opening the door every time.

The way he noticed when everyone else missed something. The way he noticed you. Jack looked away first. "I'll take the floor," he said. "Oh my God." "What?" "You are impossible."

"It's carpeted." "That is not an argument." "It's a fact." "You are not sleeping on hotel carpet." "I've slept on worse floors." "Stop saying that like it helps." "It's true."

"It's depressing." His mouth twitched faintly. "You wanted honesty." "I wanted common sense." "You're asking a lot." "Apparently." You set your bag down by the dresser and slipped your coat off, mostly to have something to do with your hands. The room was too warm now after the cold of the lobby. Your skin felt prickly. Your mind was moving too fast.

One bed. Jack. Snowstorm. Professional courtesy. Very funny, universe. Tremendous work. No notes. Jack moved to the window and pulled the curtain back a few inches. Snow slammed across the glass in thick gusts. The city beyond was nearly gone, reduced to blurred lights and white movement. The roads below were barely visible. Cars crawled through slush with hazard lights flashing. At the corner, a traffic signal swung hard in the wind.

"That's bad," you said. "Yeah." His voice had changed. Less irritated. More serious. You stepped closer, stopping beside him with enough space between you to pretend you were being normal.

Outside, Philadelphia looked suspended. The usual movement of the city had slowed to something strange and fragile. Sirens flashed somewhere far off, red and blue diffused through snow. You thought of everyone stuck out in it — EMS crews, police, hospital staff trying to make shift change, patients trying to get home.

Your stomach tightened. Jack glanced at you. "Don't." You looked at him. "What?" "You're thinking about the ED." "You don't know that." "You get that look." "What look?" "The one where you start trying to personally take responsibility for weather patterns and systemic infrastructure failures."

You stared at him. "That is very specific." "You're very specific." The words landed quietly. No joke wrapped around them. You looked back out at the snow before your face could betray you.

"I just hate knowing people are stuck out there." "I know." That was the thing with Jack. Sometimes he could be blunt enough to bruise. And sometimes he said two words like they carried a hand under your elbow.

You folded your arms loosely, not because you were cold but because you needed to hold yourself together. "The Pitt will be slammed," you said. "Probably." "Dana's going to be running on spite and vending machine pretzels."

"Dana can run a hospital on spite and vending machine pretzels." That made you smile. "True." "Robby'll keep it moving." "Also true." "They don't need us tonight." You looked at him then.

Jack kept his eyes on the window. It occurred to you that maybe he had said it for both of you. "They don't," you agreed. A gust of wind hit the glass hard enough to rattle it.

The lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then steadied. You both looked up. "Comforting," you said. Jack let the curtain fall back into place. "Hotel'll have a generator." "Probably."

He gave you a look. You smiled faintly. "Sorry. I'll stop being reassuring." "That was you trying?" "Barely." He crossed to the desk and picked up the room service menu. "You eaten?"

The shift was so abrupt it took you a second to catch up. "What?" "Food," he said. "Have you had any since lunch?" "Yes." Jack looked at you. You looked back. "Define food," he said.

"That feels hostile." "It was a simple question." "I had half a muffin during the afternoon break." His eyes closed briefly. "Don't make that face." "I'm not making a face."

"You're making the doctor face." "I am a doctor." "You're making the disappointed attending face." "With cause." "It had blueberries." "It was conference food. It had the concept of blueberries."

You laughed, despite yourself. Jack picked up the phone. "Room service." "You don't have to—" "I'm ordering food." "I can order my own food." "Good. Then you can tell me what you want."

You opened your mouth. Closed it. He waited. You crossed your arms. "You are very bossy." "Yes." "No denial?" "I'm tired." That caught you off guard. It was small, the admission. Almost nothing.

But Jack did not give away small things without meaning to. Your expression softened before you could stop it. "Yeah," you said. "Me too." His eyes met yours. For a second, the argument fell away.

The bed was still there. The storm still existed. The whole strange shape of the night still waited around you. But so did the exhaustion. So did the fact that you had both been awake since before dawn, sitting through panels and making careful conversation and pretending, always pretending, that the invisible line between you was not getting thinner every day.

Jack looked away first, but gently this time. "What do you want?" he asked, lifting the phone. You glanced at the menu. "Grilled cheese." He paused. "What?" "Grilled cheese."

"They have salmon." "I don't trust conference hotel salmon during a weather emergency." "Sensible." "And fries." "Of course." "And whatever dessert looks least disappointing."

Jack's mouth tilted slightly. "There's chocolate cake." "Done." He nodded once and lifted the receiver. You watched him order with the same brusque efficiency he used when calling consults, except instead of demanding neurosurgery he was asking a very overwhelmed kitchen employee for grilled cheese, fries, black coffee, tea, and chocolate cake.

It should not have been attractive. It absolutely was. You turned away and busied yourself with your bag. You had packed badly. Not disastrously, but with the optimism of someone who thought she would be back in Pittsburgh by midnight. You had a spare blouse, a phone charger, toiletries, and a soft sleep shirt you had only thrown in because your last flight delay had taught you humility. No actual pyjama bottoms. No extra jumper. No thick socks.

Wonderful. Jack hung up the phone. "Forty-five minutes," he said. "Not bad." "Kitchen sounds like a war zone." "Poor them." He glanced toward your bag. "You need anything?"

You looked up too quickly. "What?" "Toiletries. Shirt. Charger." "Oh." You swallowed. "No. I'm okay." He watched you for half a beat. "You packed for one night." "So did you."

"I have clothes." "Congratulations." "You're doing the defensive thing." "You're doing the observant thing." "Occupational hazard," he said again. You looked down at your open bag.

It was not a big deal. That was what you told yourself. It was just clothes. Just a hotel room. Just a storm. Just Jack. You were so tired of the word just. "I have a shirt," you said. "No bottoms. I'll survive."

Jack did not react obviously. Which somehow made it more obvious that he was reacting. His gaze moved to the dresser. "I have sweats." "No." "They're clean." "That was not my concern."

"They have a drawstring." "Also not my concern." "You'd rather sleep in conference pants?" You looked down at your trousers. They were perfectly professional and deeply uncomfortable after a twelve-hour day.

"I hate that you're making sense." "Happens." "Rarely." Jack opened his suitcase and pulled out a neatly folded pair of dark sweatpants. He held them out without looking directly at you.

The gesture was so practical. So simple. So completely dangerous. You took them. Your fingers brushed his. Barely. Nothing. A nothing touch. Except Jack's hand stilled for a fraction of a second, and your pulse jumped like an idiot.

"Thank you," you said. His voice was rougher when he answered. "Professional courtesy." You glanced up. He was looking at you now. There was humour there, buried under exhaustion and restraint. But there was something else too. Something careful. Something that knew exactly how thin this joke was becoming.

You held the sweatpants against your chest. "Right," you said. "Professional courtesy." The bathroom was small and aggressively hotel-like, all marble counter, bright mirror, and towels folded into shapes no one needed. You changed quickly, keeping your sleep shirt on and tying the borrowed sweatpants as tightly as they would go.

They were too big. Of course they were. They sat low on your hips and pooled slightly at your ankles. They smelled faintly of laundry detergent and something cleaner underneath. Jack's suitcase, maybe. His soap. The same faint scent you sometimes caught when he leaned over a chart beside you.

You stared at yourself in the mirror. "Oh, this is bad," you whispered. Not bad because you looked bad. Bad because you looked comfortable. Bad because the pants were his.

Bad because you could already imagine walking out and seeing him notice. You pressed both hands to your face. "Get a grip." A knock came at the bathroom door. You jumped.

"You alive?" Jack asked from the other side. You opened the door too quickly. "Do not say it like that." He was standing a few feet back, one hand braced on the desk chair, his shoes off now, his sweater sleeves pushed to his forearms.

He looked at you. Then very pointedly looked away. It was possibly the least subtle thing he had ever done. Your stomach flipped. "They're too big," you said, because apparently you had chosen death.

"They have a drawstring," he said. "I used it." "Then they're functional." "Is everything functional to you?" "No." The answer came too quietly. You looked at him. He was still not looking at you.

The air changed. That was the only way you knew how to think of it. Changed like weather. You stood barefoot on hotel carpet in Jack Abbott's borrowed sweatpants, and he stood across from you in his shirtsleeves, and the room felt suddenly too small for the amount of not saying happening inside it.

Then someone knocked on the door. Both of you startled. Actually startled. Jack recovered first, because of course he did. "Room service," he said, like that was not obvious.

"Right." He crossed to the door. You sat on the edge of the bed without thinking, then immediately stood again because sitting on the bed felt insane. Jack opened the door and accepted the tray from a harried-looking employee who looked one room away from quitting the hospitality industry entirely. Jack thanked him, tipped him too much, and shut the door with his hip.

The smell of hot fries filled the room. You nearly groaned. Jack set the tray on the desk. "You look like you're about to propose to the food." "Don't judge me." "I'm not. It's the most enthusiasm you've shown all day."

"That's not true." "No?" You stepped closer to the tray and lifted the metal cover from the plate. Golden fries. Grilled cheese cut diagonally. A small bowl of tomato soup you had not ordered but immediately respected.

You looked at Jack. His expression was neutral. Too neutral. "You ordered soup." "It came with it." "Did it?" "Yes." "Jack." "What?" "You ordered soup." "It's cold out." You smiled.

He looked annoyed, but not enough. "Professional courtesy?" you asked. He pulled out the desk chair and sat down a little carefully. "Eat your sandwich." You did. You sat on the edge of the bed because there was nowhere else to sit, balancing the plate on your knees while Jack took the chair at the desk. It should have been awkward, but food helped. Food made it normal, or something adjacent to normal.

The storm raged outside. The room smelled like fries and coffee and radiator heat. Jack ate like a man who had forgotten hunger existed until food was placed in front of him. You pretended not to notice. He pretended not to notice you noticing.

The silence between you grew less sharp. You dipped a corner of grilled cheese into the soup and looked over at him. "So," you said, "besides Robby and department visibility, why did you really come?"

Jack did not answer immediately. He leaned back in the chair, coffee in hand, eyes on the window. "For the conference?" "No, Jack. For the ambience." His mouth twitched. "I was asked."

"You always do what you're asked?" "No." "Exactly." He took a sip of coffee and grimaced. "Bad?" "Hotel bad." "You ordered it." "I was desperate." "You could have had tea."

"I'm not eighty." "That is hurtful to tea." "Tea will recover." You smiled, but you did not let him off. "Why did you come?" Jack looked down into his coffee. For a moment, you thought he was going to dodge again.

Then he said, "Robby thought I should get out of Pittsburgh for two days." That was not what you expected. Your face softened. "Why?" Jack's thumb moved along the side of the paper cup.

"Because he's annoying." "Jack." He exhaled. Not quite a sigh. "He thinks I've been working too much." "You have." His eyes lifted. You held his gaze. "What?" you said. "You have."

"You're one to talk." "I didn't say I was innocent." "No. You just keep mental notes on me and forget to eat." You looked down, smiling despite yourself. "That sounded almost affectionate."

"Don't get excited." "Too late." Jack's eyes stayed on you. The smile thinned a little on your face, not because you stopped feeling it, but because suddenly feeling anything seemed dangerous again.

He looked away. "Robby wanted someone senior here," he said. "I had the time. You were already going." There. Quiet. Almost buried. But there. Your fingers tightened around your fork.

"You came because I was going?" Jack did not move. "I didn't say that." "You kind of did." "I said it was a factor." "A factor." "Yes." "In the logistical decision." He glanced at you, and there was that dry look again. The one that made your chest ache because it was almost easier than softness.

"You're enjoying this." "A little." "Dangerous habit." "Noted." You ate another fry to give yourself something to do. But your mind had snagged on it. You were already going.

Not a confession. Not even close. But with Jack, half the time the truth came wrapped in enough caution to survive impact. You wondered how many other almost-truths he had offered you over the months that you had been too careful to pick up.

Outside, thunder cracked. Not thunder, maybe. Something heavy and distant. A transformer. Ice shifting. A city noise made strange by snow. The lights flickered again. This time, they went out.

The room dropped into darkness. For one second, everything disappeared. You heard yourself inhale sharply. Then the emergency lighting kicked in, faint and amber from the hallway through the crack under the door. The city glow outside the window blurred through the curtains. The heater went silent.

"Jack?" "I'm here." His voice came immediately. Close enough that your panic had no time to grow teeth. Then your phone screen lit up where it sat on the bed beside you, buzzing with an alert.

WINTER STORM WARNING. SHELTER IN PLACE. You stared at it. "Well," you said, trying for lightness and not quite getting there. "That feels dramatic." Jack stood. You heard the chair shift, then the careful sound of his movement in the dark.

"Stay there." "I wasn't planning on sprinting." "Good." He moved across the room with a confidence that made something inside you ache. Even in near-dark, even in a strange hotel room, Jack was calm. Measured. One hand found the desk. Then the lamp. Then the wall.

A second later, his phone flashlight clicked on, casting sharp white light across the room. You blinked. He aimed it toward the floor, not your face. "Power's out," he said.

"Really? I thought they were setting the mood." His eyes flicked up. Even in the thin flashlight glow, you saw the look. "Joke response," you said. "Ignore me." "I usually try."

"No, you don't." "No," he said after a beat. "I don't." You looked at him. The darkness softened everything except the places it sharpened. His face was half-lit, half-shadowed, the lines of him drawn in silver and black. His sweater was gone now, you realised belatedly, leaving him in a dark T-shirt that made him look less like the attending who could silence a trauma bay and more like a man trapped in a room with you and all the things neither of you said.

He crossed to the dresser and opened a drawer. "What are you doing?" "Looking for extra blankets." "In the dark?" "I have a light." "You also have a habit of ignoring your own limits."

He stopped. Not for long. Just enough that you knew he had heard the thing beneath the words. Then he pulled open the lower drawer and found a folded blanket sealed in a plastic bag.

"Found one," he said. "Of course you did." He brought it over and handed it to you. You accepted it, fingers brushing his again. This time, neither of you moved away as quickly.

The room was colder without the heater already. Or maybe that was your imagination. Maybe you were just suddenly aware of every inch of space between you. Jack's hand was warm.

Steady. Scarred along the knuckles. You let go first. Barely. "We should call the front desk," you said. "They're aware." "Because of the power outage?" "Because half the hotel just started calling them."

"You're probably right." "I usually am." "Incredible how you say things like that and expect people to like you." His mouth moved. "Some people manage." Your breath caught.

Jack seemed to realise what he had said at the exact moment you did. His expression locked down. But not fast enough. You saw it. The flash of something unguarded. The room felt very quiet.

Too quiet. Then his phone buzzed in his hand, cutting through the moment with brutal efficiency. He looked down. "Generator's delayed," he read. "Hotel says emergency lights remain active, heat may be intermittent, guests advised to stay in rooms."

"Great." "Could be worse." "How?" "We could be in the lobby with orthopedic surgeons." You laughed. You really could not help it. The laugh came out tired and a little shaky, but it was real.

Jack looked at you for a second with that almost-soft expression again. Then he glanced at the bed. You followed his gaze. One bed. One extra blanket. No heat. Professional courtesy, your traitorous brain supplied.

You pulled the blanket against your chest. "So," you said carefully, "this got more complicated." Jack's jaw shifted. "Yeah." "We can still be adults." "Probably." "Probably?"

"I'm accounting for variables." "Such as?" He looked at you. In the phone light, his eyes were darker than usual. "You," he said. Your pulse jumped. Jack looked away almost immediately, like he had not meant it to come out like that.

But it had. And now it was in the room with you. You. Not the storm. Not the bed. Not the lack of heat. You. You swallowed. "I'm a variable?" "A persistent one." You should have laughed.

You almost did. But his voice had gone too quiet. Too honest. So you only said, "That sounds inconvenient." Jack's gaze returned to yours. "It is." The snow hit the window hard.

Neither of you moved. Then, somewhere down the hall, someone shouted, "Power's out on ten too!" and another voice yelled back something about flashlights, and the moment snapped before either of you could decide what to do with it.

Jack exhaled, low and controlled. "You should finish eating before the food gets cold." You blinked. Then laughed softly, because of course. Of course that was where he went.

Food. Practicality. A safe surface after stepping too close to the edge. "Right," you said. "Professional courtesy." He looked at you for one long second. Then he said, very dryly, "Don't make me regret naming it."

You sat back down on the edge of the bed with your plate and the extra blanket over your lap. Jack returned to the chair, phone flashlight propped against the lamp base so it lit the room in a strange upward glow.

You ate in semi-darkness while the storm pressed against the windows and the hotel groaned softly around you. And for a while, neither of you talked about the bed. Neither of you talked about variables.

Neither of you talked about the fact that the room was getting colder. But Jack took the blanket from the foot of the bed and draped it around your shoulders without asking.

And you let him. When his hand brushed the back of your neck, neither of you said anything at all. By the time you finished eating, the fries had gone soft, the grilled cheese had gone lukewarm, and the room had become noticeably colder.

Not freezing. Not dramatic. Just cold enough that the tips of your toes had started to curl against the hotel carpet. Cold enough that you had pulled the borrowed sweatpants lower over your ankles and tucked the extra blanket tighter around your shoulders. Cold enough that Jack had noticed, because Jack noticed everything, and was pretending he had not noticed in a way that meant he absolutely had.

The emergency light from the hallway bled under the door in a thin amber line. Jack's phone was still propped against the lamp base, flashlight angled at the ceiling so the whole room sat in a pale, strange glow. Shadows gathered in the corners. The window was a black mirror now, occasionally flashing white when the wind threw snow hard against the glass.

The hotel was quieter than it had been. Or maybe it only felt that way because the power outage had changed the sound of everything. No humming heater. No elevator chime. No faint television from the room next door. Just wind, the distant murmur of stranded guests in the hallway, and the occasional muffled thunk of something outside giving in to the storm.

Jack stacked the empty plates back on the room service tray with the kind of precision that suggested he could not quite tolerate mess when there were too many other things he could not control.

You watched him from the edge of the bed. "You know they have people for that." He did not look up. "For what?" "Stacking plates like you're preparing them for sterile processing."

"That would be a terrible use of sterile processing." "You understood my point." "Unfortunately." He set the cutlery on the plate, folded the napkin once, then stopped when he caught you watching.

"What?" "Nothing." "You keep saying that." "You keep asking." "You keep looking at me like you have commentary." "I always have commentary." "That's true." You smiled faintly.

The silence that followed was softer than the ones before. Less sharp, anyway. The food had helped. The ridiculousness had helped. The fact that you were both too tired to maintain full emotional defences had helped in a deeply inconvenient way.

Jack took the tray to the narrow table near the door, then checked his phone. "No update?" you asked. "Generator crew's working on it." "That sounds fake." "It does." "Do you think they're lying?"

"I think they're busy." "That was generous." "I have moments." "You hide them well." He glanced at you, dry. You tucked your feet under the blanket and tried not to shiver.

Failed. Jack saw it. Of course he did. His gaze dropped to the blanket around you, then to your bare feet, then back to your face. "You cold?" "No." "You're a bad liar." "I'm fine."

"That one's mine." "I'm borrowing it." "You use it worse." "You use it constantly." "With more conviction." "With more denial." His expression shifted. Not a flinch exactly. Jack was too practised for that. But something in him went still around the edges, like your words had touched a place you had not meant to press.

You regretted it immediately. "Sorry," you said, softer. "That wasn't—" "It's fine." "Jack." He turned toward the suitcase instead of looking at you. "You need socks." "I don't."

"You do." "I'm not taking your socks." "Why?" "Because there are lines." "There's a line at socks?" "Yes." "But not at sweatpants." You looked down at yourself. The borrowed sweatpants were still much too big, bunched slightly at your waist where you had tied the drawstring tight enough to survive a storm. You hated that they were comfortable. You hated more that you had stopped noticing they were not yours.

"That was an emergency." "So is hypothermia." "I am not hypothermic." "You're shivering." "I'm dramatically chilly." "Clinical distinction?" "Emotional distinction." Jack opened his suitcase.

You sighed. "Jack." He pulled out a pair of thick dark socks and held them out. You stared at them. He stared back. The socks hung between you like the dumbest possible symbol of intimacy.

"You're very bossy," you said again. "You're very cold." "I could put my shoes back on." "You're not wearing shoes in bed." The sentence landed. Both of you heard it. Both of you froze.

In bed. Not the bed. Not that bed. In bed. The words sat in the dim room, far too casual and far too specific. Jack's jaw tightened. You took the socks mostly so neither of you had to keep looking at each other across the space between you.

"Thank you," you said. His fingers brushed yours as you took them. A small touch. Accidental. Still, your hand warmed like his skin had left a mark. Jack stepped back too quickly and turned toward the window.

You pulled the socks on under the blanket, trying to do it with dignity. It was impossible. The blanket slipped off one shoulder. The sweatpants rode up. You nearly kicked the nightstand with your heel.

Jack did not turn around. Which meant he was very deliberately not turning around. Somehow that made it worse. "There," you said when you were done. "Feet saved. Crisis averted."

"Good." His voice was rougher than before. You looked at the back of him. He stood near the window with one hand braced against the frame, shoulders slightly bowed. The phone light made a dark outline of him against the curtains. Without the hotel noise, without the conference, without the ED, he seemed more human in a way that made your chest ache.

Still Jack. But less armoured. You wondered if anyone else at The Pitt had ever seen him like this — barefoot in a hotel room, tired around the edges, quietly trying to make sure another person was warm without making it a scene.

Probably not. The thought did something strange to you. "Are you cold?" you asked. "No." "Bad liar." He did not look over. "I'm fine." "Worse liar." His mouth moved, barely visible in profile.

"Probably." That answer felt too honest. You watched him for another moment, then looked away before he could catch you looking again. The hotel groaned softly around you.

Somewhere down the hall, a child laughed. A woman shushed him. A door opened, then closed. The storm kept pressing at the windows, steady and relentless. You reached for your phone on the bed and checked the time.

8:47 p.m. It felt much later. You had been awake since four-thirty that morning, because the first flight out of Pittsburgh had seemed like a good idea when you booked it. It had not seemed like a good idea when your alarm went off in the dark. It had seemed actively hostile by the time Jack appeared at the airport gate with black coffee, a conference folder, and the expression of a man who had already decided the day was guilty until proven otherwise.

You had laughed at him then too. He had handed you the coffee without comment. You had not asked how he knew your order. That was the thing with Jack. He gave things in ways that made asking feel impossible.

He would notice. Adjust. Provide. Protect. Then act like anyone would have done the same. Anyone would not have. That was the problem. You scrolled through your notifications. Dana had texted again.

DANA: You alive? You smiled. Jack, still near the window, said, "Dana?" You looked up. "How did you know?" "She asks that when she wants reassurance but refuses to phrase it emotionally."

"That is… uncomfortably accurate." "What'd she say?" "You alive?" Jack huffed softly. It was almost a laugh. "See?" You typed back. YOU: Alive. Snowed in. Power out. Abbott still hasn't killed anyone.

Dana's reply came fast. DANA: Yet. DANA: Where are you staying? Your thumb hovered over the keyboard. Ah. There it was. The simple question with the deeply complicated answer.

You glanced at Jack. He had turned from the window and was watching you now. Not suspicious. Aware. Always aware. "Dana asked where I'm staying," you said. Jack's expression went carefully blank.

"What are you going to tell her?" You looked down at the phone. That was an excellent question. The truth was simple. You were in his room because the hotel was full and the city was shut down and neither of you had any better options.

The truth was also impossible. Because Dana would understand the logistics. Dana understood emergencies. Dana understood bad weather and full hotels and professional adults making practical decisions.

Dana would also absolutely hear the silence between the words. Dana had eyes. Worse, she had instincts. Even worse, she liked you. You typed. YOU: Hotel. It's chaos here. Everyone stranded.

Not a lie. A strategic omission. Jack watched you send it. "She'll know," he said. "Probably." "You omitted relevant details." "I learned from doctors." "That's charting, not lying."

"Overlap, not causation." His eyes narrowed slightly, but there was something warm under it. "You're getting too much use out of my lines." "You should write better ones."

"I'll workshop it." Dana's next text buzzed through. DANA: You dodged that question so hard I felt the wind from Pittsburgh. You pressed your lips together. Jack saw your face.

"What?" "She knows." "I said that." You set the phone face down on the bed. "I'm ignoring her." "Sensible." "I can practically hear her eyebrows." "Dana has loud eyebrows."

"She really does." You both smiled. The room went quiet again. This silence was different. It was domestic in the strangest, most dangerous way. You were sitting on his bed in his sweatpants and socks, ignoring a text from Dana while Jack stood by the window in his T-shirt, and for one awful second you could imagine this without the storm. Without the conference. Without the emergency explanation.

A room. Food containers. Shared warmth. Jack looking at you like you were something he had learned the shape of without meaning to. The thought was so clear it startled you.

You stood abruptly. "I should brush my teeth." Jack blinked. Then gave one short nod. "Okay." "Then we should probably…" You gestured vaguely toward the bed, immediately regretted it, and turned the gesture into pointing at your bag. "Sleep. Eventually. Because we're exhausted. And adults. Professional adults."

His mouth twitched. "Professional adults brush their teeth?" "They do." "Good to know." You grabbed your toiletries and escaped into the bathroom. The mirror was bright only because of your phone flashlight propped against the soap dish. Without the overhead lights, your reflection looked softer and stranger. Tired eyes. Messy hair. Jack's sweatpants. Jack's socks.

You brushed your teeth with too much focus. Then you stood there for a moment with your hands braced on the sink. This was fine. Fine was a word doing heroic work tonight.

You had shared tighter spaces with coworkers before. Ambulance bays. Trauma rooms. Supply closets during disaster drills. Once, a hospital break room with six people, one working microwave, and a smell you all silently agreed not to identify.

This was not different because of square footage. It was different because of Jack. Because every quiet thing he did felt louder in the dark. Because he had remembered food. Socks. Blankets. The fact that you got anxious when you thought too long about the ED functioning without you.

Because he had said, You were already going. Because he had called you a variable. Because when the power went out, your first instinct had been to say his name, and his first instinct had been to answer before you could be scared.

You rinsed your mouth, dried your face, and stared at your reflection. "Normal," you whispered. "We are being normal." When you opened the bathroom door, Jack was sitting on the edge of the bed.

Not in it. On it. His prosthetic was off. You stopped before you could stop yourself. It was not the first time you had seen him without it. Not exactly. The ED had a way of stealing privacy from everyone eventually, and Jack was not secretive in the way people assumed. He was matter-of-fact about the reality of his body when he had to be.

But this was different. This was not clinical. This was not a glance through a curtain gap or a practical adjustment after a brutal shift. This was Jack in the low light of a hotel room, one leg extended slightly, his liner set aside with careful precision, his hand resting near his thigh. His posture was composed, but there was something in the stillness of him that made you understand, immediately and painfully, that he had not expected you to come out just then.

His head lifted. His expression closed. Fast. Too fast. "Sorry," you said softly. You did not know what you were apologising for. Walking out. Seeing. Making him feel seen. All of it.

Jack looked away first. "It's fine." There it was again. The legal defence. You stayed where you were by the bathroom door, toiletries in hand. For once, you did not tease him.

You did not say he was a bad liar. You did not try to make the room easier by making a joke. Instead, you said, "I can give you a minute." His jaw shifted. He looked at you then, and there was something in his eyes you could not read.

Not embarrassment, exactly. Not shame, though something close enough to make your chest hurt. Wariness, maybe. A man used to people either looking too long or looking away too fast.

You did neither. At least, you tried not to. "You don't have to," he said. His voice was low. Rough. You nodded once and crossed to your bag, setting your toiletries inside with deliberate calm. Not ignoring him. Not staring. Just letting the moment exist without making it bigger.

Jack watched you for a second. You could feel it. Then he reached for the compression sleeve beside him and adjusted it with efficient, practised movements. You turned toward the window and gave him privacy without leaving.

The snow was still falling hard. The glass had frosted slightly at the corners, feathered white around the dark. The city lights outside looked blurred and far away. Behind you, fabric shifted. Jack moved carefully. The bed creaked once.

"You can turn around," he said. You did. He had pulled the blanket over his lap, sitting upright now, back against the headboard. The bedside lamp was useless without power, but his phone flashlight on the nightstand lit the lower half of the room. His face was half in shadow.

"You okay?" you asked. Then immediately wanted to kick yourself. Jack's eyebrows lifted. "I mean—" You stopped, exhaled. "Sorry. Stupid question." "Not stupid." "You hate that question."

"I hate most questions." "True." His mouth twitched faintly. The tension eased by a millimetre. You sat carefully on the opposite side of the bed, leaving as much space as possible between you. The mattress dipped under your weight, and both of you noticed.

How could you not? One bed. One room. No power. The space between you suddenly felt measured in inches and bad decisions. Jack reached for his own toiletries. "Bathroom's yours?"

"I'm done." He nodded and shifted to stand. You looked away before he could need you to. It was instinct. Respect. Maybe both. But before he moved, he paused. "You don't have to do that."

You looked back. "What?" "Look away like I'll break." The words were quiet. Flat, almost. But something under them hurt. You swallowed. "I'm not looking away because I think you'll break."

Jack held your gaze. "Then why?" You thought about lying. You were both good at it, in your own ways. Little lies. Necessary ones. The kind that kept rooms functioning. I'm fine.

It doesn't hurt. I don't care. This is professional courtesy. But the storm had narrowed the world to this room, and the lights were out, and Jack had given you socks like it meant nothing when it meant everything, and you were so tired of talking around the truth.

"Because I don't want to make something private feel less private," you said. He went still. You could hear the wind dragging snow across the window. Then Jack looked down.

For a long moment, he said nothing. When he spoke, his voice was quieter. "That's considerate." You tried to smile. "Don't sound so surprised." "I'm not." "You are a little."

"I'm used to people being curious." That landed hard. You kept your voice gentle. "I'm curious about you, Jack. Not about that." His eyes lifted. Oh. The room seemed to stop.

You realised what you had said a second too late. Not about that. About you. There was no good way to pull it back. No joke quick enough. No professional framing strong enough to cover it.

Jack looked at you like you had put a hand directly over a bruise. You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. Then he looked away, and the moment passed. Or he let it pass. You were not sure which.

"I'll be quick," he said. He stood, carefully, and you kept your gaze on your hands this time. Not because he had asked, not because you thought he needed saving from being seen, but because the room already had too much honesty in it and you were not sure either of you could survive another piece.

The bathroom door closed. You exhaled slowly. Your phone buzzed against the blanket. Dana again. You turned it over. DANA: You are absolutely not telling me something. DANA: Fine. Don't die. DANA: Also Abbott better not be pretending he doesn't need sleep. He does.

You smiled despite yourself. Dana was the human equivalent of a locked medication cabinet and a warning label. She saw more than people wanted her to see, kept what mattered safe, and made sure you knew when you were being stupid.

You typed back. YOU: He is being managed. You stared at it. Then deleted it. Absolutely not. You tried again. YOU: We're both going to sleep soon. Power's still out. Dana replied.

DANA: Both? You closed your eyes. Of course. Of course she caught that. Before you could decide how to answer, the bathroom door opened. You dropped your phone face down like a teenager hiding contraband.

Jack paused in the doorway. "That subtle?" "Shut up." "Dana?" "No." "Liar." "Fine. Yes." "What did she say?" "Nothing." He gave you a look. You sighed. "She noticed I said both."

Jack's expression did something complicated. "Ah." "Exactly." He moved back to his side of the bed with his toothbrush and toothpaste in hand, then set them on the nightstand. The room was colder now, enough that goosebumps had lifted along your arms where the blanket had slipped.

Jack noticed. He pulled the top blanket down on his side. The bed suddenly became a real object again. Not a prop. Not a joke. A place where both of you were expected to sleep.

You stood. Too quickly. "I can sleep on top of the covers." "No." "Jack." "It's cold." "I know." "So don't be stupid." You looked at him. "Did you just call me stupid?" "I told you not to be."

"Fine distinction." "Important one." You crossed your arms. He leaned back against the headboard and looked up at you with tired, unamused patience. "We are not doing this for another hour," he said.

"Doing what?" "Pretending either of us is sleeping anywhere but the bed." The bluntness of it sent heat straight up your neck. Jack noticed that too. His gaze flicked away, but his mouth tightened like he regretted nothing.

"You could phrase things less aggressively," you muttered. "I could." "You won't." "No." You stared at him. He stared back. Then, because exhaustion was apparently making you brave, or reckless, or possibly both, you said, "Fine. But the pillow stays in the middle."

Jack looked at the row of pillows stacked against the headboard. "One pillow?" "One pillow." "As a border?" "As a diplomatic boundary." "That's not what pillows are for."

"It is tonight." He considered this. Then reached for one of the pillows and placed it lengthwise down the centre of the bed with dead-serious precision. You watched him.

The absurdity hit first. Then the tenderness. Jack Abbott, attending physician, military veteran, professional misery enthusiast, was sitting in a powerless hotel room during a snowstorm creating a pillow wall because you had asked him to.

Your chest did that stupid, aching thing again. "There," he said. "You made it very official." "It's a terrible wall." "It's symbolic." "It's structurally unsound." "Most emotional boundaries are."

He looked at you. You looked back. For a moment, neither of you smiled. Then Jack's mouth twitched. You laughed quietly and climbed under the covers before you could think about it too much.

The sheets were cold at first, crisp against your legs. You slid carefully onto your side, keeping the pillow between you. Jack stayed sitting up for another moment, phone in hand, probably checking alerts. Or pretending to. You suspected he was giving you time to settle before he moved.

The thought made you ache in a way you did not know how to name. Finally, he set his phone on the nightstand with the flashlight still aimed upward and lowered himself under the blankets.

The mattress shifted. The world narrowed. You were lying in bed with Jack Abbott. There was a pillow between you. There were several inches of careful space. There were covers pulled up to your shoulders, socks on your feet, snow at the window, and a storm blocking every exit the two of you had spent months pretending you needed.

"This is normal," you said into the darkness. Jack turned his head slightly. "Is it?" "No." "Then why say it?" "Manifestation." "That doesn't work." "Evidence?" "This." A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Jack's eyes were on the ceiling, but his expression had softened. The flashlight glow caught the line of his jaw, the tired slope of his mouth, the lashes casting faint shadows beneath his eyes. He looked exhausted now. Not just annoyed. Not just inconvenienced. Truly worn down.

Something in you quieted. "You should sleep," you said. "So should you." "I will." "Good." "You too." "That was implied." "Was it?" "Yes." You smiled into the dim. For a while, neither of you spoke.

The hotel settled around you. The storm battered the window. Somewhere distant, a door opened and closed. Your phone buzzed once more, but you ignored it. The cold made the bed feel smaller than it was. Or maybe awareness did that. You could feel the heat of him on the other side of the pillow. Not touching. Not even close enough, really.

Still, you knew exactly where he was. Every breath. Every subtle shift. Every careful movement made by a man trying not to make this harder for either of you. "You asleep?" Jack asked eventually.

"No." "Why?" "Because you asked me if I was asleep." He huffed softly. You smiled. A long pause. Then he said, "Your flight tomorrow. What time?" "Rebooked for two-thirty. Assuming the airport doesn't stay closed."

"Mine's three." "Good." "Good?" You stared at the pillow boundary between you, barely visible in the dark. "Means I'm not leaving you stranded here alone with all the orthopedic surgeons."

"You'd make that sacrifice?" "I'm heroic." "You forgot to eat today." "I contain multitudes." "Mostly bad decisions." "That's rich coming from you." He was quiet for a beat.

Then said, "Fair." The honesty of that made your smile fade. You turned onto your back carefully. "Can I ask you something?" Jack did not answer right away. His gaze stayed on the ceiling.

"That depends." "On what?" "Whether you're about to ask something I don't want to answer." "I don't know if you'll want to answer it." "Then probably no." "Jack." He sighed.

"Ask." You hesitated. The question had been sitting in you since dinner, since you were already going, maybe even before that. Since the airport coffee. Since the way he always turned up near you without making a thing of it.

"Why do you do that?" His head turned slightly. "Do what?" "Take care of people and pretend you're not." His face went unreadable. You rushed on before you could lose courage.

"The coffee. The food. The socks. The room. At work too. You act like it's all logistics, but it isn't always." Jack looked back at the ceiling. The silence stretched. You almost apologised.

Then he said, "It's easier if people don't make it a thing." Your chest softened. "Why?" His jaw moved once. "Because then they expect you to talk about it." The answer was so Jack that it almost hurt.

You turned your face toward him. In the low glow, he looked carved out of restraint. "You don't always have to talk about it." His eyes shifted to yours. "No?" "No." "What do I have to do?"

The question was quiet. Too quiet. You were not sure he meant it the way it sounded. You answered anyway. "Let someone notice." Jack did not move. Something passed over his face — guarded, tired, almost unbearably vulnerable before he buried it.

"I let people notice plenty." "Charting irregularities don't count." His mouth twitched, but it faded quickly. "People notice what they want," he said. "That's not true."

"It's often true." You studied him across the ridiculous pillow. "Then let me notice." The words came out before you could stop them. Soft. Plain. Terrifying. Jack looked at you.

Fully now. The room seemed to contract around his silence. You felt your heartbeat in your throat. Outside, the storm kept going. Snow against glass. Wind at the windows. The city hidden. The hotel powerless. Everything ordinary stripped away until there was only this: you and Jack, inches apart, pretending a pillow could hold back months of almosts.

Jack's voice, when it came, was rough. "You already do." You could not breathe for a second. He looked away first. But the damage was done. The truth was there between you, small and live and glowing.

You did not know what to do with it. So you did nothing. Maybe that was the only thing either of you could manage. You lay there in the dark, his words moving through you like warmth.

You already do. For a while, neither of you spoke again. Eventually, exhaustion began to pull at you. The edges of the room blurred. The storm became a dull, steady rush. Your body, traitorous and tired, stopped caring about awkwardness and started caring only about heat.

The bed was cold where you were not touching anything. Your feet were warm in Jack's socks, but your shoulders were not. You curled slightly on your side, facing the pillow wall, tugging the blanket higher.

Jack shifted on the other side. "You cold?" "No." He made a low sound. You did not even open your eyes. "I know. Bad liar." "Terrible." "I'm fine." "Mine." "I know." The mattress dipped as he adjusted, and the blanket shifted over you, tucked more securely near your shoulder. Not intrusive. Not too much.

Just enough. His hand brushed your upper arm through the fabric. You opened your eyes. Jack's hand withdrew immediately. "Sorry." "It's okay." "I was just—" "I know." His face was close now.

Closer than before because you had both shifted toward the middle without noticing. The pillow was still between you, crushed slightly under the weight of your shoulders.

The flashlight had dimmed as his phone battery dropped, turning the room softer. Jack's eyes were dark in the low light. You should have moved back. You did not. Neither did he.

"You should sleep," he said again. His voice had changed. Low. Careful. Like he was speaking near a wound. "So should you." "I'm trying." "Are you?" "No." The honesty made something in your chest go still.

Jack closed his eyes briefly, like he regretted it. You watched him. Then, because you were too tired to be wise, you whispered, "Me neither." He opened his eyes. There it was again.

The pause. The dangerous pause. His gaze moved over your face, not quickly this time. Not hidden. He looked at you like he was memorising the cost of wanting something. Your fingers rested near the pillow between you.

His hand lay on the blanket on the other side. Not touching. Almost. Almost had become a language between you. Jack swallowed. "We shouldn't," he said. You had not asked what.

You both knew. "No," you whispered. But you did not move. The room held very still. Then the hallway erupted with noise. A door slammed somewhere. Someone laughed too loudly. A man cursed about the emergency lights. The spell shattered so abruptly you almost flinched.

Jack looked away. You let out a breath you had not realised you were holding. The pillow wall suddenly looked absurd again. Useful, maybe. Merciful. You turned onto your back, staring at the dark ceiling.

"Orthopedic surgeons," you murmured. Jack was quiet for half a second. Then he huffed a laugh. A real one. Small. Exhausted. But real. It loosened something in the room. You smiled.

The two of you lay there in the dark while the hotel settled again and the storm carried on, pretending nothing had almost happened. Eventually, your eyes grew heavy. Your body warmed under the blankets. The borrowed socks were soft against your feet. The bed no longer felt quite as cold. Jack's breathing evened out beside you, slow and controlled, though not quite sleep.

You drifted in and out. At some point, the pillow between you shifted. You were too tired to know who moved first. Maybe you curled toward the warmth. Maybe Jack turned in his sleep.

Maybe the bed dipped and the pillow slid down between your knees and neither of you woke enough to correct it. The room had grown colder. The blankets had tangled. The storm was loud.

You came halfway awake to the feeling of warmth against your forehead. A steady body near yours. An arm, heavy but careful, resting around your waist. For one hazy second, your mind did not understand.

Then you felt Jack's breath against your hair. You should have startled. You should have pulled away. Instead, half-asleep and freezing, you made a small sound and shifted closer.

The arm around you tightened. Not much. Just enough. Jack murmured something you could not make out. His hand settled flat against your back, warm through the borrowed shirt. His body curved around yours with a kind of unconscious care that made no room for embarrassment because neither of you was awake enough to choose it.

The pillow boundary was gone. The diplomatic border had failed. You tucked your face against his chest. He was warm. So warm. The storm battered the window, but under the blankets, in the dark, the world narrowed to the steady rise and fall of him.

Jack's chin brushed your hair. His hand rested between your shoulder blades. You fell asleep like that. Not deciding. Not confessing. Not crossing any line either of you could name while conscious.

Just cold and exhausted and drawn, somehow, to the safest heat in the room. Outside, snow buried the city. Inside, Jack held you like he had been doing it for years. Jack woke before the power came back on.

For a few seconds, he did not move. That was habit. Old habit. Useful habit. The kind of stillness that came before assessment. Before pain caught up. Before memory sorted itself into place. Before the body told the truth the mind had not agreed to yet.

Dark room. Hotel. Storm. Philadelphia. Conference. You. That last one arrived slower. Not because he had forgotten. Because his mind seemed determined to give him one merciful second before handing over the evidence.

Warmth against his chest. Soft breath through the fabric of his T-shirt. A hand curled loosely near his ribs. Your knee tucked between his. His arm around you. Jack stared at the ceiling.

The phone flashlight had died sometime during the night. The only light came from the window now, weak and blue-grey through the curtains, the city beyond still blurred by snow. The power was still out, or the room would have been humming. Instead, the silence was deep and cold around the edges, broken only by wind and the steady sound of your breathing.

You were asleep. Against him. Not beside him. Not near him. Against him. Your cheek rested over his heart like you had chosen the exact place designed to ruin him. Jack did not move.

He should have. That was the first reasonable thought. The second reasonable thought was that if he moved, you would wake up embarrassed, and then he would have to watch you apologise for something that had been as much his fault as yours.

The third reasonable thought was that he had no idea how the hell the pillow had ended up near the bottom of the bed. He looked down slowly. The diplomatic boundary, as you had called it, had collapsed sometime in the night. One end of the pillow was wedged between the blankets near his shin, completely useless. The other had vanished under the duvet.

Structurally unsound, he thought. And then, despite himself, almost smiled. Almost. His hand was spread against your back. He became aware of that next. Not gripping. Not possessive. Just there. Warm through the cotton of your sleep shirt. His thumb had found the small space beneath your shoulder blade and rested there like it belonged.

It did not belong there. That was the problem. Or one of them. Jack should have moved his hand. Instead, he let himself feel the weight of it for one more second. One more second, he told himself, was not a crime.

You shifted in your sleep. Jack went completely still. Your fingers tightened faintly against his shirt, and your face turned a little closer into his chest. A small sound left you, half breath and half protest against the cold room.

His arm responded before he could stop it. It tightened by a fraction. Your body settled. Jack closed his eyes. Idiot. The word had no force behind it. He had been called worse by better men and disagreed less.

Because this was stupid. Not the storm. Not the hotel room. Not even the bed, in itself. Those had been logistics. Bad logistics, but logistics. This was something else. This was waking up with you tucked against him and feeling, for one unguarded awful moment, not alarmed but relieved.

Relieved. Like some part of him had been waiting for the world to arrange itself like this. Like he had slept better with your breath against his shirt than he had any right to.

That was the dangerous thing. Not desire. Desire was simple enough to recognise and avoid. Jack had been avoiding wanting you for months with the grim discipline of a man disarming a device he refused to admit was live.

But this— This quiet. This ease. This body-deep reluctance to leave. That was what frightened him. Your breathing changed. He heard it before you moved. A slight catch. A deeper inhale. The soft, muddled shift of someone beginning to surface.

Jack opened his eyes. He still did not move. There was no good version of this. If he pulled away now, you would wake to rejection. If he stayed, you would wake to everything.

You stirred again. Your hand slid a little against his shirt. Then stopped. Your body went still. Jack held his breath. He felt the exact moment you woke properly. Your fingers curled.

Your cheek lifted a fraction. For a second, neither of you did anything. Then your eyes opened against the dim grey of his chest. You blinked. Once. Twice. Jack watched your face change.

Sleep-soft confusion. Recognition. Horror. Not horror of him, he thought. Not that. Horror of the situation. Of your hand on him. Of your leg tangled with his. Of his arm around you like he had made some claim in his sleep that he had not had the courage to make awake.

You lifted your head very slowly. Your eyes met his. Your hair was mussed on one side. Your face was warm from sleep. There was a faint line from his shirt pressed into your cheek.

Jack's chest tightened with such abrupt force that it bordered on pain. "Morning," he said. It came out low. Too rough. Your mouth parted. Nothing came out for a second. Then, because apparently you were both determined to survive by saying the least helpful things possible, you whispered, "Hi."

Neither of you moved. His arm was still around you. Your hand was still on his chest. The room was still cold. The snow kept hitting the window in softer gusts now, less violent than the night before but steady. The world outside had gone pale and quiet, buried under white.

Your eyes dropped to where his arm lay across your back. Jack became very aware of his hand again. He loosened it at once. "Sorry." The word left him before he could stop it.

Your gaze snapped back to his face. "No," you said quickly. "No, I'm— I'm sorry. I must have—" "We both moved." You stopped. Jack watched that land. You looked down between you, where the blankets were tangled around your legs, where the pillow boundary had failed catastrophically, where all the evidence suggested neither of you had been an innocent bystander.

"Oh," you said. Jack's mouth twitched faintly. It was not exactly funny. Except it was a little funny. You saw the almost-smile and exhaled a small, embarrassed laugh. "The wall failed," you murmured.

"Poor construction." "I blame the contractor." "You approved the design." "I was under duress." "You were under a blanket." "That too." The tiny rhythm of banter returned like a match struck in the cold.

It did not fix the intimacy. It made it worse, actually. Because neither of you had moved away. Not properly. Jack's arm had loosened, but his hand had not left your back. Your hand had shifted lower against his ribs, but it had not disappeared. Your knee was still pressed against his thigh beneath the covers.

You both knew. You both pretended not to know for one more second. Then you said, softer, "Are you okay?" Jack looked at you. He could have answered the usual way. He almost did.

The word sat ready. Fine. A shield. A reflex. An old door that knew how to close itself. But your face was close to his, and your voice had none of the clinical edge people usually carried when they asked him that. You were not asking about pain only. You were not asking whether he needed help. You were not asking because you had seen something and wanted reassurance that it had not disturbed you.

You were asking because you had woken in his arms and still wanted to know if he was alright. Jack looked away. "Yeah." A beat. Then, because the room had apparently stripped him of common sense, he added, "Better than expected."

Your expression changed. Slowly. Carefully. Like you did not want to frighten the admission by looking at it too quickly. "Yeah?" you asked. Jack should have corrected course.

He did not. "Yeah." Your fingers relaxed against his shirt. The movement was tiny. He felt it everywhere. "I'm okay too," you said, though he had not asked aloud yet. He looked back at you.

"You sure?" You nodded. Your cheek was still marked from his shirt. It made you look younger somehow, more vulnerable, and he hated that the sight of it did something warm and unreasonable to him.

"I'm sure." The words settled. No one moved. The morning had made the room visible in pieces. The room service tray near the door. His suitcase open on the rack. Your bag on the floor with a sleeve hanging out. The dead phone on the nightstand. The useless lamp. The curtains breathing faintly whenever the wind found a seam at the window.

And the bed. The two of you in it. Too close to pretend it meant nothing. Not close enough, a terrible part of him thought. Jack shifted his gaze to the ceiling. "You're probably cold."

You blinked. Then laughed, the sound soft against him. "That's where we're going?" "It's relevant." "Is it?" "The power's still out." "Ah. Logistics." "Yes." "Professional courtesy?"

He looked down at you. The joke had been easier last night. Now it sounded like a challenge. His hand, still traitorous, rested against your back. Your body was warm where it touched his.

He could feel your heart beating. "No," he said. The word left quietly. Barely more than breath. But it changed everything. Your smile faded. Not in a bad way. In the way a person goes still when a door opens somewhere they thought was locked.

"No?" you asked. Jack swallowed. The smart thing would be to move. Sit up. Reach for his phone. Check the flight status. Talk about snowplows and airport delays and work schedules and the thousands of ordinary facts that could bury this one extraordinary one.

He was good at ordinary facts. He was good at burying things. But you were looking at him, and for once, the cost of silence seemed heavier than the cost of speech. "No," he said again.

You looked at him for a long moment. Then your hand flattened gently against his chest. Not pulling him closer. Not pushing away. Just there. "Okay," you whispered. Jack had no idea what that meant.

He had no idea if you meant okay, I understand or okay, stop or okay, me too. He had no idea how a single word could make him want to lean in and run at the same time. His voice came out rougher than he wanted.

"You should know better." Your eyebrows drew together. "Than what?" He looked at you. "Than to get involved with me." The words were blunt because bluntness was easier than fear.

There. Said. Ugly thing on the table. Except there was no table. Just a cold hotel room, a failed pillow wall, and your hand over the centre of his chest. Your expression shifted.

Not hurt. Not quite. Angry, maybe. Softly. The way you got angry with patients who apologised for needing help. "Jack." He looked away. "I'm serious." "I know you are." "You work with me."

"I noticed." His mouth tightened despite himself. "You know what I mean." "I do." Your voice stayed quiet. "But I also know I'm not a child, and I don't need you to make decisions for me because you've decided you're complicated."

His eyes came back to yours. That hit somewhere precise. You knew it too. He saw it in the way your face softened after the words landed, like you had not meant them to bruise but were not taking them back either.

"You are," you said. "Complicated. So am I. So is everyone who works where we work and keeps showing up anyway." "That's not the same." "No," you agreed. "It isn't." The honesty of that did more damage than reassurance would have.

You did not pretend he was easy. You did not pretend there was no grief in him, no damage, no history that stood in rooms before he did. You did not smooth him down into someone more convenient. You did not make him harmless.

You just stayed. "You deserve someone who—" he began. "No." Jack stopped. Your voice had sharpened. Not loud. Not harsh. Just firm enough to cut through the sentence before he could use it against both of you.

"No?" "No," you said. "You don't get to do that." His brows drew together. You pushed yourself up a little, enough that your faces were no longer so close, though your hand still rested lightly on him.

"You don't get to decide what I deserve if the only reason you're doing it is because you're scared I might choose you anyway." Jack went utterly still. Outside, the wind dragged snow across the glass in a long hiss.

Your own face changed then, as if you had surprised yourself. But you did not look away. Brave, Jack thought suddenly. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just there, under the borrowed sleep shirt and the oversized sweatpants and the line from his shirt on your cheek.

Braver than him, maybe. Often. His throat worked. "That's not—" he started. You waited. He stopped. Because it was. Of course it was. The room was quiet. You sighed softly, not with impatience. With tiredness. With tenderness. With something that made him feel more exposed than anger would have.

"I'm not asking you for everything right now," you said. "I'm not asking you to have some perfect answer in a hotel room with no power after six hours of sleep and terrible conference food."

"Good," he said, because he was still himself. "That would be unreasonable." A smile broke over your face before you could stop it. Small. Affectionate. Devastating. "There he is."

His chest tightened again. You said it like you had been waiting for him under all the fear. Like the deflection was not all of him, but it was a familiar enough piece to love.

Love. No. Not going there. Not yet. Jack looked at your hand on his chest. Your fingers shifted as if you had only just realised you were still touching him. You began to pull away.

He caught your wrist. Gently. Not enough to hold you if you wanted to go. Just enough to make you pause. You looked at him. Jack stared at the place where his fingers circled your wrist.

Your pulse tapped against his thumb. Fast. Not fear, he thought. Or not only fear. His voice was low when he spoke. "I'm not good at this." Your face softened again. "I know."

That might have offended someone else. For Jack, it felt like relief. "I mean it," he said. "I know." "I'll make it harder than it needs to be." "Probably." His eyes flicked up.

You shrugged a little. "What? You will." A faint laugh moved through him before he could stop it. You smiled, and the whole room changed around it. "But I'm not exactly known for choosing the easy thing," you said.

"No?" "No." "That seems like a character flaw." "You would know." His thumb moved once, unconsciously, over the inside of your wrist. You looked down at the movement. So did he.

The banter faded. The air shifted again. Jack let go of your wrist. But slowly. Very slowly. Your hand did not retreat this time. It lowered to the blanket between you, close to his.

The space from last night returned. Almost. A language, you had made it into. A habit. Jack was tired of almost. That was the problem. He had been tired of it for a while.

He had just called it professionalism. Timing. Caution. Decency. Self-preservation. He had dressed fear up in enough adult words that it could pass through most rooms unchallenged.

But here, in the low morning light, with your hair mussed and your body still warm from his and your eyes not letting him disappear inside his own excuses, it looked exactly like what it was.

Fear. And wanting. Both. Your phone buzzed. Neither of you moved. It buzzed again. You closed your eyes. "Dana," Jack said. "Probably." "Persistent." "You respect that." "I do."

The phone buzzed a third time. You groaned softly and reached toward the nightstand, nearly overbalancing because the blankets were tangled around your legs. Jack's hand moved to your waist automatically, steadying you.

You froze. So did he. His palm was warm through the shirt. Your eyes met. The phone stopped buzzing. Neither of you said anything. His hand stayed where it was. You were close again.

Not accidentally this time. Not entirely. Jack could see the hesitation in your face. Not doubt. Not regret. Just awareness. The same line both of you had been walking for months, suddenly under your bare feet.

He should have let go. He did not. Your gaze dropped to his mouth. It was so quick he might have missed it if he had not been looking for some reason not to be the only one losing the fight.

His breath changed. You noticed. Of course you did. "Jack," you whispered. He had heard his name in every possible context. Shouted across trauma bays. Snapped in frustration. Called over noise. Written on charts. Spoken by patients, colleagues, strangers, people dying, people grieving, people angry enough to spit.

He had never heard it like that. Soft. Terrified. Wanting. It reached somewhere he had not fortified well enough. He lifted his hand from your waist slowly, giving you time to stop him. Giving himself time to stop.

Neither of you did. His fingers brushed your jaw. Barely. A question more than a touch. Your eyes fluttered, then held his. He leaned in. Not all the way. Just enough. Enough that your breath warmed his mouth. Enough that the whole room seemed to vanish except for the inch between you. Enough that if either of you moved, there would be no pretending this was about weather or beds or professional courtesy.

Your phone rang. Loudly. You both jerked back. The sound tore through the room with the violence of an overhead page. Your phone skittered slightly on the nightstand as it vibrated.

Dana's name lit the screen. For one second, you and Jack stared at it. Then Jack closed his eyes. You made a sound that was half laugh, half despair. "I'm going to kill her," you whispered.

"No, you're not." "I might." "You like her." "That's the only thing saving her." The phone kept ringing. You grabbed it, cheeks flushed, and answered with the tone of someone clinging to the last scraps of dignity.

"Dana." Jack lay back against the pillows and looked at the ceiling like it had personally wronged him. You avoided looking at him. Mostly. "What? Yes, I'm alive. No, the power's still out." You paused. "No, I'm not in the lobby."

Jack's eyes closed harder. You sat up a little straighter, dragging the blanket with you. "No, I found somewhere safe." Another pause. "Dana." Jack turned his head slightly.

Even in the dim light, you could see the amusement beginning to break through his exasperation. Your face warmed further. "Because I'm an adult and I don't have to give you my full lodging itinerary." You listened, then looked briefly skyward. "Yes, I ate. Yes, actual food. No, not just coffee."

Jack mouthed, barely. You glared at him. He looked almost pleased with himself. "I am ignoring that," you said into the phone, though you were not entirely sure whether you meant Dana or Jack. "How's the ED?"

The shift was instant. Jack saw it. Felt it, almost. The way your face changed. The softness tucked away. The clinical focus returning. Concern sharpening your posture even though you were sitting in his bed in his clothes with your hair a mess.

You listened for nearly a minute. The room changed with you. Jack watched quietly. "They got extra staff in?" you asked. "Good. Is Robby there? Of course he is." You smiled faintly. "Tell him Abbott hasn't caused an interstate incident yet."

Jack gave you a look. You ignored it. "No, don't tell him the rest." A beat. "There is no rest." Jack's eyebrows rose. You covered your eyes with one hand. "Dana." Your voice dropped. "I'm hanging up now."

Whatever Dana said made your mouth fall open. Jack could not hear it, but he could guess the flavour. You pointed at the phone like she could see you. "That is harassment."

A pause. "Love you too." You hung up. The room went quiet. You set the phone down very carefully. Jack waited. You did not look at him. "She knows," he said. You nodded once. "She knows something."

"What did she say?" "No." "That bad?" "She said…" You stopped, pressing your lips together. Jack watched your restraint with growing interest. "She said?" You turned to him, face hot. "She said if I'm with you, she hopes you're being less emotionally constipated than usual."

Jack blinked. Once. Then looked away. You waited. His shoulders moved. Just slightly. Then again. "Oh my God," you said. "Are you laughing?" "No." "You are." "I'm not." "You absolutely are."

He pressed his fingers to his brow. It was contained. Barely audible. But it was there — a low, reluctant laugh that seemed dragged out of him against his will. The sight of it did something catastrophic to you.

Jack Abbott laughing in a dark hotel room under a snowstorm because Dana had called him emotionally constipated. Your heart did not stand a chance. "It's not funny," he said.

"It's very funny." "She's insubordinate." "She's charge." "That explains the confidence." You laughed then too, and the room warmed a little around the sound. It helped. It saved you, maybe.

Or delayed the inevitable. Jack's laughter faded first, but not completely. There was still something loose around his mouth when he looked back at you. For a second, it was easy to imagine waking up like this again. Not in a hotel. Not because of a storm. Just morning. His voice. Your phone. Someone from work interrupting with unnecessary accuracy. Jack pretending to be annoyed while secretly pleased you had people who checked on you.

The thought must have shown on your face because his expression softened. Not much. Enough. "ED's okay?" he asked. You nodded. "Busy. Not catastrophic. Roads are bad, but night shift got stuck, day shift came in early, everyone's annoyed but functioning."

"Normal disaster mode." "Pretty much." "Good." "Robby told Dana to tell you that if you're bored, you can review the conference notes and send him bullet points." Jack's expression went dead flat.

You grinned. "He did not." "No." "Good." "He did say, apparently, that you should not pick fights with anyone from cardiology while stranded." "Cardiology keeps coming up."

"You have a reputation." "I have standards." "Same system?" "Same system." The quiet settled again, gentler this time. You were sitting up now, blanket around your shoulders, and Jack was still half-reclined beside you. The accidental closeness had been disrupted, but not erased. If anything, the interruption had made the unfinished thing between you brighter.

You both knew what had almost happened before the phone rang. Neither of you could unknow it. Jack looked at your phone, then at the dead lamp. "We should check flights."

"Probably." Neither of you moved. A beat passed. Then another. You turned your head toward him. "Jack." He looked at you. There was caution in his face again, but not the closed kind. More like a man standing at the edge of a room he had avoided for years, listening for whether it was safe to step inside.

You swallowed. "We don't have to pretend nothing almost happened." His jaw flexed. "No." "No, we don't?" "No," he said. "We don't." The answer was steady. Your pulse was not.

"Okay." "Okay." It would have been easier if one of you had looked away. Neither of you did. Jack's hand rested on the blanket near your knee. Yours rested beside it, fingers curled in the fabric.

Close. Almost. Again. This time, you moved. Only a little. Your fingers brushed his. Jack looked down. You waited. His hand turned beneath yours. Slowly. Palm up. An offering.

Not dramatic. Not polished. Not the kind of gesture that belonged in speeches or films. Just Jack, quiet and tired and scared enough to be careful, letting you decide if you wanted to take what he could give right now.

You slid your hand into his. His fingers closed around yours. Warm. Firm. Real. Something in your chest unknotted so abruptly it almost hurt. Jack kept looking at your joined hands like he was studying an X-ray for a fracture line.

Then he said, "This is a bad idea." You squeezed his hand once. "Probably." His eyes lifted. You smiled faintly. "You're not the only one allowed to make bad decisions." "That's not reassuring."

"It wasn't meant to be." "You could try." "I could." "You won't." "No." A faint almost-smile tugged at his mouth. The shape of it was so familiar now it made you ache. "What happens when we get home?" you asked.

There. The real question. Not the storm. Not the bed. Not the almost-kiss. Home. The Pitt. The ED. Dana's loud eyebrows. Robby's knowing looks. Long shifts. Short breaks. Professional distance. Charts and traumas and grief and the kind of fatigue that made honest things hard to hold.

Jack's fingers tightened around yours. Not much. Enough. "I don't know," he said. The answer should have disappointed you. It did not. Because he did not pull away. Because he did not say nothing.

Because Jack Abbott admitting uncertainty while holding your hand felt more intimate than any clean promise would have. You nodded. "Okay." "That enough?" "For this minute?"

His eyes stayed on yours. "Yes." You looked down at your joined hands. "For this minute, yeah." Jack let out a slow breath. Then, after a long moment, he said, "When we get home, I'd like to take you to dinner."

You looked up so fast you nearly hurt your neck. "What?" His face shifted, some of the vulnerability closing under dry irritation. "You heard me." "I did. I'm just checking for carbon monoxide."

"The power's out, not the ventilation." "Could be subtle." "It's not carbon monoxide." "It might be concussion. Did you hit your head?" "You're making this difficult." "I'm panicking."

"That's obvious." You laughed, breathless and ridiculous and on the edge of something much softer. Jack's eyes warmed. There. No hiding it this time. Not entirely. "Dinner," he repeated.

Your smile settled. "Like a date?" His thumb moved once against yours. "Yes." One word. No flourish. No professional courtesy. Just yes. Your heart went very quiet. Then very loud.

"When we get home," you said. "When we get home." "And not at the hospital cafeteria." His eyebrows lifted. "You have standards." "I do." "Good." "Somewhere with actual food."

"Fine." "And no orthopedic surgeons." "That may be harder to guarantee." You smiled. He did too. Barely. Perfectly. The room hummed suddenly. You both looked up. The heater clicked.

The lamp beside the bed flickered once, then turned on, flooding the room with warm yellow light. The power was back. For some reason, neither of you moved for several seconds.

The return of normal things felt rude. The lamp. The heater. The faint buzz from the mini fridge. The hotel room snapping back into itself as if it had not spent the night holding you both outside of ordinary life.

Then your phone began charging again and immediately buzzed with a flood of notifications. Jack looked at it. "You're popular." "I'm monitored." "Accurate." The heat began to push through the room slowly. The window stayed pale and snow-blurred, but the worst of the storm seemed to have softened. Somewhere beyond the walls, the hotel came alive again — pipes shifting, voices rising, the distant chime of an elevator finding power.

The spell should have broken. Maybe it did. Maybe that was why you noticed, suddenly, that you were still holding Jack's hand. Maybe that was why Jack noticed too. Neither of you let go.

Not immediately. Then, carefully, like he did not want you to mistake the movement for regret, Jack released your hand and reached for his phone. "Flights," he said. "Right."

"Need to know if we're stuck another day." "Imagine." His eyes flicked to yours. You held his gaze. The joke did not quite land as a joke. A flush climbed your neck. Jack looked back at his phone.

His mouth twitched. "Airport's delayed," he said after a moment. "Cancelled?" "Not yet." You checked your own phone. It took a second to load, then the airline app opened with the kind of cheerful incompetence only travel software could manage.

"My flight's still showing delayed." "Mine too." "So we might get home." "Might." You sat there with him, both of you looking down at your screens and pretending the ordinary task was enough to steady the room.

It helped. A little. Then a notification from Dana appeared at the top of your phone. DANA: If he asks you to dinner, say yes. If he doesn't, tell him I'm disappointed but not surprised.

You stared at it. Jack glanced sideways. "What?" "Nothing." "Dana again?" "No." "Liar." You turned the phone screen down against the blanket. "She's invasive." "She's usually right."

You looked at him. Jack's eyes were on his phone, but his expression had gone deliberately neutral. A smile crept across your face. "She is, actually." He looked up then.

The warmth between you changed shape. Not less. Just steadier. A little less accidental. A little more chosen. You tucked the blanket around yourself and leaned back against the headboard, suddenly aware of how tired you still were. The night had not been restful, exactly, even if it had been something close. Your body felt warm now in the returning heat, heavy with interrupted sleep and emotional whiplash.

Jack noticed. Of course. "Sleep another hour," he said. You blinked. "What?" "Flights aren't going anywhere yet. Checkout's delayed because of the outage. Sleep." "You too?"

"I'm awake." "That is not an answer." "It was adjacent to one." You gave him a look. He sighed. "Fine." "Fine?" "I'll sleep." "Good." "But if you steal the blanket—" "I will."

His mouth twitched. "You admit it?" "I contain multitudes." "Mostly theft." "Mostly survival." He set his phone down and reached to turn off the lamp. Then he paused. The room was warm-lit now, no longer hidden in emergency glow. Morning had made everything more visible. More real.

He looked at the bed. Then at you. The pillow wall was still at the bottom of the mattress, defeated and crumpled beyond repair. You followed his gaze. A laugh threatened, but your throat felt too tight for it.

"Do we rebuild the border?" you asked. Jack looked at the pillow. Then at you. "No," he said. Soft. Certain. Your breath caught. He did not touch you. He did not make it bigger than that.

He just turned off the lamp, easing the room back into dim morning, and settled under the covers beside you. Not as far away as before. Not pressed close either. Just there.

Close enough that if either of you shifted in sleep, you might find each other again. Close enough that pretending would require more effort than honesty. You lay on your side facing him.

Jack lay on his back, eyes on the ceiling. For a minute, neither of you spoke. Then you said, very softly, "Dinner when we get home." His eyes closed. "Yes." "Not professional courtesy."

His mouth moved. "No." You smiled into the quiet. Outside, the snow kept falling. Inside, under the returning heat and the tired morning hush, Jack reached beneath the blanket and found your hand again.

This time, neither of you called it an accident.

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

Bonk (Jack Abbot x Reader)

Summary: You don't remember hitting your head. You also don't remember marrying such a smokeshow.

AN: I found some old fluff/angst amnesia prompts and adapted one for some whimsy.

Content warning: Reader is gender neutral and absolutely soaring on painkillers, one mention of sex (regardless MINORS DNI)

Masterlist // AO3 Version // Gif Credit

The world entered through a wormhole of tissue paper, emerging through the darkness in blotches and fuzzy shapes. Yet you were able to feel the intensity of your hand being held.

Your head felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool, your doctor’s voice occasionally pushing through the forest of fluff to remind you that you had to keep sipping water. Accepting the straw that materialised in front of your face was easy enough. It led you back to the man sat at your side who was holding it – and your hand still in his other one – for you. You tried to squint at him whilst you drank to abate the overwhelm that came with looking at someone you were half sure was handsome, but catching and keeping the straw between your pursed lips took all your concentration.

“Woah there,” he dabbed a napkin – where did he get a napkin from? – around your mouth.

Ah, you were dribbling, not swallowing.

At some point, he’d placed the cup back on the table. You only realised when he squeezed your hand in both of his, his smile making you weak at the knees. Probably. Your legs felt like you hadn’t moved them in years. His face was in full focus now, and goddamn if it wasn’t the most beautiful one you’d seen.

“Hey.” The “y” was really drawn out by whoever was saying that. They sounded close by.

The stranger’s smile grew bigger, creating lines at his eyes that sweetened the deal, “Hi again.”

You took in the black sweater he was wearing, how cosy it looked around his arms and how you wanted to snuggle into them.

“’M I dreamin’?” said the voice. You looked to your right to catch who it was, but no one else was there, not even the doctor. Where’d she go? Where’d the chatterer go?

“You’re awake,” the stranger answered. He cocked his head to the left; you copied him.

“Cool.” Oh, it was your voice talking. “’Ve we met?”

He chuckled and you would be offended if he didn’t look so damn attractive doing it. The joy echoed clearly out of his throat; your eyes latched onto the dimples that framed his mirth like a painting.

“Yeah, we’ve met,” he confirmed. A corner of his mouth stayed upright in a smirk.

Eh, fuck it.

“Can I buy you a drink?” you slurred.

Your own tongue poked out of your mouth as you watched him wet his lips, his head and shoulders shaking before he replied, “How about I buy you one and you get the next round?”

He ended his proposal with a wink which sent you reeling like he’d spun the world and you on a plate.

“’Kay, charmer,” you smiled goofily at him. If you looked dumb, who cares? No you, you were getting propositioned by a hottie with a body – seriously how’d it taken you so long to notice his arms?

“Be right back.” He kissed your brow, still smiling down at you. Woah, this guy was forward!

In your anaesthetic haze, you went to playfully slap his chest, but he was already out his chair and the room. You would’ve scrunched your body up in on itself to keep the view of his behind in sight, except you were achy still and could barely lift your head off the pillow.

You were left staring at the popcorn tiled ceiling, brightly lit. Stupid interior choice for a flirting hot spot, you’d have to take this guy somewhere else.

“Just checking your-”

“Swee’ Jesus,” you winced in slow motion at the sudden voice.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” apologised the voice, now appearing at your side in the form of a nurse by an IV bag. Your gaze trailed down the tubing and frowned when it found a needle plastered to your hand, but you didn’t fight against it.

“What’s’is name?” you pointed vaguely in the direction he’d gone and pouted. How long did it take to get you a damn drink?

“Jack?”

“Ohhh, nooo,” your head lolled back and forth on the pillow, “Not supposed to date a ‘J’ name. ‘S cursed.”

Your nurse tapped the tautly full IV bag (that you were sure was nearly empty a second ago), “Bit late for that. He’s your husband.”

“M’husband?” You gawked, eyelids slipping halfway in shock as all other energy was directed on trying to remember what this man looked like on your wedding day. “I married that?”

The nurse smiled down at you, “Aren’t you lucky?”

“Y’see those biceps?” slipped out your mouth before the idea of being embarrassed could even be conjured from the recesses of your subconscious. “Could bounce a dime off that ass… ‘R a nickel.”

What would be harder to aim? You couldn’t remember their sizes or shapes, so calculating the prime aerodynamics would be tricky. Getting past the number seven of counting the ceiling tiles without getting bored was already threatening you with another round of sleep.

Thank God, the hot guy came back with two drinks in hand. Instantly, this room was better.

“Hey, handsome,” you cooed.

“Well,” he balanced the drinks on a moveable table, “Hello, gorgeous.”

Beaming at him, your head rolled back towards him and you demanded, “Gimme some sugar!”

Hopefully you were pouting. You were telling your lips to pout. If they were listening, that was another thing.

His arms – Christ, his arms were bulging out of that black t-shirt – bracketed you into the bed as he drew closer to you. Each freckle, speck of stubble, line across his skin brightened with clarity. You could happily stare at him for days. Why was he this close again?

Oh yeah, you’d requested a kiss from his pretty mouth.  

No sooner were his lips brushing yours, you collapsed into giggles as if he was tickling you five drinks deep, batting him with all the strength you had. He barely moved.

“Glad to see the meds are working their magic,” What’s-his-face barely moved to leave a prickly kiss on your cheek before he withdrew back to his seat.

A gasp escaped you as you covered where he’d left his affection. The laughter kept spilling out like water from your mouth though. Then your fingertip caught on something on your left hand. Before What’s-his-name could take your hand again, you lifted it in front of your eyes which widened five long seconds later.

“Oh shit! I’m married?” You gawked at the ring. How long had that been there?

“Yeah,” He showed his hand where a ring glinted teasingly at you, “We’re married.”

Jaw slack, you reached a shaky hand out and prodded his ring then yours.

“We’re married?” you said softly, eyes big and beaming.

“Yeah. Two years in a month.”

Before you could feel any embarrassment at forgetting your husband’s name again, you spotted your nurse passing the corridor.

You flinched at the volume you couldn’t control as you bellowed, “Will I be outta here in time to have anniversary sex?”

A low cackling echoed beside you and you frowned at your husband who was hiding his crimson blush in cupped hands. Evidently, your expression conveyed your concern at his lack thereof; he took your hand back in his and kissed your knuckles.

“I’ll take you home tonight if you behave,” he squeezed your fingers gently, “Get some rest?”

A short hum escaped you, suspicious yet complacent, as your pillow seemed to swallow you up. As your eyelids sank shut, you prayed you’d remember his name by the time you woke up – though “hot stuff” would work in the interim.

[pellucid-constellations]

Speaking In Plurals

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader

Summary: When Jack met you, his world shifted. He began to speak in plurals, in groups of three. It was him, and then it was you, and then it was Penny. He’d do anything for his girls, and he wanted to make that clear. Official. Concrete with titles and questions and the ring he kept mulling over. And then life happened. 

Word count: 5.1k

Warnings: Angst!, injury, inaccurate medical happenings, accident/crash

a/n: GIRL DAD JACK 🗣️ This was fun to write let me know if you'd like something without so much angst for this little family 😌 but you all voted angst in my last poll so this is the outcome. Heheheh anyways love you bye <3

More in this universe here :)

Masterlist

~~

Jack Abbot had stopped assuming children were in the cards for him. In another lifetime, another decade, he had considered the possibility—him as a father, his wife a mother. But life changed, time passed, and Jack Abbot had given up on that notion. Instead, he lived vicariously through his coworkers and told himself that he liked the freedom of a childfree life. He volunteered his time to dangerous proclivities in the name of the greater good and sat in the silent hum of his apartment.

And then he met you. 

And he met what came along with you. 

You had been dodgy about your daughter at first, sharing the information as if it were a combination of landmines and wincing as if he were already edging up from the table to run. It made sense that he didn’t know about her. He had met you in a coffee shop after a fourteen-hour shift and still thanked whatever higher power was responsible for the delirium-infused confidence that led him to you, but he didn’t know much. He just knew you were beautiful and you were in front of him and you stared up at him with eyes that made him blink faster, so he asked you out. 

You told him about her on the third date, and Jack couldn’t stand the way you flinched, so he held your hand across the table, rubbed his thumb along your knuckles, and said, “Whenever you’d let me, I’d love to meet her.” 

“Are you serious?” had tumbled out of your mouth directly after, and Jack couldn’t take that either, knowing that so many people had missed out on you and told you that that reaction was warranted. So he pressed your fingers to his lips and quirked his mouth into a smile despite his uncovered frustration. 

“Of course I’m serious. I’m always serious.” 

Jack Abbot fell in love with Penny almost as fast as he fell in love with you. Middle-of-the-night illnesses frequently tainted his exposure to children, so Jack had almost forgotten how energetic and full of life a four-year-old could be. Penny was shy, bashful in ways like her mother, but she was also intelligent and loved squids (you said it was a phase) and asked Jack questions about bones because you told her he was a doctor and she had just learned about bones in preschool. 

“Have you ever seen a bone?” 

“I’ve seen lots of bones,” Jack had whispered back to her, eyes flashing wide for emphasis. 

“That’s literally crazy,” Penny had gasped, looking over her shoulder at you as you paid for a snack at the farmer’s market stall. “My mommy says that if I ever see one of my bones, I need to tell her right away.” 

Jack knelt beside Penny on the grass. “Your mommy’s right. You want to see something cool? I don’t have a bone in my leg.” 

“What!” 

It hadn’t taken long for Penny to become accustomed to Jack’s presence. She asked about him when he wasn’t around. She joined calls when you checked in early during his shifts. She saved a book full of stickers to show him when he came over for dinner, which he did often. Said stickers also somehow appeared on his prosthetic, something your daughter still had a hard time believing to be real. 

And Jack hadn’t been expecting it, but he had begun to think of children again—thinking of his life in squid stickers and irrational questions and a weight on his lap as he sat on your couch and watched an animated dog teach him a life lesson. 

He had begun to enjoy getting out of work. He got to bring bagels to your place early in the morning and kiss you against your kitchen counters and fix Penny’s wild hair as she tumbled into the living room. His hobbies had changed; adrenaline was replaced with soccer games and sticky fingers and lying in bed with you right up until he had to throw his scrubs on. 

Everything had become simple in Jack’s life. There was work, there was you, and there was Penny. And in a few weeks, he would ask you to make his life even simpler. 

~~

A gratefully unfamiliar dread pulsed through Jack’s chest as he turned the corner of the Pitt and saw you. He took inventory instantly, cataloging the tone of your skin, each of your limbs, the small smile on your face as you spoke casually to Mateo. You were fine, you looked to be fine, but Jack still picked up the pace because you were in the emergency department, and you never came to visit without Penny. 

Jack’s eyes shot to your legs, and more panic filled him at the empty space.

“Hey,” Jack breathed, his mouth twitching into a smile that did not reach his searching eyes. He placed a hand on your cheek and tried not to furrow his brows. “You okay? Where’s Penny?” 

Your smile was much warmer. You gripped his wrist, and Jack felt the almost imperceptible way you leaned your face into his touch. “I’m fine, and Penny’s fine. I did late pickup so I could see you before we take the train upstate.”

Upstate. Upstate—right. Jack had primed his brain to work a double, so that often meant blocking the shifts with tasks. He was just about finished with the day shift, and your trip to see your family was a night shift event. Your train was leaving at 7:30 pm—an in-between-shift event, then.

“You coulda brought her by, too,” Jack quietly replied, brushing his thumb along your cheek as Mateo swiveled his stool to the other side of the nurse’s hub. Relief was slowly trickling through the shock of seeing you unannounced.

“Oh, I see. If I don’t bring Penny, I shouldn’t come at all?” you teased. 

Jack moved his hand down to fix your scarf, tucking it closer to your neck. “Didn’t say that,” he argued. “I just wanted to say goodbye to both my girls.” 

Your face heated furiously, an outcome Jack had been hoping for. He loved to get you flustered, and that was the quickest way to do it. Never failed. 

“We would’ve missed our train if I brought her.” You poked Jack’s chest. “You two always get into it, and then I have to drag her away because she gets too upset to leave you.” 

“Can’t help it. I’m just so much fun to be around.” 

“Yeah, well, you’ll have to be fun over FaceTime for the next few days, Dr. Abbot.”

Jack tsked, looking off to the side to tamp down his disappointment. You’d had this visit planned for a few months now, but it didn’t make watching you go any easier. He had wanted to go with you, eager to meet your family, but the Pitt needed an attending on doubles, and Jack was the only one available. You’d assured him several times that it was fine, and there would be more opportunities to come. He knew it was fine. What wasn’t fine was watching his family leave and feeling incomplete. 

He needed to ask you that question. 

“You sure you can’t wait until tomorrow so I can drive you up?” Jack tried. He moved his fixing touch to the zipper on your jacket, tugging it up to keep in the warmth. “No train that way.” 

You brushed his hand off and stepped closer, raising your brows. “Right. Have you drive that far after working a double? Just for you to drive back home, sleep for 45 minutes, and then work again? Not happening, Jack. The train is fine. We’re fine.” 

“You keep saying that,” he murmured under his breath. He placed his hands along your jaw, holding you again, even though he knew several eyes watched on. “Call me when you get on the train. And have Penny bring that spray hand sanitizer she made me spend ten dollars on. It’s flu season. And—” 

“Jack,” you gently interrupted. “I love you. So much. But when I say we’re fine, I mean it. And stop buying her everything she sees in Sephora. She doesn’t even need to be in Sephora. She’s five.” 

“I love you more,” was how Jack decided to respond. He tilted his head back and looked at you fully, his hands moving your face to one side and then the other. 

“Memorizing me?” you teased. 

“Something like that.” 

Continuing his shift was difficult. Jack had already felt the weight of the double being exacerbated by your departure, but then you FaceTimed him on the train, and the night got heavier. Penny held up her hand sanitizer with a mouthful of marshmallow muffling her words, and Jack just wished he could be sitting beside you on that stupid train. He’d paid more for the two of you to have a private compartment, and it was nice knowing you were cared for, but he had become the one taking care of you. 

He felt his back stiffen as the night went on. 

“You gotta loosen up, Dr. Abbot,” Mateo called out after five minutes of Jack scrolling through his camera roll. He’d stopped on a picture of you and Penny on the hood of his truck. “You knew they were leaving all day. We still got nine hours before you can go home and make scrapbooks.” 

Jack hooked his chin over his shoulder, placing his phone face down on the charting station. “Mind your business.” 

Mateo put his hands up in surrender. “They’re coming back in three days. You work all three of those days. It’ll be quick.” The younger man patted Jack’s shoulder. “Then maybe you can finally fish that ring out of your locker.” 

“What do you know about that, huh?” Jack accused, crossing his arms in a show of intimidation that didn’t match his almost-smile. 

“Nothing you didn’t just confirm,” Mateo quipped back. “I’ve babysat at her place enough times to catch a vibe.” 

“Catch a vibe?” 

“Yeah. It’s emanating from you.” 

Dr. Shen passed by the pair, settling into a stool and logging into the computer. “What’s emanating from him?” 

“My vibe, apparently,” Jack spoke to the ceiling. 

Mateo cut in, resting his arms on the counter. “That he’s gonna propose.” 

“I did not say that,” Jack shot back. 

“You don’t have to say anything if it’s a vibe,” Shen informed him, gaze focused on his notes. He took a casual sip of watered-down coffee. “Can you do it within the next three months, though? I want to win the pool to pay off my car.” 

Mateo let out a hiss, resting his head on his elbows. “Dude. He wasn’t supposed to know about the betting pool. Now he’s gonna be weird about it.” 

“He’s not going to—” 

“Okay, what?” Jack almost sighed, head jolting back. “There’s a betting pool? Since when?” 

“Since you started wearing that little bracelet with the sea creatures on it. It got bigger after y/n came by that one time with lunch and you practically ran down the hallway.” 

Jack stared at Shen as he recounted the betrayal happening under his nose. “Alright. Who’s in it?” 

“Who isn’t—”

 “Got incoming traumas. The T Line crashed. Unidentified number of casualties, but we’re getting at least a dozen wounded.” 

It took a moment for the humor to dissipate from Jack’s body. He heard the charge nurse’s calls to clear the trauma bays and could recognize the movement in the room. Mateo was staring at the side of Jack’s face and Shen had shot up from the charting computer to do… something, but Jack was swimming in a state of thick confusion.

He did some math in his head. 

It might not have been your train. You FaceTimed him thirty minutes ago, and the train hadn’t left yet. You were just sitting with Penny. You had said there was a small delay, but you both were settled into the “stupidly-priced private seats,” and Penny was eager to watch Bluey during the wait. You were wearing an old college sweater he’d left at your apartment. 

But that was thirty minutes ago. 

It could have been your train. 

“Dr. Abbot?” Mateo’s call was a jumbled haze. “Dr. Abbot, what can I—” 

“My girls are on the train,” Jack muttered to himself. 

“What?”

“My girls are on the train,” he said again, clearer this time. His gaze shot to the board as if he’d see your name, a pinpoint focus washing over him. If he were calm enough, nothing could happen.

Mateo said something else, maybe a reassurance or a passing encouragement, but Jack couldn’t register it. He took his shaking hands and donned the PPE needed for a disaster of this magnitude, drowning out the orders ringing through the ED. Shen had taken over as head, and Jack couldn’t remember if he’d told him to do that. He probably hadn’t. 

The first patient wasn’t you. Neither was the second. Or the third. At some point near the beginning, Jack had texted you—a quick text, asking if you were okay, even though that was a ridiculous question. But if you weren’t a patient, and if you didn’t answer him, then the unidentified number of casualties Lena announced was a harrowing reality. 

But it couldn’t be you. 

Jack was doing everything right. He was calm and working doubles and he had paid for you to have better seats. Penny wouldn’t get the flu and he was going to have the lattice on your balcony fixed before you got home. 

You couldn’t be an unidentified casualty. 

“Hey, you good?” Dr. Ellis barked at Jack as he blinked hard in a trauma bay. The man lying in the bed had his arm in the wrong direction, bruises already covering the left side of his body. 

Every moment he wasn’t checking the incoming patients was a moment he couldn’t be sure of you. A moment Penny could be wheeled by. 

Jack cleared his throat harshly. “I’m good. Roll him on three.” 

You weren’t the fourth patient he saw, either. 

But you were the fifth. 

He had prepared himself for it, but nothing would have been enough, he soon realized. No amount of grounding or breathing exercises or visualization would have made it easier. Your eyes were open, but they couldn’t focus on him, not even as he stuttered out a breath and shot to the side of the gurney, his feet quick beside you. 

He said your name, repeated it, but your eyes kept flashing past the overhead lights. An EMT was shouting out your vitals and Jack heard them, but his waterline was burning and the collar of your sweatshirt was rimmed red with blood. His sweatshirt. He’d left it at your place a few days ago. 

Crush injury. Fully conscious but lacks verbal response. Jane Doe—you weren’t Jane Doe. You were his. 

As they landed you in trauma one, Jack began to assess. He ignored that his hands had begun to shake again. “I need you to hear me, baby,” Jack called as he moved meticulously through his assessment. “I just need to know that you can. Can you do that for me? Let me know if you can hear me?” 

A nurse was untangling an ultrasound machine as Jack moved to palpate your abdomen. You flinched. He felt himself unravel. 

“I needed that yesterday!” he shouted, ripping the machine from the older woman’s hands. It wasn’t her fault. Jack would apologize later if he could ever form words again. “Why isn’t anyone giving me info?” 

Dr. Ellis entered the trauma bay, confusion laced with apprehension at the sound of Jack’s anger. All the confusion was wiped clear when she saw who was on the bed. When she saw the blood sticking to the cracks in Jack’s hands and the sheen of sweat on his forehead. 

“You need me to take this?” Dr. Ellis asked, but it was hardly a question. She was direct when she needed to be, even towards an attending, but Jack was not in the mind to be overpowered by reason and level-headedness. 

“No,” he simply replied, eyes glued to the grainy screen of the ultrasound. 

“Are you sure you should—” 

“Free fluid in the abdomen. I need—” 

Jack stopped cold when a sound escaped you. It was breathy, barely even there to make out, but he felt his gaze drop to your face before his mind could even register it. Someone took the Doppler from his hands and the room erupted in movement and calls and beeps from machines, but Jack had his hands on your face as he had just a few hours ago, begging your eyes to focus on him. 

“What was that?” he breathed back, eyes racing over every inch of your face. He cataloged four bruises before you finally found his eyes. “There you are. There’s my girl. You’re doing so good, and we got you, okay?” 

“P-Penny,” you uttered. Your hand twitched up to grasp Jack’s arm, and he silently thanked god that you could move it. “Penny.” 

Jack had been thinking about Penny since you entered the Pitt. He had hoped, in some unreasonable way, that she would be with you. That you both would be fine, maybe with minor injuries, and he would sweep you away into the break room while he managed the crisis. But you were the crisis, and Penny wasn’t here. He had no idea where she was. 

“I know, baby. I know. I’m gonna find Penny. She’ll be just fine. Both my girls will, okay? Promise. Promise on everything.” 

He was speaking so low, his hand on the top of your head and his face close. He felt the dread pool in his gut at the lies he was telling. Jack had no way of finding Penny. He couldn’t leave you and search the wreck for a little girl. They probably wouldn’t let him past the police tape. 

“F-find. Her. Jack, please,” you pleaded. Your nails dug into his arm and Jack had to move his jaw to stop from crying. Your face was becoming pallid and someone was calling surgery. 

“I’ll find her,” he smiled. A sad smile. A waning one. “You don’t worry about a thing. I’ll find her and bring her right to you.” 

“Jack.” 

It was Robby’s voice that tore Jack’s face from yours. He had to have ridden fast to get there. His hair was swept back and he still had his jacket on and Robby was supposed to be out on vacation for another few days, but he was there. He was there, and he shook his head when Jack turned to find him. 

“Let them take her. You gotta back up.” 

They must have been asking for a while. Jack hadn’t registered a single request for him to move; he had been too caught up in tracking each minuscule twitch of your face—in remembering you before life changed, because it still felt the same, just more urgent, more scary. If he stopped looking at you, if you were taken away, there was the chance that you wouldn’t come back. That he would look up and find that Penny was gone. 

He hadn’t been ready for the after. 

Robby forced it, anyway. 

Jack felt like he was going to throw up as they wheeled you away, Dr. Walsh sending worried looks to each person in the trauma bay who wouldn’t meet her eye. Your blood was on the floor in free-flowing streaks that Jack couldn’t look away from, and he felt like he was going to throw up. The bay felt stagnant. The walls moved when he did not. His back hit a hard surface, and Jack let it hold him as he sank to the floor. 

He went to press his face in his hands, but stopped when he saw your blood filling the lines in his palms. 

He hadn’t told you he loved you. He let them take you, and he hadn’t reminded you. 

Robby crouched in front of Jack, hands flexing between his knees. “She’s gonna be okay.” 

Jack felt his head roll against the wall as his jaw trembled. “What’re you doing here?” he croaked out. 

“Mateo called me. Said your girl was in the crash. I was already home, so I came as fast as I could.” Robby paused, scratching his jaw. “Is Penny—” 

“I don’t know where Penny is.” 

“Okay. Okay, we wait then. We wait and see, and we fix what we can—” 

“I can’t just fucking wait, Robby,” Jack finally sobbed, the adrenaline from keeping you awake and talking wearing off in a hard crash. “I can’t wait to hear that she didn’t make it. Or that y/n doesn’t get out of that surgery. I can’t—I have to do something, and there’s nothing—there’s nothing I can do.” 

Jack's hands were raised in a helpless motion, his eyes fixed on the back wall of the trauma bay. He couldn’t see much through the tears, couldn’t feel much past the all-consuming fear, but he would try for you. For Penny. If the two of you were gone, he wasn’t sure if he could. 

“They’re all I got,” Jack nodded to himself, hands hanging over his tented knees. “And if I have to walk out there into a world where I’m alone again?” Jack pointed towards the door, finally meeting Robby’s pinched expression. “Not sure what I’d be doing it for.” 

“Don’t say that,” Robby cut through. “You don’t know that they won’t make it. You don’t. Stop giving up before you have to.”

“I don’t even know where my little girl is.” 

“So we find out. But we can’t do that from in here. We can’t do that when you’ve given up already.” 

So, Robby hauled Jack up from the floor of trauma one, and Jack followed him to the nurse’s hub. He washed his hands, he cracked his neck, and he let the central heating dry the stickiness of his tears as he stared up at the news reports of the crash. He wouldn’t be able to work; that was why Robby came in, but he could make calls. Jack knew people who knew people, and those people were in law enforcement. Those people would know more than he did. 

Jack was glued to the red phone in the Pitt for fifteen minutes, asking about a little girl that no one could find. Lena had sent him a concerned look one too many times and had yet to scold him for using the emergency line, but Jack hardly noticed. Robby was popping in and out of rooms in the role he was supposed to fill, but Jack hardly noticed. 

“Sorry, Abbot. Haven’t gotten the list yet. I’ll send you the info as soon as I get it.” 

Jack squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the growing ache above his nose. He shot out a quick thank you that didn’t sound genuine, and jumped out of his skin when a hand met his shoulder. 

“Anything I can do?” Lena asked. 

Jack only shook his head and went through his contact list in his head once more. It was all looking bleak. Jack’s world was looking bleak. And then the ambulance bay doors burst open, a bed being shoved down the hall, and Jack dropped the phone onto the counter. And then he was sprinting.

“Straggler from the crash. Says she’s five and asking for her mom, but mom couldn’t be found on scene. No obvious signs of trauma other than some cuts and bruises, but—” 

“Oh, fuck. Penny,” Jack gasped out, reaching for her on the bed that was far too big.

To her credit, it was only then that Penny started crying. She had been strong-faced when she got in, fear a shadow on her innocent face, but the moment she saw Jack, that was gone. Penny threw her arms around Jack’s neck and let out a wail he hoped never to hear again. She was trembling against him, retelling events no one could make out, and Jack pressed his nose to her temple as he rocked her where he stood. 

“I know, baby,” he shushed, words so similar to the ones he had spoken to you. “But you were so brave, you hear me? So brave. Your mom’s gonna be so proud of you.” 

Through hiccuping breaths, Penny asked, “Where is mommy?” 

Jack’s chest caved. “She’s getting fixed up upstairs. Mommy got hurt, but they’re fixing it.” 

“I didn’t get hurt because mommy was holding me.” 

“What was that, baby?” Jack asked, tucking Penny’s hair back from her face as he continued to sway. 

Penny looked up at him with big, watery eyes. “When the train started making noises, mommy grabbed me and held me really tight. I didn’t get hurt, but she did.” 

And of course you did. Of course that was why Penny was safe in his arms, and you were fighting for your life upstairs. Jack couldn’t imagine a world where that wasn’t the outcome. You would do anything for her. You were always going to do anything for her. 

Jack looked for you in Penny’s face as he offered the best smile he could muster. “She’s gonna be alright. She was protecting you, Penny. Mommy always protects you.” 

“Like how she used to check for monsters?” 

“Just like that. But I check for the monsters now. Safer that way.” 

“I wish you were with us on the train,” Penny choked out, clutching Jack’s scrubs in her tiny fists. “To make mommy safe, too.” 

Jack’s chest hurt. He pressed his forehead back to Penny’s temple, collected himself with a tight scrunch of his eyes, and grounded. “C’mon, sweetheart. I gotta check you over, okay? Make sure nothing’s wrong.” 

Jack cared for Penny in the same meticulous way he did you. He cleaned her scrapes and assessed her bruises, relishing the small giggle she let out when he prodded around to make sure nothing was happening internally. He felt the weight of the day in a lopsided, confusing uneasiness, one part of his life complete, the other in the balance. He would start to think of you, start to feel the dread, but then Penny would lay her head on his chest as he held her in the break room, and he had to snap back. 

You would want your daughter to feel safe. 

He needed to be a safe place. 

So Jack held Penny, bumping his knee to help her sleep, and he considered what he would have done a year ago. If he had been inundated with a tragedy, he would have thrown himself into work as a distraction. He would have thrown caution to the wind and taken case after case until his leg ached too much to continue. They would have had to tell him to stop, forced him to go home, and Jack would have done so only when he knew he would fall dead asleep the second he hit the mattress. 

Because that was what his life used to be. 

Today, no one had had to beg Jack to slow down. No one pulled him from patient rooms and gave him a stern talking to. They had called Robby as soon as they knew you were involved. They had expected him to slow down for you—for his family. 

Jack pressed a kiss to Penny’s head and enjoyed the difference. 

It was another hour before any news of you came. Penny had finally dozed off, and Jack’s left arm was dead from the weight of her head, but he was alert when Dr. Shen poked into the dim room and smiled softly. 

“She’s out. Asleep, but in recovery. They said she can have visitors, but I don’t know if—” 

Jack gazed down at Penny, still knocked out on top of him. “Can you get Mateo?” 

The pass-off was seamless, Jack running a hand over Penny’s head as Mateo nodded to the older man and promised to take care of things. It would be better for her to wake up with someone she knew, and Jack wasn’t going to leave her with anyone he didn’t trust. He trusted the entire staff, but Mateo was different. Mateo loved Penny. 

Jack cleared his mind on the elevator ride up, and then cleared it again as he walked through the maze of the ICU to find your room. He would bring Penny up when you were more stable, when he had a better idea of the state you were in. You hadn’t looked scary, but you were her mom. You were her mom, and Jack was—

“Jack?” 

He hadn’t been expecting your voice; Jack felt the breath knock from his lungs at the sound of it. His tears were fresh as he rounded your bed, checking vitals in a quick sweep before putting his hands anywhere they could reach. Your eyes were hazy as he leaned over you, but you had said his name, and something in him righted. 

“Hey,” he practically cooed, brushing your hair back as his eyes traced the shape of your face. “Didn’t think you’d be awake.” 

“Penny—” 

“Penny’s okay. She’s not hurt, sweetheart. Mateo’s got her.” 

Jack wasn’t sure he’d ever spoken so low before, so soft amidst beeping machines and the footsteps of nurses in the hall. You let out a breath, and your lashes fluttered shut, and it was clear to Jack that you shouldn’t be awake. That you had fought through exhaustion just to make sure your daughter was okay. 

Pride swelled in his chest, the first emotion to override the fear. “I’m so damn proud of you,” he softly stated. He fixed the blanket around your shoulders and felt his mouth twitch. “Protecting our girl like that. Making it through.” 

In response, Jack saw your own lips form a tired smile, hoarse voice asking, “Our girl?” 

“Yeah, our girl.” Jack kissed your forehead, then your cheek, and then checked the vitals again. “I’ll make it official soon,” he said, almost under his breath. 

“What—does that mean?” 

You were losing the fight to sleep, relief palpable in the room and lulling you off. Jack swung a chair by your bed, clicked his phone ringer on low for any texts about Penny, and waited for you to sleep. Waited to be there when you woke up. 

“You’ll see,” he affirmed, ignoring the wetness still on his cheeks. “I love you. Sleep. I got you.”

More in this universe here :)

[pellucid-constellations]

Permissions

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader

Summary: Jack overhears your daughter calling him dad, and his world seems to widen, to make sense. But there are always some bumps in the road when starting a new family, reassurances to be made.

Word count: 2k

Warnings: Girl dad!Jack fluff mostly, a tinge of angst and hurt/comfort, adjusting to new family dynamics

a/n: More girl dad weeee!! This is a sequel/part of the universe for this fic :) I know I posted it literally yesterday but I'm obsessed rn so you get another fic super fast 🏃‍♀️ Enjoyyy thank you for reading 🩷

Masterlist

~~

Jack tucked his keys into his pocket as the school bell rang, remembering the room number by heart. Your request to pick Penny up from school had been cloaked in several apologies and promises to make it up to him, but Jack had hardly considered it a favor. He had a day off, and he loved feeling part of the groove of your life. 

Groups of kids with oversized backpacks tripped over each other as they tried to form lines, some with lunch boxes falling at their feet, others gently swaying and ready to go home. Jack expected Penny to be the latter; she was so like you in that way—always prepared, always listening. She was perfect, if Jack had to offer his professional opinion, but he considered that he might be biased. 

When he found room four, his assumptions were confirmed. Penny was in line with the rest of her kindergarten class, speaking animatedly with a boy beside her while firmly rooted on the numbers painted on the floor. She was excited, but Jack could tell she was putting considerable effort into staying right where she was supposed to be. He had to fight the smile that crept up on his face. 

“Your daddy’s a manager?” Penny asked, tugging on the straps of her backpack. “Wow! What does that mean?” 

The boy next to her raised a brow. “I don’t know. I think he tells people what to do. He has a computer.” 

“What does he tell them to do?” 

“Work more! He always says everyone is a lazy piece of—” 

The teacher in the hall clapped her hands, drawing the class's attention. “Let’s make sure we are using kind words while we wait to go home.” 

A long drone of “Yes, Miss Cindy” reset each conversation in the line, but Penny clearly wasn’t done. Jack took a few steps closer and nodded at Miss Cindy in greeting, content to wait until Penny turned and noticed the surprise. You hadn’t told her Jack was picking her up, and Jack loved how Penny got when she was surprised. 

“Well, want to know what my daddy does?” Penny posed, bouncing up on her toes. 

Jack paused. 

You never talked about Penny’s birth father. You’d offered a simple explanation the first time Jack skirted around the topic: he was there for the birth, and then he never was again. You never tried to fight for child support, not wanting to drag Penny through messy custody battles or inconsistent relationships. Penny knew she had a dad, just like everyone had a dad, but you tried hard to make that hole feel small. Jack thought you did a damn good job. 

And he hoped he played a role in that, as well. 

Jack held his breath as the boy nodded excitedly, and then he felt like he was free-falling as she answered. “He’s a doctor for emergencies! He works when everyone is asleep so he can help people during the nighttime.” 

“But how are there emergencies if everyone is asleep?”

Penny puckered her lips as she thought. “I don’t know. I guess if they wake up, maybe.” 

Jack tried and failed to settle the grin that had taken over his face. Penny had never called him anything but Jack. He hadn’t wanted to ask you for more when it came to your daughter, and he wanted Penny to be comfortable, but Jack felt like Penny’s dad. Penny was his girl. You’d been engaged for a few months, and he couldn’t ask for more than he had, even if he only had the feeling, not the title. He couldn’t be greedy. 

Hearing Penny call him dad made Jack feel greedy. 

He leaned over behind Penny and tugged on her sleeve, raising his brows as she spun and let out a gasp. It was only a tick of a second before she launched herself at him, exclaiming a loud “Jack!” that now held a different meaning for him. He wondered how many times she’d talked about him and called him something different. 

Jack grunted as he lifted her to his hip, trying to find her eyes with her arms clutched tight around his neck. “Hey, Penny girl. Is it alright if I take you home today?” 

Penny squealed and nodded against him, but then became serious as she leaned up. “Does mommy know? She told me to never go home with strangers.” 

Jack raised a brow, both of his girls overcautious and full of rules, as always. “Am I a stranger now?” 

Penny threw her head back in a giggle. “No! But no one else has ever picked me up from school before.” 

“First time for everything. It’s exciting. We can get something up for mommy on the way home.” 

“Like flowers?” 

“How’d you know?” 

“You always get mommy flowers.” 

“You want some too?

Penny blew a raspberry as they finally made it to his truck. “What am I gonna do with flowers? They just sit there. That’s so silly, Jack.” 

“How about a toy, then?” Jack offered, tapping Penny’s nose after buckling her in. He rested a hand on the door and shifted the car seat around to make sure it was locked in place. You were rubbing off on him, clearly. “What do you think?” 

Penny tapped her chin. “I’ll consider it.” 

~~

When you finally got home that night, looking frazzled and far too apologetic for Jack’s liking, Jack had a towel on his shoulder and a pot simmering on the stove. He’d stayed at your place despite you insisting that the neighbor could watch her for an hour, so he figured starting dinner was the next course of action. 

You hadn’t moved in together just yet. For Penny’s sake. 

You sighed when you spotted him, putting your bags down with a defeated sound. “You really didn’t have to stay,” you almost whined. Jack was already on you, hands on your hips and gaze locked on the furrow of your brow. “The lady next door loves Penny. She could have watched her.” 

“Yeah? Well, what if I love Penny?” Jack countered, pressing his lips to yours. He saw another argument brewing, so he squeezed your cheeks and kissed you again. “Seriously. I’m gonna be the one picking her up on my days off soon. Let me practice.” 

You shook your head. “You do not have to do that. You work all the time, Jack. I wouldn’t make you take care of Penny when you finally have time to rest.” 

“Make me take care of her?” 

“Yeah. You have enough on your plate and—”

“Hey,” Jack softly called, tugging you in closer. “When I asked you to marry me, I meant that I wanted both of you. You aren’t making me take care of her. I want to.” 

You looked up at him, hands resting on his chest, and Jack saw the conflict raging in you, the fear that this would be too much. You didn’t talk about Penny’s birth father, but Jack could pick apart the damage that was done by him. He could see it in every anxiety-fueled phone call about Penny and in all the things you tried to take on alone. You wouldn’t accept help, not fully, but Jack was ready to fight you on that. For the rest of his life, if he needed to. 

“Was she okay for you?” you asked, because Jack was pretty sure you knew he would fight you on that. 

“She was perfect,” he answered, his hands holding your head steady as he leaned down to look at you. “Like her mom.” 

You scoffed out a laugh. “Don’t try too hard, Dr. Abbot. The ladies like mystery.” 

“Yeah? Well ignore the flowers in the kitchen then. I want to be mysterious about them.” 

Your smile was soft and vulnerable as you leaned up to kiss him, and Jack backed away only because the noodles in the pot were going to stick together if he didn’t stir them, and Penny was entering a picky eating phase. He could handle a picky eating phase, along with everything that came after. 

And later in the night, when Penny fell asleep over Jack’s legs and Mulan played softly in the background, he thought to bring it up. Casually. More as a curious pondering than a request, because he didn’t want to ask for too much. You played with Penny’s hair as the Huns fought to invade China, and Jack threw his thoughts into the air. 

“Does Penny—” he paused. You lifted your head from his shoulder, and Jack caught your engagement ring glinting under the dim living room light. “Does she ever… call me anything when I’m not around? To other people?” 

You became still, gaze falling to Jack’s chest. “I’ve talked to her about that. I didn’t want you to feel like you had to… be anything you didn’t want to be. Like if you wanted things to be more separated. But sometimes—you know, she’s just a kid—so sometimes—” 

Jack gently shushed you, taking your hand in his because that was the closest thing he could read. “What’d I say earlier, huh? I was asking because I don’t want things to be separated. And she always just calls me Jack, so I was wondering—” 

“She calls you dad all the time,” you revealed, looking down at Penny’s face smushed against Jack’s thigh. “To her friends, her teachers, a random guy in the grocery store.” 

Jack huffed out a breathy laugh. “Seriously?” 

“Yeah. She loves talking about you.” You looked back up at him. “Are you okay with her calling you that?” 

And for some reason—Jack would blame it on the sentimental music in the movie—tears welled in his eyes at the question. At the gentle way you looked at him. Jack cleared his throat of the sticky emotion and nodded, his brow twitching. 

“Yeah,” he almost whispered, voice sounding hoarse. “Yeah, if she wants to.” 

“I think she was waiting for permission. To make sure it was okay.” 

“You two and your rule following,” Jack gruffed, tugging you closer and kissing your temple to hide his misty eyes. 

Jack had a talk with Penny a few days later, after she slipped up and the echo of the word dad bounced around in Jack’s truck. He’d had to pull over to ease the tension that wound up Penny’s expression, sitting her on the tailgate in some gas station parking lot as you stayed in the passenger seat. 

Jack watched as Penny wound her small fingers into a knot on her lap, and he covered them with one of his hands, tipping her chin up with the other. 

“I’m not mad at you,” Jack assured, paying attention to each grimace she tried to hide.

“But I’m really sorry,” Penny edged out. “Because I know my daddy isn’t here anymore, and my mommy says that’s okay, and that you are kind of like a daddy but that sometimes people—” 

“Penny girl,” Jack softly interrupted. “It’s okay, alright? You know how your mom and I are getting married?” 

Penny nodded. 

“Well that means that we’re family. You, me, and your mom. All of us. And I know your daddy isn’t around, and I know you’re too smart for your own good, but sometimes mommys and daddys can be new people.” 

“I was gonna say that next,” Penny mumbled.

“I know you were.” Jack smiled in the empty parking lot and brought Penny’s gaze back up to him. “I love you, kid. You can call me anything you want. And before you ask, yes, your mom is okay with it. I asked her myself.” 

“You asked mommy if it was okay to be my daddy?” 

“Of course I did. Gotta make sure I check all the boxes with you two.” 

Penny seemed to think about it, the tension leaving her and being replaced by contemplation that didn’t quite fit her five-year-old expressions. But the title was already there, Jack was already her dad, it just took a second to stick. 

[mpregeminem]

Normal notification to get at 2am

why is your tumblr popup coughing up my name on its last breath

[oldmanpusspuss]

mpreg... mpreg... hard nipples and everything

[shadeofpeach]

Our amazing girl

Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x mom!reader x daughter Warnings: +18 angst, hurt, comfort, crying, early signs of autism, emotional breakdowns, posdiagnosis anxiety, fluff ending. Summary: When signals of the unknown gives way to a life changing diagnosis for their three years old daughter, you, a terrified mother, crumble under the weight of the future. And Jack is right there in the dark with you, determined to prove that a diagnosis doesn't change who your perfect little girl is. Based on this request 🎀 A/N I've done some research on the topic, but please tell me if I've written anything wrong!

You sat on the living room rug, surrounded by a colorful scattering of wooden blocks.

A few feet away sat your three years old daughter, Maya.

She was meticulously lining the blocks up by color: red, then blue, then yellow. Over and over again with an intense focus.

Jack walked into the room, two mugs of tea in hand. He set one near you and sank onto the couch, his eyes immediately drawing to Maya.

He watched her for a long moment, a crease forming between his brows. He had a... feeling, when he saw how her daughter was playing with the blocks.

"Hey, sweetheart," Jack murmured gently, leaning forward. "Do you want some of Daddy's tea?"

Maya didn't look up. Her fingers just adjusted a green block so its edges perfectly aligned with the red one before it.

"New game with the blocks?" he asked you.

You looked up at Jack, offering a tired smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. "She’s been doing that for an hour. That green one seems to make her nervous. I tried to join her earlier, but if I move one, she gets... inconsolable."

"Maya?" Jack gently called her name again. "Do you need help with the green block, babygirl?"

Nothing.

It was as if a wall separated her from the rest of the room.

"Maybe she’s just focused," you said, though the words felt like you were trying to convince yourself. "Kids get hyper focused sometimes, right? She’s just independent."

"Yeah," Jack said softly, but the medical part of him was quietly cataloging everything. "Maybe."

You swallowed hard when a moment of yesterdays afternoon flashed your mind. "She screamed yesterday. When we greeted our neighbor at the front door, his dog started barking at a bird. She covered her ears screaming and ran inside. I thought she was just startled. But I found her on the kitchen floor covering her ears, even though I couldn't hear the dog from here anymore."

A heavy silence settled between you. As a doctor, Jack was used to having answers, to diagnosing and fixing. But when it came to his own daughter, that instinct felt distant, and he only witnessed paternal anxiety.

Suddenly, the microwave in the kitchen began to beep, signaling that whatever was being heated was ready. It wasn't loud, but the deep chime echoed in the silence of the night.

Maya froze. Her posture went rigid, and her hands flew to her ears, pressing down hard. A whine pitched from her throat, her eyes fixed on the floor, completely overwhelmed by a sound she heard every single day.

"Oh, baby, it's okay, it's just the microwave," you whispered, moving instantly to her side. You went to scoop her into a hug, but the moment your arms wrapped around her, she stiffened even more, crying out and pushing against your chest, desperately trying to wriggle free.

Your heart sank.

It hurted that your comfort was seemingly making it worse.

"Hold on," Jack said and moved to the kitchen to turn the sound off.

When the sound faded, Maya let her hands drop from her ears, her breathing catching in little hiccups. She reached back out for her blocks, her fingers trembling slightly as she re-aligned a red one, one that Jack had accidentally kicked when he went into the kitchen.

Then, she reached out for you, instantly croudling to your lap while hiccupping.

"I've got you, sweet girl." You stood up with your little girl in your arms and sank on the couch. Jack came back and sit beside you. He wrapped an arm around you and pulled you and Maya against his side.

"I don't know how to help her when she gets like that," you confessed in a whisper. "I feel like I'm doing everything wrong. Why does she push us away?"

Jack kissed the top of your head, his grip tightening protectively around the two of you. He kept his eyes on Maya, his mind spinning with questions he didn't know how to answer yet. He knew medicine, he knew emergencies, but this was unchartered territory.

"You're not doing anything wrong," Jack promised. "We're going to figure this out. I don't know exactly what's going on in her little head right now. But we're going to find out. I'll call her pediatrician first thing in the morning, and we'll get some guidance."

He looked at you. "Whatever it is, we're a team. You, me, and Maya."

You nodded, taking comfort in his certainty, looking down at Maya, who was now entirely calm sleeping against your chest.

--------

The pediatrician’s office was quiet. You and Jack sat side by side, while Maya sat on the linoleum floor between your feet. She had found a plastic toy car in the waiting room and, instead of rolling it across the floor, she had turned it upside down and was using her thumb to spin the front left wheel over and over, completely mesmerized by the rotation.

Dr. Evans sighed gently, closing the thick folder in her hands. She looked up, her expression a mix of profound empathy and clinical clarity.

"Based on the developmental milestones we’ve reviewed, the sensory sensitivities you've described, and the observational assessments we just ran," Dr. Evans said calmly. "Maya is showing clear signs of Autism Spectrum Disorder."

The word hung in the air. Autism.

It was a word you'd both been thinking about for the past few weeks; somehow, deep down, you suspected the signs. Although the uncertainty had kept them up at night. Hearing it from a professional was like the world was suddenly collapsing around you.

You instinctively reached out, your fingers wrapping tightly around Jack’s hand. His grip was already there, waiting, holding onto you.

Jack sat entirely still. The clinical definitions in his head felt entirely useless against the wave of fear rising in his chest.

"Autism," Jack repeated. His brain was trying to force the word to make sense in the context of his three year old daughter. "So... the way she plays, the sensitivity to sounds... that's all part of it?"

"Yes, Jack," Dr. Evans replied gently with a nod. "Her brain simply processes sensory information and communication differently than a neurotypical child. She has her ways of comfort in a world that probably feels incredibly overwhelming and loud to her."

You looked down at Maya. She was still spinning the tiny plastic wheel, her face completely peaceful. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes, blurring her small form. "Did... did I do something during the pregnancy? Or did we miss something early on? I should have noticed sooner..."

Dr. Evans smiled warmly, trying to comfort you. "No, darling. This is genetic, neurological. It is nobody’s fault. And you didn't miss it, she’s only three. Catching this now means we are right on time for early intervention, which makes a world of difference."

You swallowed the lump in your throat, nodding weakly, letting Jack wipe a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb. Looking at the doctor, you asked, "What does this mean for her? Is she going to be okay? Will she have trouble... talk to us, or tell us what she need? How she's feeling? What about school? Socializing?"

"Every autistic child is entirely unique," Dr. Evans explained, leaning forward. "We can't predict her exact trajectory, but Maya is incredibly bright. She just communicates on a different frequency. Our goal now isn't to fix her or change who she is, but to give her the tools to navigate our world, and to give you the tools to understand theirs."

She handed Jack a packet of information: brochures for speech therapy, occupational therapy for sensory processing, and local support networks.

Jack took the papers. This was going to be a lifelong journey of learning, adapting, and patience. It was terrifying, but as he looked down at the paperwork, a strange sense of grounding replaced the initial shock.

They finally had a name for it. They had a map.

"Maybe we could start with the occupational therapy," Jack suggested. "We’ll figure out how to make our home a space where she feels safe, not overwhelmed."

"Exactly," Dr. Evans said. "You're already doing a wonderful job. The fact that you noticed and sought answers is everything."

The appointment wrapped up, and Jack stood, lifting Maya into his arms. Normally, she might have squirmed away, but she allowed it this time, burying her face into the crook of his neck while still clutching the plastic toy car. Jack held her tightly, one arm supporting her weight, the other wrapping firmly around your waist as you walked out to the car.

After the appointment, you all went to have dinner together at your favorite place, trying to clear your minds of the new life that awaited you. But then, the drive back home was suffocating.

Maya sat in her car seat in the back, staring blankly out the window as the streetlights flickered across her face.

You didn't look at Jack. You couldn't.

You just stared straight ahead, your knuckles white as you gripped your purse in your lap. Every time Jack reached across the center console to touch your knee or find your hand, you subtly shifted away, wrapping your arms tightly around yourself.

You felt like if someone touched you right now, you would shatter into a million jagged pieces, and you were desperately trying to hold it together until you were behind closed doors.

Jack kept glancing at you, the muscle in his jaw twitching.

He knew that silence. Seeing it on your face, the absolute numbness, and the hollow look in your eyes, made his chest ache.

When you finally got home, it was late, so the routine was mechanical. You didn't speak. You carried Maya upstairs, guided her through her bath, and helped her into her pajamas.

Putting her to bed took twice as long as usual. Tonight, the texture of her favorite blanket seemed to upset her. She whined, a high pitched sound that sliced right through your nerves, pulling at her collar and refusing to lie down.

Panic, cold and sharp, flooded your veins. Is it too tight? Is the fabric too rough? Am I making it worse? Your hands shook as you tried to soothe her, your voice trembling as you whispered, "Shh, baby, it's okay, Mommy's here," but the more you tried to adjust her, the more she stiffened, burying her face into your neck.

Eventually, exhaustion won. Maya’s breathing leveled out, her tiny fingers loosely curled around your shirt.

You put her on her scrib and stood over for a long time, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest. The diagnosis echoed in your mind like a death knell to the future you had envisioned. Every milestone you had taken for granted felt like it had been violently ripped away, replaced by a terrifying labyrinth of therapies, specialized plans, and a world that wouldn't understand her.

Will she have a good first day of school? Will she make good friends? Will she be able to whisper secrets to you? Will she say I love you, Mommy and actually know the meaning of that?

And the worst part: you were terrified of yourself.

You closed her bedroom door and went to your room. Jack was standing at the end of the hallway, leaning against the wall, waiting for you.

"Is she down?" he asked, his voice low and raspy.

"Yeah," You walked past him into your bedroom.

The moment the door closed behind you, you totally broke.

A choked sob tore from your throat. You pressed your hands over your mouth to muffle the sound, your knees buckling beneath you. Before you could hit the floor, Jack was there. His strong arms caught you, pulling you violently against his chest as you collapsed into him.

"Hey, hey, I'm here," Jack murmured, his voice cracking as he hugged you. He plopped down on the bed with you, rocking you against him. "What's wrong, love? I need you to talk to me."

You gripped the fabric of his shirt, burying your face into his neck, your body shaking violently with tears. "E-Everything feels wrong, Jack." you sobbed, the raw terror finally bleeding out of you. "I don't know what to do, were do we start? Are we making the right decisions for her? I'm so scared, I just want to keep her safe from anything that hurts her."

"It's okay," he whispered calmly, though his eyes were glossy and a tear slid down his cheek into your hair. "We'll do what feels right. We have places to go, a doctor who will answer all our questions. And we'll take our time, step by step, we'll find what's best for her, okay?"

"No, you don't understand!" You pushed back slightly, your hands trembling against his chest, forcing him to look at the sheer panic in your tear-streaked face. "You're a doctor. You know what to do. You fix people, daily. I'm just... I'm her mother, Jack, and I feel I've been doing everything wrong. Every time I try to hold her, she screams. What if I say the wrong thing? What if I trigger a meltdown and I can't stop it? What if I ruin her?"

The raw vulnerability in your voice made Jack reach up, his hands framing your face, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"Look at me," Jack commanded softly. "You think I'm not terrified? You think because I'm a doctor I have the answers to this? I don't. When Dr. Evans said those words, I felt like I couldn't breathe for a second. I'm scared too. But we are not going to ruin her. You love her. I love her. That's the only prerequisite that matters. If we make a mistake, we learn from it. If a therapy doesn't work, we try another one. But do not ever think you are alone in this fear. I am right here with you."

You let out a broken breath as you looked into his eyes.

He was terrified too.

"What if she never understand we love her? What If she never says she loves us? I want her to be okay, to feel we are here for her." you whispered, the darkest, most agonizing thought in your mind finally escaping into the open.

Jack swallowed hard, tightening his grip on your waist, pulling you back into the safety of his chest.

"We will learn to read her." Jack whispered into your hair. "Because she does love us, sweetheart. She went straight into your arms after crying the other day. We'll learn from those little gestures. We are never, ever going to give up on her. Or on each other."

Jack kept his arms wrapped tightly around you. He didn't try to dismiss your fears. He knew the road ahead was going to be steep, and he knew there would be days where the frustration felt insurmountable. But as he looked toward the door, thinking of the little girl sleeping soundly just down the hall, a protective warmth settled over his chest.

Gently, he nudged your chin up with his fingers.

"Doll," he murmured, catching your attention.

You blinked through your blurred vision, leaning into his hand.

"She is our amazing girl," Jack said, his thumb wiping away the last trace of a tear from your cheek. "She is exactly who she was meant to be. Our girl. And if she can't say the words, then we will learn to read her. We are going to learn her language, sweetheart. I promise you."

You nodded, pressing your face back into the crook of his neck, finally letting your body go heavy against his.

There were still a thousand unanswered questions, and tomorrow would bring a whole new reality to navigate. But your amazing girl was safe, sleeping calmly on her bed. And, while listening to the calm beat of Jack’s heart beneath your cheek, you finally allowed yourself to breathe.

------------- Bonus scene

Jack slipped into his six years old daughter's room quietly. He watched her form tangled in her sheets. She was already half awake, staring intently at the dust motes dancing in the morning light, her fingers trying to catch the sun rays.

"Good morning, sleepy girl," Jack murmured, keeping his voice low. He waited, giving her a moment to register his presence.

Maya blinked, her gaze shifting to Jack’s face.

"Daddy," she said, her voice raspy with sleep.

"Ready for breakfast?" Jack smiled, offering his hand. Maya took it, letting him lift her out of bed.

Jack knew that morning rutines were their best friend now. He always placed her favorite plate and fork on the table in the exact positions she preferred. Today, he brought over a stepstool so she could stand next to him at the counter.

"We’re making pancakes today," Jack announced, measuring out the flour. "Do you want to pour the milk?"

"Yes, please." Maya nodded solemnly. She took the measuring cup of milk with both hands, her tongue poking out slightly in intense concentration.

Jack kept a steadying hand near, but he let her do it herself. She poured it into the bowl, watching the white liquid splash into the flour with rapt fascination.

"Good job, baby," Jack praised softly.

But when he was goint to take the cup, Maya tapped it against the side of the bowl three times, making sure there wasn't a single drop on it. Tap, tap, tap. Then she paused and did it again. Tap, tap, tap.

"There, done, daddy."

Jack just smiled, recognizing it as her rhythm. "Nice beat, kiddo," he said, taking the cup; then the spoon to finish the batter.

Minutes later, the kitchen was filled with the sweet aroma of pancakes. Jack cut her pancake into squares and sat down next to her at the table.

Maya ate with her usual pace, entirely focused on each bite. As she chewed, she suddenly stopped, her shoulders relaxing. She looked up at Jack.

"I like breakfast with dad," she said clearly. The cadence of her voice was a little flat, a little rehearsed, like it was an inside thought, but the words were entirely her own.

Jack froze, his fork halfway to his mouth. A wave of overwhelming emotion hit him so hard it brought a sudden sting to his eyes. He reached over, gently squeezing her small hand. "I like breakfast with you too, Maya. More than anything."

From the doorway, a soft sound caught Jack's attention.

You were standing there, leaning against the frame, wrapped in a oversized cardigan. Your hair was a bit messy from sleep and the expression on your face was pure awe. You had caught every single word.

Jack met your gaze with a smile across his face. You heard her? his eyes seemed to say.

You nodded and walked up behind him, resting your hands on his shoulders, leaning down to press a kiss to his cheek before looking at your daughter.

"Room for one more at the table, sweet girl?" you asked softly.

Maya looked up at the sound of your voice. She didn't say yes or good morning. Instead, she picked up a piece of pancake with her fork and held it out toward you in a straight line, offering it to you.

You smiled, leaning down to take the bite before sitting next to her.

Maya looked at you, her big eyes blinking as she processed your presence. For a moment, she just stared, her hands resting on the edge of the table.

Then, completely unprompted, she slid off her own chair.

Maya approached you, turned around, and leaned her back against you, waiting for you to lift her onto your lap. When you did, she snuggled against your chest, her back pressing against you as she got comfortable.

You waited a second before you gently wrapped your arms around her waist, holding her close but leaving her enough room so she wouldn't feel trapped.

She didn't stiffen. She didn't push you away. She just sat with you, anchoring herself in your warmth.

Across the table, Jack watched the two of you in silence.

Maya reached down, carefully picking up her fork. With concentration, she stabbed a piece of pancake, with no syrup, exactly how she liked it, and lifted it up, holding it out toward your mouth.

"Eat, Mama," she murmured, her eyes fixed on the fork.

You leaned down and gently took the bite from her fork, chewing it as you rested your chin on the top of her soft hair, inhaling her sweet, sleepy scent.

"Thank you, baby," you whispered. "It’s delicious."

Maya nodded once, satisfied with your reaction, and immediately went back to looking at the rest of her plate, entirely content in the safety of your lap.

You looked up, meeting Jack’s gaze across the table. He reached you, his hand finding yours and squeezing it tightly.

Lately, there were no words needed between the two of you. The fear of the unknown hadn't entirely vanished after years, but sitting there in the quiet morning, with your daughter tucked safely against you, you knew Jack was right.

You were learning her language, step by step, and the journey was beautiful.

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

the pitt masterlist

[paigepie213]

There She Is - Dr. Robby x Female Reader

Request - Hello! I really really love your work, and I was wondering if you could write a self-indulgent fic with Robby, where the reader overhears or is told that line from the last episode "i wish someone would swaddle me"? It doesn't have to be with a pregnant reader, but rather focused on Robby finally admitting he needs help and tenderness.

aw, so touching. thank you 🫶

Masterlist

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

You had been looking for Robby for almost twenty minutes. The shift had officially ended nearly half an hour ago, at least for the people lucky enough to leave on time, but PTMC was PTMC and Robby was Robby, which meant neither of those things seemed to apply to him most days.

You had checked the ED. Checked his office. Checked the trauma bay. Checked the break room where he occasionally sat for exactly forty-seven seconds before somebody interrupted him. Nothing.

The hospital had settled into that strange middle ground between day and night, the fluorescent lights feeling softer somehow, conversations quieter, footsteps less hurried. The chaos never stopped entirely, but it changed shape. You knew enough about Robby by now to recognize when he disappeared.

Usually it meant somebody needed him. Sometimes it meant he needed a minute. You followed the sound of a distant monitor down the pediatric hallway, your shoes quiet against the floor, and when you spotted the partially open door near the end of the corridor you immediately recognized the broad shoulders sitting in the rocking chair.

You almost called his name. Almost. Then you heard his voice. So soft you nearly missed it.

You stopped. Not intentionally. Not because you were eavesdropping. Just because something about the sound of him made your feet refuse to move.

Inside the room, Baby Jane Doe slept against Robby’s shoulder. She couldn’t have been more than a few months old. Tiny. Fragile. Wrapped in a hospital blanket. A little knitted hat covering most of her head. One impossibly small hand fisted against the collar of Robby’s scrub top.

The rocking chair creaked quietly. Back and forth. Back and forth. And Robby just held her. No rushing. No charting. No pager in his hand. No doctor voice.

Just Robby. The man underneath everything else.

“You got a pretty good setup here, kid,” he murmured.

The baby made a sleepy noise. You smiled despite yourself. Robby smiled too. The expression looked tired.

“You eat when you’re hungry.”

Rock.

“You cry when something hurts.”

Rock.

“Everybody comes running.”

The smile faded. Not completely. Just enough. The kind of change nobody else would notice. You did. Your stomach tightened. The rocking continued.

Slow. Steady. Comforting. For the baby. For him too, maybe.

“You don’t gotta pretend you’re okay.”

His voice was quieter now. The words almost swallowed by the room.

“You don’t gotta make anybody comfortable.”

You felt your throat constrict. Because suddenly it didn’t sound like he was talking to her anymore. Or maybe he was. Maybe he was talking to both of them.

Robby adjusted her carefully against his chest. The tiny hand remained tangled in his scrubs. His eyes followed it. Then he laughed. A small laugh. A tired laugh. The kind people made when they were standing too close to something painful.

“Wish somebody would swaddle me.”

The words hit you like a punch. Not because they were dramatic. Not because he sounded devastated. Because he sounded sincere. Because it sounded like something he’d been carrying for a very long time. Your eyes immediately filled with tears. Inside the room, completely unaware he had an audience, Robby lowered his head and pressed a gentle kiss against the baby’s hat.

“You got it figured out, Jane Doe.”

His voice cracked just slightly. Enough. Enough for you to hear it. Enough for you to understand.

You loved Robby. God, you loved him. You loved the way he laughed. The way he rolled his eyes. The way he stole your fries and then claimed he wasn’t hungry. You loved his stubbornness. His kindness. His ridiculous inability to buy new shoes. You loved him.

But standing there outside that room, watching him rock a sleeping infant while quietly wishing somebody would take care of him for once, something inside you shifted. Because suddenly you understood something.

Robby spent every day carrying people. Patients. Families. Nurses. Residents. Friends. You. Everyone.

And somewhere along the way nobody had noticed how heavy it had become.

Your hand covered your mouth. Inside the room, Robby leaned back in the chair. Exhaustion settled across his face the moment he thought nobody was looking. You had seen him tired before. This was different.

This looked older. Deeper. Like fatigue that sleep couldn’t touch. For a second he simply closed his eyes. Not sleeping. Just resting. Just existing.

The baby tucked safely beneath his chin. And your heart absolutely shattered. You stepped back before the floor could creak.

Before he could notice you. Before he could put the mask back on. Because somehow that felt important. You didn’t want him to know you’d heard. Not yet.

You made it halfway down the hallway before the tears finally slipped free. By the time you reached the locker room you had wiped them away. By the time you reached the lobby you had composed yourself. By the time Robby eventually found you waiting near the exit, his jacket slung over one arm and exhaustion hidden behind a familiar smile, you almost convinced yourself you imagined the whole thing. Almost.

“There you are,” he said.

You looked up. His smile widened immediately. The real one. The one reserved for you.

“There she is.”

There it was. The mask. So practiced it hurt. You stood and slipped your hand into his. His fingers immediately tightened. Automatic. Comforting. For both of you.

“Took forever,” you teased softly.

“Had stuff to finish.”

You nodded. Because of course he did. Because there was always stuff to finish. Always one more patient. One more chart. One more problem. One more person needing something. You started walking together toward the parking garage.

The silence between you felt different now. Not uncomfortable. Just heavier. You glanced at him. Robby caught you looking.

“What?”

You forced a smile.

“Nothing.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“That was definitely a something face.”

“It wasn’t.”

“It was.”

“It wasn’t.”

“It absolutely was.”

A small laugh escaped you. Robby smiled victoriously.

“There she is.”

You looked away before he could see the tears threatening again. Because suddenly all you could think about was that rocking chair. That baby. That tired laugh.

Wish somebody would swaddle me.

You squeezed his hand. Robby glanced down. Then back up at you. The smile softened.

“You okay?”

The question nearly broke you. Because even now. Even now. After everything. He was checking on you. You swallowed hard.

“Yeah.”

His thumb brushed across your knuckles.

“You sure?”

You looked at him. Really looked at him. At the shadows beneath his eyes. At the exhaustion hidden behind practiced charm. At the man trying so hard to be okay. For everyone. Especially you. And for the first time, you wondered just how long he’d been carrying all of it alone.

“Yeah,” you whispered.

Then you leaned closer and rested your head briefly against his shoulder as you walked. Robby immediately kissed your temple. Completely unaware that for the first time since you’d met him, you weren’t the one being comforted. You were watching the person you loved slowly come apart at the seams. And you had no idea yet how to help him.

******

The walk home should have felt normal. That was the thing that stayed with you afterward. Nothing happened. No argument. No confession. No dramatic moment where Robby finally collapsed beneath the weight of everything he carried.

The city moved around you exactly the way it always did. Traffic lights changed. Cars passed. People hurried along sidewalks. The world kept spinning. And beside you, Robby talked about absolutely nothing.

That was what hurt. Because now you could hear it. You could hear how hard he was trying.

“So Dana owes me twenty bucks.”

You blinked.

“What?”

Robby grinned.

“I told her Whitaker would absolutely steal somebody’s lunch this week.”

“Did he?”

“Turkey sandwich.”

“That’s not stealing.”

“It was from the resident fridge.”

“That’s definitely stealing.”

“Thank you.”

You laughed despite yourself. Robby immediately smiled. That look again. That tiny flash of relief every time he made you laugh. Like he was checking a box.

Good. She’s smiling. She’s okay. Mission accomplished.

Your chest tightened. The apartment wasn’t far from the hospital. Most nights the walk felt comforting. Tonight it felt revealing.

You found yourself watching him instead of listening. Watching the way he rolled his shoulders. Watching the stiffness in his gait. Watching how often he rubbed at the back of his neck. Watching exhaustion drag at every movement when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

Then every time you looked directly at him, he’d straighten. Smile. Crack another joke. The mask would slide back into place. Effortless. Because you weren’t sure he’d even realized he was doing it anymore.

“You are staring at me.”

You nearly jumped. Robby smirked.

“Caught you.”

“I wasn’t staring.”

“You absolutely were.”

“I was not.”

“You looked at me like you were trying to diagnose something.”

“Maybe I was.”

His laugh warmed the cool evening air.

“Good luck. Every doctor who’s tried has failed.”

The joke landed. But something about it lingered. You wondered if he knew. You wondered if there was a part of him screaming for somebody to notice. Or if he had buried it so deeply he genuinely believed this was normal.

When you reached a crosswalk, Robby automatically moved closer to the traffic side of the sidewalk. Another habit. Another instinct. Protecting you. Always protecting you.

The signal changed. You started walking. Robby’s hand found the small of your back. And suddenly your eyes burned again. Because even exhausted, even carrying whatever darkness he kept locked away behind those tired eyes, he was still taking care of you.

The man never stopped. Not for anyone. Not even himself.

“Hey.”

You looked up. Robby frowned slightly.

“What?”

“You got quiet.”

“So did you.”

“I asked first.”

His mouth twitched. You shook your head.

“I’m just tired.”

His expression softened immediately. There it was again. Concern. The instant shift. No matter what was happening with him, he always made room for somebody else.

“Tough day?”

You almost laughed. Not because it was funny. Because it wasn’t. Because the irony nearly knocked the breath out of you. Tough day. You had overheard his soul cracking open in a pediatric room less than an hour ago. And somehow he was still asking about your day.

“It was okay.”

“Okay isn’t exactly a ringing endorsement.”

“It was fine.”

His eyes narrowed. The same way they always did when he thought you were hiding something. You wondered if he’d ever realize he was projecting.

“You wanna talk about it?”

There it was. The offer. The thing Robby gave everybody. You stopped walking. He stopped too.

The city noise hummed around you. Traffic. Voices. A distant siren. Robby looked genuinely confused.

“What?”

You stared at him. At the exhaustion hidden behind the concern. At the lines etched deeper around his eyes lately. At the man who had spent years making sure nobody else carried anything alone. And somehow ended up carrying everything himself.

“You know,” you said quietly, “you’re allowed to have a bad day too.”

Something flickered across his face. Gone almost instantly. But you saw it. You saw it because now you were looking for it.

“I have bad days.”

“No.”

The word slipped out before you could stop it. Robby blinked. You immediately softened your tone.

“I mean… you don’t.”

A small smile appeared. Confused. Patient. Like he thought you were working through a thought.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means you don’t let yourself.”

His expression changed. Not much. Just enough. Enough for you to know you’d landed somewhere sensitive. The smile faded slightly. His gaze dropped briefly to the sidewalk. Then returned.

“I complain constantly.”

“You joke constantly.”

His eyebrows lifted. You continued.

“That’s not the same thing.”

For a moment neither of you spoke. Then Robby exhaled a laugh. A real one. But there wasn’t much humor in it.

“Trust me. Everybody knows when I’m having a bad day.”

“No.”

You shook your head.

“They know when you’re frustrated.”

The words came more easily now.

“They know when you’re annoyed.”

You swallowed.

“They know when you’re angry.”

Robby’s eyes remained fixed on yours. Quiet. Listening.

“But nobody knows when you’re hurting.”

The city seemed to disappear. Just for a second. Everything else faded. His face went still. Completely still. You watched him absorb the words. Watched something behind his eyes tighten. The reaction lasted maybe two seconds. Three at most. Then it vanished.

The walls slid back into place. The smile returned. Smaller this time. More fragile.

“You sound like a therapist.”

Your heart sank. Deflection. You recognized it immediately. The conversation wasn’t over. It was just too close. Too close to something he wasn’t ready to touch. So you let it go. For now.

The rest of the walk passed quietly. Not uncomfortable. Just thoughtful. When you finally reached the apartment, Robby held the building door open for you. You stepped inside. Warm air wrapped around both of you.

The elevator ride was silent. Robby leaned against the wall. Head tipped back. Eyes closed. Not sleeping. Just resting. The exact same way he had in that rocking chair.

Something inside you twisted painfully. The doors opened. Robby pushed away from the wall immediately. The mask returned. Like magic. Like muscle memory. Like breathing.

You unlocked the apartment. The moment you stepped inside, Robby bent to untie his shoes. A grunt escaped him. His hand pressed briefly against his lower back. Then he stood. Smiled.

“Pizza?”

You stared. He stared back.

“What?”

“You look exhausted.”

“I am exhausted.”

The answer came easily. Without hesitation. Because physical exhaustion was safe. Physical exhaustion was allowed. You folded your arms.

“Then why are you smiling?”

Robby blinked. Actually blinked. Caught off guard.

“What kind of question is that?”

“A real one.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Nothing came out. The silence stretched. Long enough for something vulnerable to peek through. Just for a second. Then he shrugged. The movement looked heavier than it should have.

“Because you’re here.”

The answer destroyed you. Not because it was romantic. Because it was honest. Because he meant it. Because somewhere along the way, Robby had convinced himself that loving you meant making sure you never saw how much he was struggling.

His smile returned. Gentle. Tired. And for the first time you realized something that made your chest ache. Robby wasn’t pretending to be okay because he didn’t trust you. He was pretending because he loved you. Because he thought protecting you meant hiding the worst parts of himself.

And standing there in your apartment, watching him hold himself together with sheer force of will, you made a quiet promise. You were going to love him through this. Not around it. Not despite it. Through it. Even if he fought you every step of the way. Especially then.

******

Three nights later, you found Robby sitting in the dark. Not completely dark. The city lights spilled through the apartment windows in soft bands of gold and blue, illuminating pieces of the living room without ever fully brightening it. The television was off. The kitchen light was off. The lamp beside the couch remained untouched.

Just darkness. And Robby. You stopped in the hallway. For a moment, he didn’t notice you. Which was unusual. Robby usually noticed everything. The sound of your keys. The creak of a floorboard. The shift in your breathing.

Years in emergency medicine had sharpened him into something almost impossible to surprise. Tonight he was staring out the window. Lost somewhere far away. His forearms rested on his knees. His hands hung loosely between them. His shoulders curved forward. Not dramatically. Just enough. Enough for you to recognize the difference. Enough for you to know he was tired in a way sleep couldn’t touch. Your heart immediately squeezed.

“Hey.”

His head turned. The expression that crossed his face nearly broke you. Relief. Instantaneous. Unfiltered. Gone so quickly you almost convinced yourself you’d imagined it.

Then the smile appeared. Familiar. Automatic. The mask.

“There she is.”

You leaned against the doorway.

“How long have you been sitting in the dark?”

Robby glanced around the room.

“As long as it took you to make that sound incredibly judgmental.”

You laughed softly. He smiled. The smile reached his eyes for exactly half a second. Then disappeared. There it was again. The slipping. Not with you. Never with you. Except now it was happening anyway. And you weren’t sure he realized it.

You crossed the room and sat beside him on the couch. Close enough that your knees touched. Neither of you spoke. The silence settled comfortably between you. Outside, distant traffic drifted through the partially cracked window. Inside, the apartment remained still. Robby exhaled slowly. You felt it more than heard it.

“You eat dinner?”

The question was so typically him that you nearly smiled. There he was. Checking on you. Again.

“You asking because you care about me or because you forgot to eat too?”

His mouth twitched.

“Caught me.”

You nodded.

“I figured.”

Another silence. This one heavier. Not uncomfortable. Just honest. For the first time in days, neither of you seemed interested in pretending. You studied his profile.

The exhaustion was becoming harder to ignore. The dark circles beneath his eyes. The tension locked permanently into his shoulders. The way he looked older lately. Not physically. Emotionally.

Like the weight of every patient and every tragedy had begun collecting interest. You wondered how long he’d been carrying it. Years, probably. Maybe longer.

“You know,” you said quietly, “most people turn lights on when they get home.”

“I was thinking.”

“That usually ends badly.”

A small laugh escaped him.

“Fair.”

You shifted slightly.

“Want to tell me what you’re thinking about?”

His jaw tightened. Almost imperceptibly. You saw it anyway.

“Nope.”

The answer came immediately. Too immediately. You nodded.

“Okay.”

That seemed to surprise him. His head turned.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Aren’t you gonna push?”

You considered that.

“A little.”

Robby sighed. There was no irritation in it. Just resignation. The kind reserved for people who knew you too well.

“There it is.”

You smiled softly.

“There it is.”

He looked away again. Back toward the city. Back toward whatever thoughts had followed him home. You let another minute pass. Then another. Finally you spoke.

“I heard you.”

The words landed quietly. No accusation. No pressure. Just truth. Beside you, Robby froze.

Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Enough for you. The room felt suddenly smaller. His gaze remained fixed on the window.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You closed your eyes. Of course. Of course that was where he’d go first. Not because he was lying. Because he was scared. Because acknowledging it meant acknowledging everything attached to it.

“You do.”

Nothing. The silence stretched. Robby’s hands clasped together. Unclasped. Then clasped again. A nervous habit. One he probably didn’t even know he had.

“You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

His voice was quiet. The admission felt enormous. You swallowed.

“No.”

His head dipped. Just slightly. The city lights reflected in the glass ahead of him.

“I didn’t know anybody was there.”

“I know.”

Neither of you moved. For several seconds the only sound came from traffic below. Then Robby laughed. A hollow sound. Humorless. Embarrassed.

“That’s great.”

“Robby—”

“No, seriously.”

He rubbed a hand across his face.

“Fantastic.”

His voice carried frustration now. Not with you. With himself.

“Fifty-two years old and I’m talking to an infant about my feelings.”

Your heart cracked. Because there it was. The shame. The immediate instinct to make himself the joke. To make himself ridiculous before anybody else could. You reached for his hand. His fingers immediately intertwined with yours.

“Hey.”

He didn’t look at you.

“Hey.”

Nothing. You squeezed his hand. Harder this time. Finally his eyes met yours. And God. The exhaustion there. The sadness. The loneliness. You felt all of it.

“You know what I heard?”

His expression tightened.

“What?”

“I heard a man who’s tired.”

Robby immediately looked away. You expected that. You continued anyway.

“I heard somebody who’s been carrying too much for too long.”

His throat worked. Once. Hard. Still he said nothing.

“I heard somebody who takes care of everybody else.”

You shifted closer.

“I heard somebody wishing somebody would take care of him.”

The room went completely silent. The words hung there. Neither of you moving. Neither of you breathing much. Then finally Robby spoke.

“So what?”

The question was barely above a whisper. Your chest tightened.

“So what?”

His eyes remained fixed on the floor.

“So what if I’m tired?”

The words started coming now. Slowly. Like water through a crack.

“So what if some days suck?”

His jaw clenched.

“So what if I have bad nights?”

You could hear the anger underneath. Not at you. At himself. At the situation. At everything.

“What am I supposed to do about it?”

His voice finally broke. Just a little. Enough. Enough to hurt.

“What am I supposed to do?”

The question echoed through the apartment. Raw. Honest. Terrified. You moved without thinking. Turning toward him. Taking both of his hands.

Waiting until he finally looked at you. Waiting until those tired eyes met yours. Then you said the thing you’d been carrying since the pediatric floor.

“I don’t know.”

The answer surprised him. You saw it immediately. You continued.

“I don’t know how to fix it.”

Your thumb brushed across his knuckles.

“I don’t know how to make any of it easier.”

His eyes never left yours now. Not anymore.

“But I see it.”

Something shattered behind his expression. Not completely. Just enough. Enough for you to see. Enough for him to stop pretending for one second. One precious second.

“I see you, Robby.”

The words emerged softly. Steadily. Like something sacred.

“I see how hard you’re fighting.”

His eyes glistened immediately. Not tears. Almost tears. The dangerous kind. The kind he spent years avoiding.

“I see how tired you are.”

His breathing faltered.

“I see how much this costs you.”

The apartment felt impossibly quiet. Like the entire world had paused. Waiting. Listening. And for the first time since you’d known him, Robby didn’t argue.

He didn’t joke. He didn’t deflect. He didn’t change the subject. He simply sat there. Holding your hands. Looking at you. And allowing himself to be seen. Maybe for the first time in a very long time. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded smaller than you’d ever heard it.

“I didn’t want you to know.”

The confession landed directly in your chest. You swallowed hard.

“Why?”

A sad smile appeared. Tiny. Heartbreaking.

“Because you’re the one thing in my life that doesn’t hurt.”

The tears came instantly. You couldn’t stop them. Didn’t want to. Robby noticed immediately. Of course he did. Immediately shifting forward. Immediately reaching for you. Immediately trying to comfort you. Even now. Even here.

You caught his wrist gently. Stopping him. His eyebrows furrowed. Confused. Then you shook your head. Just once.

“No.”

His face softened. You slid closer. Wrapped your arms around him. Pulled him against you. And for one of the only times in your relationship, Robby let himself be held.

Not because he was weak. Not because he was broken. Because he was exhausted. His forehead settled against your shoulder. His eyes closed. You felt him exhale. Like he’d been holding that breath for years. And while neither of you spoke again that night, you knew something had changed.

Not fixed. Not healed. Changed. Because for the first time, Robby wasn’t carrying it completely alone anymore.

******

You woke up before Robby. That alone felt strange. For as long as you’d known him, Robby existed in a state of perpetual motion. Even on his days off he somehow managed to be awake before the sun, answering emails, drinking coffee, doing laundry, making breakfast, finding a hundred little ways to keep moving before his brain had the chance to catch up with him. Movement had always been his favorite form of avoidance.

This morning he was still asleep. Your eyes opened slowly. The apartment remained quiet. Gray morning light spilled through the curtains. And Robby was curled toward you. Not dramatically. Not in a way anybody else would notice. Just slightly.

Like sometime during the night he’d unconsciously drifted closer. His arm rested across your waist. His face was buried against your shoulder. The position made your chest ache. Because it looked vulnerable. And vulnerability on Robby was rare.

You carefully brushed your fingers through his hair. He didn’t wake. The dark circles beneath his eyes were still there. The exhaustion was still there. The difference was that now you knew it wasn’t just fatigue.

Now you knew what lived underneath it. You watched him sleep for another twenty minutes. Then thirty. The city outside slowly came alive. Eventually Robby stirred. His brow furrowed first. Then his shoulders shifted. Finally his eyes opened. For a second he looked disoriented. Then he saw you. The corner of his mouth lifted.

“There she is.”

The familiar phrase should have felt reassuring. Instead it nearly made you cry. Because it sounded softer today. Less practiced. More real.

“Morning.”

His voice was rough with sleep.

“Morning.”

For several seconds neither of you moved. Neither of you seemed eager to break whatever fragile thing had settled between you overnight. Then Robby sighed. Long and slow. The sound carried the weight of somebody waking up to problems that hadn’t disappeared while they slept.

You knew that feeling. He knew it too.

“You hungry?”

There it was. The reflex. The immediate attempt to redirect. To care for somebody else. To place himself second. You smiled sadly.

“A little.”

“I can make breakfast.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

His answer came quickly. Automatic. Then he paused. A strange look crossing his face. Like he’d heard his own words. Like he’d recognized the habit. The silence stretched. Finally he rubbed a hand across his face.

“I’m sorry.”

You blinked.

“For what?”

“For trying to change the subject.”

The honesty startled you. Robby laughed softly. Not because anything was funny. Because he seemed almost embarrassed.

“Apparently I’m not as subtle as I thought.”

Your hand found his.

“I never thought you were subtle.”

That earned the smallest smile. A real one. The kind that lasted a second longer than usual. Then it faded. The apartment fell quiet again. Eventually Robby sat up. You followed. Neither of you rushing.

The morning felt delicate. Like one wrong move might send everything scattering. He disappeared into the kitchen. You watched him make coffee. Watched him move around the apartment. Watched the stiffness in his shoulders. The heaviness in his posture. The weariness that seemed to have seeped directly into his bones.

A few minutes later he handed you a mug. Then settled into the chair across from you. The sunlight caught his face. And for the first time in a long time he looked every one of his years. Not old. Just tired. Deeply tired. The kind of tired people earned. The kind nobody deserved. You wrapped both hands around your coffee.

Robby stared into his. Neither of you spoke. Then finally…

“The hospital’s amazing.”

You looked up. His eyes remained fixed on the mug. His voice stayed quiet. Measured. Like he was carefully choosing each word before allowing it into the world.

“The people are amazing.”

You nodded.

“They are.”

“The work matters.”

“It does.”

A humorless smile touched his mouth.

“I still love it.”

The confession hurt. Because of course he did. Of course he loved it. That was part of the problem. If he hated the job, leaving would be easy. If he resented the work, setting boundaries would be simple. Instead he loved it. Loved it enough to sacrifice pieces of himself for it. Loved it enough to keep returning.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Robby swallowed. Then finally looked at you. And there was no mask left. No smile. No joke. No distraction. Just honesty.

“The hospital’s a home.”

You held his gaze.

“Yeah.”

His jaw tightened. The next words seemed physically difficult to say.

“But it’s killing me.”

The room went completely silent. You felt your heart crack. Not because the sentence surprised you. Because hearing him say it out loud made it real. Robby looked away first. Toward the window. Toward the city. Toward anything except you.

“I don’t mean physically.”

“I know.”

“I don’t mean I’m quitting.”

“I know.”

A sad laugh escaped him.

“You keep saying that.”

“Because I know.”

The silence returned. Then Robby leaned back in his chair. Exhaustion settling over him. Not hidden anymore. Not disguised. Just present.

“There are days I walk home and I can’t remember half the shift.”

Your chest tightened.

“There are nights I wake up hearing monitors.”

His eyes remained distant.

“There are patients I still think about from twenty years ago.”

The admission landed heavily.

“There are kids whose names I remember better than some family members.”

His throat worked. Hard.

“And every year I tell myself I’ve figured out how to carry it.”

His voice cracked slightly.

“Then something happens and it all gets heavier.”

You felt tears gathering again. Robby noticed. Of course he noticed. But for once he kept talking. Maybe because he needed to. Maybe because if he stopped now he wouldn’t start again.

“I don’t know who I’d be without it.”

The words emerged quietly. Fearfully.

“It’s a part of you.”

His eyes finally met yours.

“I think that’s what scares me.”

You frowned.

“What does?”

“The fact that I know it’s hurting me.”

He laughed softly. Brokenly.

“The fact that I know I can’t keep doing this forever.”

Your heart squeezed.

“But I don’t know who I am if I’m not doing it.”

There it was. The real wound. Not the exhaustion. Not the trauma. Identity. Purpose.

The terrifying possibility that after decades of saving people, he no longer knew where the work ended and he began.

You stood. Crossed the room. Knelt beside his chair. Robby immediately reached for you.

Instinct. Need. Love.

You took both of his hands. Held them tightly.

“You don’t have to figure that out today.”

His eyes searched yours.

“You don’t.”

The tears were visible now. Not falling. Threatening. Dangerously close. For both of you.

“You don’t have to solve the next ten years.”

Your thumbs brushed across his knuckles.

“You don’t have to decide who you are without the hospital.”

His shoulders sagged. Just slightly. Enough.

“You just have to take care of the man sitting in this chair.”

Robby closed his eyes. The words seemed to hit something deep. Something bruised. Something neglected. For a long moment neither of you spoke.

“What if I don’t know how?”

Your heart shattered. Because he wasn’t asking about therapy. Or boundaries. Or work. He was asking how to take care of himself. Maybe he’d forgotten. Maybe nobody had ever taught him. You leaned forward. Pressed your forehead against his. And whispered the only truthful answer you had.

“Then we’ll learn.”

His breathing hitched. Just once. When he opened his eyes again they were shining.

And for the first time since you’d overheard him in that pediatric room, you saw something new in his expression. Not certainty. Not healing. Permission. Permission to stop pretending he was okay. Permission to admit he needed help. Permission to believe that maybe loving someone wasn’t the same thing as protecting them from every broken piece of yourself.

******

A few days later, when you gently mentioned therapy over takeout containers and cold coffee, Robby didn’t laugh. He didn’t change the subject. He didn’t make a joke. He simply sat there quietly for a very long time. Then nodded once. And said the words that changed everything.

“Okay.”

Not because he believed it would fix him. Not because he thought one conversation would erase years of accumulated grief. Because for the first time in his life, he was willing to let somebody help carry the weight. And that was enough. For now.

******

The first therapy appointment lasted fifty-three minutes. You knew because you’d checked the time seventeen times. Not that you were counting.

You absolutely were counting.

The coffee shop sat three blocks from the therapist’s office, tucked between a bookstore and a florist. It wasn’t particularly busy that afternoon. A few students occupied corner tables with laptops. An older couple shared a muffin near the front window. Soft music drifted through the speakers overhead. You hadn’t heard a single song. Your attention kept returning to the door. To the clock. To your rapidly cooling coffee. Back to the door. Back to the clock. Then back to the door again.

The appointment had started at two. At two-thirty you convinced yourself everything was fine. At two-forty-five you started imagining worst-case scenarios. At two-fifty you wondered if Robby had walked out. At two-fifty-two you wondered if he’d hated it. At two-fifty-four you wondered if he was angry with you for suggesting it in the first place. At two-fifty-five you wondered if he was sitting in a parking lot somewhere questioning every life choice that had led him here.

Which, honestly, felt the most realistic. You looked down at your phone. No messages. No missed calls. Nothing.

Your knee bounced beneath the table. The woman behind the counter smiled sympathetically when your gaze drifted toward the entrance for what was probably the hundredth time. You smiled back weakly. Then the door opened. And there he was.

Your breath caught immediately. Not because he looked dramatically different. Not because some magical transformation had occurred. Because he looked exactly like Robby.

The same jacket. The same messenger bag. The same tired eyes. The same stubborn mouth. The same man you’d fallen hopelessly in love with. For one terrifying second you couldn’t read his expression.

Then he spotted you. And the smallest smile appeared. Your shoulders immediately relaxed. Robby crossed the room. You stood before you could stop yourself. The moment he reached the table, your arms wrapped around him. No hesitation. No thinking. Just relief.

Robby let out a surprised huff of laughter. His arms came around you immediately. Holding you close. Holding on. You buried your face against his shoulder.

“You okay?”

The question slipped out before you could stop it. Robby was quiet. For a moment you thought he might dodge it. Deflect. Make a joke. Do something. Instead he squeezed you tighter.

Then quietly said, “Yeah.”

The answer wasn’t convincing. The honesty was. You pulled back enough to look at him. His eyes looked red. Not crying red. Emotional red.

The kind that came after difficult conversations. After truths dragged into the light. After walls started cracking. Your chest tightened. Robby must have seen the concern on your face because he immediately reached up and brushed his thumb across your cheek.

“There she is.”

You laughed softly. The familiar phrase no longer sounded like a shield. Now it sounded like affection. Now it sounded like home.

The two of you sat. Robby wrapped both hands around the coffee you’d ordered for him earlier. It had gone cold. He drank it anyway. Of course he did. You watched him carefully. Waiting. Giving him space. Trying not to push. Trying not to ask a thousand questions. Eventually he noticed. His mouth twitched.

“You look like you’re trying to defuse a bomb.”

“I am.”

That earned an actual laugh. A real one. Small. But real. The sound alone felt like a victory. You leaned forward.

“How was it?”

Robby stared into his coffee. The smile disappeared. Not unhappily. Thoughtfully. His fingers tightened around the cup. The silence stretched. Long enough that you started wondering if he would answer.

“Hard.”

One word. Simple. Honest. Your heart squeezed. You nodded.

“Yeah.”

Another pause. Robby looked out the window. People passed on the sidewalk outside. Cars rolled through the intersection. The world continued moving. Meanwhile he seemed to be sorting through emotions he’d spent years avoiding.

“It was weird.”

You smiled gently.

“I imagine it was.”

“I hated parts of it.”

“That tracks.”

A laugh escaped him. This one softer. Less guarded. Then his gaze dropped again.

“But some of it…”

He stopped. Searching. Trying to find language for something unfamiliar. You waited. Eventually he exhaled.

“Some of it felt good.”

The admission seemed difficult. Like he wasn’t entirely comfortable saying it. Like enjoying the experience somehow felt like losing an argument. You reached across the table. Your hand found his. Robby immediately intertwined your fingers.

“What felt good?”

His eyes remained fixed on your joined hands. The answer came quietly.

“Telling the truth.”

The words settled between you. Simple. Devastating. Beautiful. You swallowed hard. Robby continued before you could respond.

“I spend so much time making everybody else feel better.”

His voice stayed calm. Measured.

“But for an hour nobody needed anything from me.”

Your eyes immediately filled with tears. He noticed. Of course he noticed. The corner of his mouth lifted. Not teasing. Just fond.

“You gotta stop doing that.”

“What?”

“Crying every time I have a feeling.”

You laughed through the tears.

“Then stop having them.”

“Impossible.”

The smile lingered. Then faded. Not because something was wrong. Because something was real.

“I talked about the hospital.”

You nodded.

“I figured.”

“I talked about the kids.”

Another nod.

“The losses.”

Your throat tightened.

“The things I remember.”

His eyes drifted toward the window again.

“I talked about things I haven’t said out loud in years.”

The weight of that statement settled heavily. You couldn’t imagine how many stories lived inside him. How many names. How many faces. How many ghosts. Robby squeezed your hand. Just once.

Then looked back at you. And for the first time since this whole journey had begun, you saw something different.

“I think I’m gonna go back.”

The tears spilled instantly. You laughed. Embarrassed. Emotional. Completely unable to stop yourself. Across the table Robby shook his head affectionately.

“What did I just tell you?”

You squeezed his hand. Hard.

“You are impossible.”

“I know.”

The smile he gave you then was unlike any you’d seen before. Still tired. Still carrying more than any person should. Still healing. But lighter. Just a little.

As if somebody had finally helped him set down one corner of the burden. The afternoon sun filtered through the coffee shop windows. Warm against the table. Warm against your joined hands. Outside, the city continued moving. Inside, neither of you rushed to leave. There would still be hard days. There would still be grief. There would still be shifts that followed him home and nights when sleep refused to come.

Therapy wouldn’t fix everything. Love wouldn’t erase decades of accumulated pain. Neither of you expected it to. That wasn’t the point. The point was that Robby wasn’t carrying it alone anymore.

For years he’d been the person holding everyone else together. The person doing the comforting. The rescuing. The swaddling.

Now, finally, he was learning how to let someone do the same for him. Robby lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss against your knuckles. A quiet gesture. Tender.

Then he smiled. A real smile. One that reached his eyes. One that looked less like survival and more like living. And sitting there across from him, sunlight warming the table between you, you realized something that made your chest ache in the very best way.

For the first time since you’d overheard him whispering to Baby Jane Doe, he didn’t look like a man trying desperately to hold himself together. He looked like a man finally allowing himself to heal. And somehow, that felt even braver.

[buryustogether]

they’re playing our song

michael robinavitch x reader

summary: robby comes to visit you while you chaperone the peds department prom.

word count: 3k

warnings/tags: allusions to cancer/illness, mentions of vomiting, age gap, resident/attending relationship, first kiss

Friday was your least favorite day of the week. Friday nights, in particular. People seemed to let themselves loose at the end of the week, let their inhibitions free from their cages and do things they would regularly never even think of doing. Stupid, stupid things. You didn’t think you’d have enough fingers and toes to list off the dumbass dares and challenges you’ve heard as excuses as to why they end up in the ER over the years of your residency. Impressing a girl. Impressing friends. High off their asses from pens and coincidentally ‘forgetting’ to wear a seatbelt while doing sixty in a twenty.

Stupid, stupid people doing stupid, stupid things.

You were at work this Friday evening, but not in the emergency department where you felt you belonged like a soldier in line. Tonight, you found yourself in the hospital’s cafeteria, which had been transformed in a wash of color and mood lighting that reminded you of a cheesy coming of age movie they used to show on Disney Channel. The overhead fluorescents had been covered with long, thick strips of colored fabric to alter their hue, streamers have been taped along the sides of tables and the walls, and music is controlled from a decorated DJ’s booth near the corner. Images of sea creatures and handmade decorations littered the cafeteria, making it appear as though a cartoon ocean swept through the place and left behind its evidence on purpose.

The PTMC’s prom night was, in your opinion, the cheesiest thing you’d seen in a long, long while.

The peds department—and the dozens of parents who’d spent their children’s entire lives within those walls—had recently approached Gloria with the idea of giving the kids a prom, given the majority of them were too sick to attend a real one. She’d been hesitant, the looming threat of a dwindling budget swinging over her head like a blade, but rumor was the idea of good press was too good for her to pass up. Thus, the moms had all gotten together while their children slept through treatments, spending their restless hours stitching together table runners and decorations and squawking over ideas they’d screengrabbed from Pinterest.

Of course, prom night was a hunting ground for preteens with eyes for one another (even if some of them were confined to wheelchairs and bound to IV poles), and supervision was required. Names were drawn from each department, and lo and behold, your name had been picked from the hat. You had the sneaking suspicion this was payback from Gloria after you’d refused to give a statement to the press a few months back after a mass pileup event.

You shifted back and forth on the balls of your feet as you watched the scene before you, hands held restlessly behind your back. Pop music you faintly recognized from the radio and fan edits you picked up from passing the interns on their breaks thumped in your ears—all mom–approved, of course. You stood by yourself near the door leading into the hall, fingers twisting in the back of your jacket over your scrubs. Despite the break you tried to look at this as, you were antsy to get back to the Pitt, to throw yourself back into the fray with your regular coworkers. You had always thrived on pressure and high stakes, a constant steady of calmness you weren’t able to control.

Maybe that was why, since your first year of your residency, you’d become Doctor Robinavitch’s right hand.

It wasn’t really a secret Robby held you closer than the other residents and interns. He barked your name like a rehearsed speech when he needed a steady hand he could trust, made sure you were among the watching eyes when he demonstrated a new technique. When he wasn’t around, people usually looked to you for direction; by extension, you were Robby. At his hip, at his side, your hands under his when everything was on the line and your scalpel wasn’t cutting deep enough.

You’d tried to tell yourself, these years, it was just professional. He was your senior attending, for god’s sake. The only reason he kept you so close was because he trusted you, because you were good at your job, because he wanted to see you succeed. But between shifts… those incidents posed a different perspective. A drive home here or there. A late coffee shared in the early, unholy hours of the morning after you’d both clocked off and were too wired to go home despite the aching in your bones, your backs, your hearts. You’d cooked him dinner once, on his birthday. Kosher.

He hadn’t told you until months later that he’d been so touched you even remembered his birthday, he didn’t want to spoil your effort by admitting he hadn’t followed kosher rules since he was a kid.

Your heart had become soft for your senior attending, despite how much you’d attempted to toughen it out, to force yourself to acknowledge he was old enough to be your father, to remind yourself he was your boss and nothing would ever happen. Still, when times were quiet like now and your mind was unburdened with charts and vitals and an order of which patient got priority, you allowed yourself to fantasize over the what-ifs you held so dear.

You watched as, across the cafeteria, a mother and father insisted on taking a picture of their son before he joined his friends by the sugar-free refreshments table. The boy’s head was absent of hair, his brow bones naked, and he clutched onto an IV pole with one hand while the other tugged at the collar of his suit with an exasperated glance to the camera presented toward him. He offered a half-hearted smile, clearly embarrassed, and once he was dismissed, he quickly skittered himself and his pole toward where a group of other children waited.

“Hey.”

You glanced up, having been too lost in the prom and your own private thoughts to realize someone had been approaching you. Your heart gave something like a shortened, excited couple thumps behind your ribs as you watched Robby come to settle beside you, arms crossed loosely over his broad chest. He’d had to lower himself to near your ear to be heard over the music and cacophony of the prom, and as he straightened himself, he gave a small tilt of his head toward you.

“Hey,” you said, your shoulders relaxing slightly as you stepped closer to be heard. “What are you doing here? Don’t they need you in the Pitt?”

Robby gave a noncommittal shrug of his shoulder, the stethoscope slung around his neck glinting in the pink light that played with shadows across his tired features. “They’ll be fine for a few minutes,” he said. “It’s mostly frat kids piled up from a hazing thing.”

“I’ll trade you.”

“Oh, come on.” He shifted his gaze out across the cafeteria, watching as a few kids awkwardly danced, moving their bodies in their gowns and tuxes they were so unaccustomed to wearing in comparison to their hospital sheets. “You’re telling me you’re not having the time of your life down here at the bottom of the sea?”

You felt a smile tug your lips upward as you followed his gaze. A girl carefully spun around another in her wheelchair despite an overprotective parent calling for them to be careful. Above them, from the ceiling, clear plastic baubles supposed to resemble bubbles had been dangled from fishing line and swayed with the shuffling underneath.

You said over the music, “I’m more of a black and white theme girl, to be honest.”

“Oh, so you like the classics.” Robby gave you one of those exhausted, gentle smiles he seemed to reserve only for you, the crows’ feet at the corners of his eyes crinkling softly and the apple of his throat bobbing once. “And yet you never seem to be around when it comes time for the annual charity balls.”

“Like you are, either.”

It was true, as much as you were hesitant to admit it. You and Robby were both in your element when wrist–deep in bloodied wounds and extracting bullets from flesh, but formal, public events in which eyes would be upon you seemed to scare you both off like animals from a trap. You were alike in that way, preferring to work behind the scenes and shy from the spotlight when it began to swing in your direction. This—standing on the sidelines in the shadows—was where you were both comfortable.

For a long few minutes, the pair of you stood there and watched only half–vigilantly as the peds kids enjoyed their prom. Exhausted parents clinging to hope sat at the plastic–covered tables along the far wall, phones held up in recording and chins planted in chins as they watched their babies. As tacky as you found the entire party, you had to admire their hard work and resilience. It wasn’t easy, you were sure, being in their shoes.

Beside you, Robby spoke again. Just as you did in the ER, you snapped up to pay attention, hoping he didn’t notice how quickly you jolted to. “You ever go to prom?” he asked.

“Hah.” You shook your head, a rueful smile playing your lips. “No. It was never really my scene.”

“You’re kidding.” Robby glanced down at you, shifting his weight as he fixed you with one of those incredulous stares he gave when he didn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “I would’ve figured you were prom queen or something.”

The idea made you laugh. Actually laugh, your hand coming up to wave. “Oh, absolutely not,” you replied over the music as it thrummed and thumped and hummed through the reverberating cafeteria. “No, I, ah…” You hesitated for just a few moments before you shook your head. “I wasn’t ever very popular in school. Didn’t have all too many friends. I guess I didn’t really see the point of wasting all that money on a dress and going when no one was going to hang out with me.”

It was a bit of a pathetic admission, and you immediately turned away, feeling heat rising up your neck. Good god, you seriously didn’t just tell him that. Could you get any more desperate?

Robby was quiet for a moment, and all you could do was look at how closely your shoes were fidgeting next to his there on the shimmering tile floor. “That’s too bad,” he said finally, arms flexing themselves beneath his scrub sleeves before settling again, still crossed. “But I see the reasoning.”

You lifted your head, gaze lingering for a fraction of a moment on a child hunched over a book at one of the tables instead of mingling with the others before you looked up at him. God, how badly you wanted to reach up and touch the scruff of his beard on his jaw, to let your hand rest on the nape of his neck and thread your fingers through his short hair. “Did you go?”

At your reciprocated question, he gives something like a low chuckle of a laugh, nostalgia flickering behind his dark eyes despite the tinted light from overhead. “Yeah,” he mused, reaching up to scratch briefly at his stubbled throat, drawing your attention there. “Drank too much spiked punch, threw up outside the gym, and then went back in and danced with my girlfriend like nothing happened. Didn’t understand why she didn’t want to kiss me.”

A soft bark of laughter escaped you. “Can’t fathom as to why she didn’t want to stick her tongue down your acidic throat,” you said, then mentally scolded yourself for picturing sticking your own tongue into his mouth and licking up the sounds he most certainly would gruff out from the feeling.

“God, what a shitty night that was.” Robby shook his head, watching the little prom for another long few moments. After what seemed to be both an eternity and just a few seconds, he turned his head over to face you. He studied you long enough that you looked at him questioningly, your heart climbing up your esophagus. He hesitated for a moment, then gave another rough sound of amusement and extended a hand between the two of you.

Amused and slightly confused, you furrowed your brows and gave a small smile. Nonetheless, you placed your hand in his, rough callouses sliding against your skin. Your smile widened with both alarm and thrill, you gave a small gasp when he attempted to pull you closer. “Wh–Robby, what are you doing?”

“Oh, come on,” he said, his eyes soft like he was tiptoeing a line you each had been caressing oh so carefully these last months or so. “When are we going to get another chance to fix our crappy prom experiences?” He nodded his head at you. “Or, I guess, lack thereof.”

Instinctively, you glanced over your shoulder toward the cafeteria, your insides suddenly dancing with the nerves that someone would see you. Not that you were doing anything wrong—you weren’t, not really. Just two coworkers playfully taking part in what was supposed to be a fun night, a night for forgetting medical woes and mounting anxieties and the inescapable knowledge of what was coming. No one seemed to be paying you any mind. Everyone’s attention was on the kids… especially when the DJ switched tracks and a slower, sappy pop love song began to croon over the speakers.

Robby tilted his head to the side and you wanted to melt right there before him. “See?” he teased you over the annoying wail of the singer’s rasp. “They’re even playing our song.”

Finally, you forced your nerves back and gave a small, nervous smile, allowing him to pull you gently closer. Your free hand reached up to his shoulder. His found your waist, touching only a necessary, respectful amount. No more, no less. God, how you wished it was more. More, more, more, harder, rougher, closer, tighter. “I wasn’t aware we had a song.”

As your and Robby’s feet began to gently move—not dancing, not really, just sort of swaying yourselves back and forth—he nodded his head in what looked like defeat. “Well, if we did,” he said, “it wouldn’t be this crap.”

You laughed again. You’d been doing that a lot lately around him. Even after long, grueling shifts when all you wanted to do was curl up and forget everything bad in the world, everything that let people get so, so hurt and scarred and landed them in your trauma rooms. Despite everything, despite his own demons that flickered in his darkened gaze sometimes when no one else was looking, he still managed to make you laugh. How ironic. How perfectly and wonderfully delightful.

Neither of you said anything more. You only rocked gently back and forth, clutching each other gently, carefully, so mindful of that final line you’d been leaning across for what seemed forever now. The music carried your heartbeats as one, and, as the lyrics droned on and the beat bounced back and forth, refusing to pick a tempo, you felt yourself drifting a few inches closer. Shuffling, bringing your chest to ever so kindly press against his. In response, his hand on your waist drifted to the small of your back and encouraged you even closer, ever closer. Your fingers slipped to the base of his neck, thumb gently tracing the line of his scrub collar.

You were sure Robby was able to feel how violently your heart was pounding. There was no way he couldn’t pick up the beat–beat–beat of your frantic pulse against his own. Was his jumping, too? You couldn’t tell beyond your own, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to know the answer. Your skin was lining with goosebumps and when your hips pressed to his and his grip tightened carefully around yours, you couldn’t take it any more.

“Robby…” you heard yourself murmur, just barely audible over the song beginning to wind its way toward a closing bridge. You weren’t even sure he heard you. You didn’t know if you wanted him to hear you.

But then—impossibly, amazingly, perfectly—you felt him press his lips to the top of your hair. “I know, sweetheart.”

I know, I know, I know.

Before you could stop yourself, before you could think of any consequences of what you were about to do, you tilted your head up and connected your lips to his. It was short, too short, but you wanted to give him an out if suddenly you’d read everything wrong and you’d jumped too far over that line. Yet when you tried to pull away, Robby’s lips chased yours, reconnecting your mouths before they even had a chance to part. Sensations like fireworks rocketed through your veins when you realized, yes, fuck yes, he wanted it, too. You hadn’t been imagining this, you hadn’t been delusional, you hadn’t been—

Robby gave a sound from the back of his throat and pressed his lips against yours a touch harder, the hand on your back pressing you even closer to him. He wanted more. More of this, more of you. And by god, did you want to give it to him.

But you were at work. Not only at work, but at a prom for the peds kids. This was their time, not yours.

Reluctantly, you pulled yourself away and panted softly as you peered up at him. Your eyes found his through the pink and blue lighting, and, just like when you were working as a well–oiled pair of cogs in crisis, you were able to read one another’s meanings. Later. Later.

I will have you later.

Robby’s throat bobbed once in that perfect way it did, his eyes flicking over you in a way that made your heart patter. “…Let me drive you home tonight?” he said.

You nodded quicker than you would have liked, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care in that hue-tinted moment. “Always.”

[fanficwritinggirl]

{Fix It, Daddy - Dr Michael Robinavitch x F!Reader}

Your daughter becomes sick and is rushed to the ED

If you love small-town romance, found family, emotional firefighters, slow-burn love, and characters learning how to heal without having to be perfectly fixed, then I hope you'll give What The Fire Left a read. This story means so much to me, and I can't wait for you to meet Caspian, Corrine, and everyone in Alder Ridge. Available to read on Wattpad @fanficwritinggirl

The apartment was too quiet. Not peaceful quiet. Sick-kid quiet. The kind where cartoons played softly in the background, half-watched, and the usual tornado of four-year-old chaos had been replaced by a small lump on the couch under three blankets and one very dramatic stuffed rabbit. Rosie looked personally offended by the existence of illness. Which, honestly, fair. She was curled into the corner of the couch in dinosaur pajamas, cheeks pink with fever, curls messy from sleep, and clutching Mr. Bunny like he was the only thing holding society together. You stood in the kitchen measuring out another dose of medicine while trying to convince yourself the thermometer was lying. Again.

Robby, meanwhile, had checked her temperature four times in the last twenty minutes. Aggressively. He stood in front of Rosie now, arms crossed, watching her like she might spontaneously combust if he blinked wrong.

"She still feels warm."

You glanced over.

"She has the flu."

"She feels warmer."

"She is four degrees wrapped in blankets."

He frowned like that was medically suspicious. Rosie looked up at him with the tragic expression only sick toddlers and Victorian heroines could truly master.

"Daddy," she said in her tiny, scratchy sick voice, "I'm dying."

Robby sat down beside her so fast it was almost impressive.

"No, baby, you are absolutely not dying."

She leaned dramatically against his side.

"My nose is broken."

You snorted into the medicine cup.

"Your nose is stuffy."

"Broken," Rosie repeated firmly.

Robby nodded with complete seriousness.

"I agree. Very serious condition."

"Thank you," she whispered, like he alone understood her suffering.

Traitor. You walked over with the medicine.

"Okay, tiny plague victim. Drink this."

Rosie narrowed her eyes.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

She looked at Robby for backup. He betrayed her immediately.

"Yes."

Her tiny gasp of outrage deserved an award.

"Daddy!"

"Doctor's orders."

"You're a doctor."

"Exactly."

She stared at both of you like she was considering emancipation.

Eventually, after enough bribery involving popsicles and approximately seven dramatic sighs, she took the medicine and flopped back against the couch like a woman abandoned by the world. Robby smoothed her curls back from her forehead, pressing his lips there automatically. His expression softened in that way it only did with her. Quiet. Protective. Completely gone. You leaned against the doorway, watching them. This was your favorite version of him. Not Dr. Robinavitch. Not everyone's dependable, slightly terrifying attending. Just Robby. Barefoot. In old sweats. Arguing with a four-year-old about medicine like it was life or death. Which, to Rosie, it probably was. He looked up at you.

"She's still too warm."

"She has a fever."

"She's breathing faster."

"She's congested."

"She looks sad."

"She's four."

Rosie lifted one hand weakly.

"I am sad."

Robby pointed at her like Exhibit A.

"See?"

You laughed despite yourself.

"You have to go to work."

His expression shifted immediately. He looked back at Rosie, still curled up in her blanket nest, looking impossibly small.

"I hate leaving when she feels like this."

There it was. Not the doctor. Just Dad. You softened.

"I know."

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, already halfway regretting every professional responsibility he had.

"I know it's just the flu. I just…" He exhaled. "I hate being somewhere else when she needs me."

The honesty of it hit you right in the chest. Because that was Robby. He could handle trauma rooms and mass casualty incidents and impossible shifts without blinking. But one feverish four-year-old with pink cheeks and watery eyes? That wrecked him. You stepped closer, resting a hand on his arm.

"She needs you to keep your job so we can continue funding her incredibly expensive popsicle habit."

That got the smallest smile.

"Valid."

Rosie shifted upright just enough to look at him, blanket still wrapped around her like a tiny fever burrito.

"Daddy stay home."

And there it was. The emotional violence. Robby visibly melted. You watched it happen in real time. His whole face softened, and he looked like a man one tiny cough away from calling out for the rest of his life. Rosie added, quieter this time,

"Please?"

Illegal. Absolutely illegal. He looked at you like maybe the hospital could survive without him. Honestly? Debatable. You crossed your arms.

"Don't even think about it."

"She asked very politely."

"She is manipulating you."

"She learned from the best."

You smiled.

"She really did."

Robby sighed like the burden of fatherhood was tragically heavy and leaned down, pressing another kiss to Rosie's forehead.

"I have to go to work, bug."

She frowned.

"No."

"I know. I hate it too."

"Stay home."

He brushed her curls back gently.

"I'll come home early, okay? And Mommy's here. She's the boss while I'm gone."

Rosie looked at you. Then back at him. Then whispered like she was sharing classified information:

"Mommy meaner."

You gasped.

"Wow."

Robby, the absolute traitor, laughed.

"Honestly? Fair."

You pointed at both of them.

"I do everything in this house."

Rosie nodded solemnly.

"And mean."

Unbelievable. Robby stood, grabbing his bag from the chair by the door, but he hesitated like leaving physically hurt. Because it did. You walked him to the door while Rosie watched sadly from her blanket fortress.

"She'll be okay," you said softly.

He nodded, but not convincingly.

"I know."

"You can text every ten minutes if it helps."

"I was planning every five."

"That feels insane."

"That feels like excellent parenting."

You smiled. He leaned down and kissed you—quick, soft, familiar. Then quieter, against your forehead:

"Call me if anything changes."

"I will."

"Anything."

"I know."

He looked past you toward Rosie, still curled on the couch. Then back at you. Another kiss. Then he was gone. And the apartment felt too quiet again. From the couch, a tiny miserable voice called:

"Mommy?"

You turned. Rosie held up Mr. Bunny weakly.

"He's sick too."

You smiled softly, walking back to her.

"Yeah?"

She nodded.

"Emergency."

By noon, the apartment looked like a pediatric disaster zone. Half-drunk juice boxes. A thermometer abandoned on the coffee table. Three different blankets in active rotation. Mr. Bunny facedown on the floor like he'd also given up. Cartoons still played softly in the background, though Rosie had long since stopped paying attention to them. She'd migrated from the couch to your lap sometime around eleven and had stayed there like a feverish little koala. Hot. Sleepy. Miserable. You sat with her curled against your chest, one hand rubbing slow circles over her back while answering your fifth text from Robby in under two hours.

Robby: Temp now?

You: 101.8 Still hates medicine Still thinks she's dying

Three dots appeared immediately.

Robby: Dramatic. Inherited that from you.

You smiled despite yourself.

You: Rude. She also says Mr. Bunny is critically ill

Robby: Keep me updated on both patients

You shook your head, setting your phone down. Rosie shifted against you with a soft whine.

"Water, baby?"

She shook her head against your shoulder.

"No."

"You have to drink something."

"Nooooo."

The dramatic extension of the word told you she was still at least partially herself. Good. You pressed a kiss to her warm temple.

"Just a little."

After some negotiation that involved exactly two sips of apple juice and one promise of ice cream fraudulently offered for later, she settled again, heavy and warm in your arms. Too warm. You frowned. She'd been running a fever all morning, but now—now something felt off. Mothers knew things. Instinct before logic. You reached for the thermometer again. Rosie groaned dramatically.

"No more."

"Just one more."

"You said that last time."

"And yet here we are."

She gave you the saddest look a four-year-old had ever weaponized. Still—you checked. 103.7 Your stomach dropped. Okay. Not ideal. Not panic. Not yet. You adjusted her against you, trying to stay calm.

"Rosie, baby, can you look at me?"

She did, but slowly. Heavy-lidded. Too tired.

"Do you want to sit up a little?"

"No."

Her voice was weaker now. That—that made your pulse jump. You shifted forward, brushing damp curls off her forehead.

"Rosie?"

She blinked at you. Too slowly. Her breathing had changed. Faster. Shallower. You sat up straighter. No. No, no. Maybe congestion. Maybe fever. Maybe—She coughed, and it sounded wrong. Not dramatic. Just wrong. Like something in your body recognized danger before your brain caught up.

"Okay," you said softly, mostly to yourself. "Okay."

You stood, still holding her, and suddenly everything felt too quiet. Too bright. Too sharp. You carried her to the bathroom, steam from the shower filling the room while you sat on the closed toilet seat with her in your lap, hoping maybe it was just congestion. Maybe she just needed—Rosie's head lolled against your shoulder. Your heart stopped.

"Rosie."

Nothing. Not fully. She stirred, but sluggishly. Too sluggishly.

"Rosie, look at Mommy."

A tiny whimper. No real response. Fear arrived all at once. Cold. Sharp. Total. You grabbed your phone with shaking hands and called Robby. Straight to voicemail. Of course. He was probably in trauma. In a patient room. Saving someone. You called again. Voicemail. Again. Nothing. Your hands were shaking now.

"Okay," you whispered, even though your voice didn't sound like yours anymore. "Okay, okay."

Rosie made another weak sound against your chest. Her skin was burning. Her breathing too fast. Her body too heavy. Every parent had that moment—the one where your brain stopped saying maybe and started screaming now. This was that moment. You stood so fast you nearly dropped your phone. Hospital. Now. Shoes. Keys. Wallet. Blanket. Your brain became a checklist. Movement was easier than panic. You wrapped Rosie in the soft yellow blanket she always wanted when she was sick, grabbed Mr. Bunny because God forbid there be additional tragedy, and wrestled shoes onto your feet one-handed. Rosie barely protested. That scared you more than the fever. She was always loud. Always dramatic. Quiet Rosie was wrong. Everything about this was wrong. You buckled her into the car seat with hands that wouldn't stop trembling. She blinked up at you, flushed and glassy-eyed.

"Mommy?"

"I'm here, baby."

"Want Daddy."

The words nearly broke you.

"I know."

You kissed her forehead.

"I know. We're going to Daddy, okay? We're going right now."

She nodded weakly, clutching Mr. Bunny. You shut the car door and got in the driver's seat trying very hard not to panic and drive at the same time. It did not go especially well. You called Robby one more time as you pulled out. Still nothing. Your grip on the steering wheel tightened. The city blurred past too slowly. Every red light felt personal. Every second too long. In the backseat, Rosie coughed again. You looked at her in the mirror. Too pale. Too tired. Too still. Fear sat in your chest like something alive.

"Stay with me, baby," you whispered.

Half to her. Half to yourself.

"The hospital's close. Daddy's there. We're almost there."

Your voice cracked on the last word. Rosie's eyes fluttered.

"Okay."

And somehow that tiny, sleepy little okay was worse than if she'd cried. The Pitt came into view. Bright. Familiar. Never once this terrifying.

You pulled into the ambulance bay like someone fleeing a crime scene, barely remembering to park. The second the engine stopped, you were moving. Door. Blanket. Rosie. Go.

The automatic doors opened. And suddenly—everything changed.

The automatic doors opened, and suddenly the world got louder. Monitors. Phones. Voices. Footsteps. The sharp fluorescent brightness of the ED hitting all at once. Usually, The Pitt felt familiar. Safe, even. Today it felt terrifying.

You pushed through the doors with Rosie in your arms, the yellow blanket wrapped tight around her small body, Mr. Bunny trapped between you both. Her head rested against your shoulder, too still, too warm, her little hand weakly clutching your shirt. Your heart was somewhere in your throat. Everything felt wrong. Too bright. Too loud. Too slow.

"Hey—"

Frank. He was at triage, halfway through arguing with someone about paperwork when he looked up. The second he saw you, everything changed.

No joke. No teasing. No dramatic Frank commentary. Just immediate seriousness. His face dropped.

"Hey—hey, bring her here."

That alone made your fear spike harder. Because Frank being serious meant this was bad. Really bad. He was already moving toward you before you reached the desk, hands gentle as he touched Rosie's forehead, checked her breathing, looked at her flushed cheeks, then looked at you. And just like that, he wasn't Uncle Frank. He was Dr. Langdon. Sharp. Focused. Steady.

"What happened?"

"Flu," you said too fast, words tripping over each other. "She's had a fever all morning and it got worse and she's too sleepy and she won't really wake up and she's breathing weird and I—I called Robby but he didn't answer and—"

Your voice cracked. Frank nodded once. Calm. Grounding.

"Okay. Okay, I've got you."

Not I've got her. I've got you. And somehow that nearly made you cry. Because Frank—loud, ridiculous, impossible Frank—was suddenly the safest person in the room. He gently touched Rosie's cheek.

"Hey, Ro. Uncle Frank's here, okay? You're good."

Rosie stirred weakly, eyes fluttering.

"Unca Fwank…"

Frank physically looked like someone had punched him directly in the chest.

"I'm here, bug," he said quickly, voice softer than you'd maybe ever heard it. "I'm right here."

Then, louder—

"Mel! Dana!"

Both of them appeared almost instantly. Mel from down the hall, already pulling on gloves. Dana from the nurses' station, coffee abandoned somewhere behind her, expression immediately sharpening the second she saw Rosie. No jokes. No usual dry commentary. Just movement. Fast. Efficient. Terrifying. Dana stepped in beside you first, one hand gentle at your elbow.

"Hey," she said, voice low and calm. "Look at me."

You did. Barely.

"She's here. We've got her. Okay?"

You nodded. She squeezed your arm once. Grounding. Dana wasn't soft often. Which somehow made it matter more when she was. Mel was already checking Rosie over.

"Hi, sweetheart," she said softly, listening to her breathing, checking her pulse, the flush in her cheeks. "Hey, Rosie-bug, can you open your eyes for me?"

Rosie stirred weakly, more instinct than response. Mel's eyes flicked to Frank for half a second. Something passed there. Not spoken. But enough. We need a room. Now. Frank nodded before she even said it.

"Room four's open."

Dana was already moving.

"I'll get oxygen and fluids set up."

Everything happened fast after that. Too fast. Not fast enough. A nurse came with a pulse ox. Someone brought a wheelchair. You refused it immediately.

"I'm carrying her."

No one argued. Because no one with sense argued with mothers in crisis. Frank walked beside you the whole way. One hand at your back. Steady. Grounding. Dana was ahead of you already setting things up. Mel kept asking questions as you moved.

"How long has the fever been this high?"

"Since this morning. It was lower earlier but then it just—"

"Has she been drinking?"

"Barely."

"Any vomiting?"

"No."

"Any history of febrile seizures?"

"No."

"Okay."

You hated how calm they all were. Because it meant they knew how scared you should be. And somehow that was worse. Rosie whimpered softly against your shoulder.

"Mommy…"

"I'm here, baby. I'm right here."

You kissed her burning forehead and nearly broke all over again. Because she was so hot. Too hot. She'd never felt this hot. Once inside the room, everything got worse. Because stopping meant thinking. Thinking meant panic. Mel guided you to the bed.

"Let's get her up here."

You laid Rosie down like she might break. She looked so small in the hospital bed. Too small. Children should never look that small. Dana was already placing the pulse ox gently on Rosie's tiny finger.

"Hey, Rosie," she said quietly. "You're making this place look bad."

Rosie blinked at her sleepily.

"Hi Auntie Dana."

Dana's entire expression shifted for half a second. Tiny. Soft. Gone almost immediately.

"Hi, trouble."

Frank handed you tissues. You hadn't even realized you were crying. Great. Excellent. Love that. Mel was checking her lungs, adjusting oxygen. The monitor beeped too loudly. You hated it instantly. Rosie's lip trembled.

"Don't like it."

Your heart cracked clean in half.

"I know, baby. I know."

Frank leaned against the bed rail.

"Tell you what, when this is over, I'll personally smuggle you the good popsicles."

Rosie blinked at him.

"The red ones?"

"The illegal red ones."

That got the tiniest sleepy nod. Dana muttered while adjusting the IV supplies,

"Do not promise contraband to the pediatric patient."

Frank looked offended.

"She deserves quality care."

"She deserves licensed care."

"Tomato, tomahto."

And somehow, absurdly, that tiny bit of normal helped. Because if Frank was still Frank—maybe the world hadn't fully ended. Mel adjusted the oxygen and looked at you. Not as your friend. Not as Rosie's honorary aunt. As your doctor. And somehow that was scarier.

"We're going to help her breathe a little easier and get fluids going. I need you to stay calm for me, okay?"

You nodded immediately. Even though calm had left your body somewhere in the parking lot. Then—from across the department—you heard his voice. Robby. Somewhere behind you, coming out of trauma two, saying something to Dana's replacement nurse. Normal voice. Work voice. Unaware. And before you even turned—you knew. The second he saw you. The second he saw Rosie. Everything would change. You turned. He was halfway across the hall, chart in hand, still talking—until he looked up. Saw you. Saw Rosie. Saw the oxygen. Saw the fear. And stopped. Completely. The chart slipped slightly in his hand. His face changed in a way you never wanted to see again. Not doctor. Not attending. Not calm. Dad. Terrified dad. It happened in an instant. You watched the exact second his brain stopped being physician and became father. Dana saw it too. She stepped back quietly, giving him the space before he'd even asked for it. He crossed the room so fast it barely registered.

"What happened?"

And there it was. The crack in your composure. Because now he was here. Now you could fall apart. You looked at him and your voice broke instantly.

"She got worse—I didn't know, I thought it was just the flu and then she got so sleepy and she wouldn't wake up and she was breathing weird and I called and—"

"I know," he said immediately, both hands on you now, grounding, steady, even though you could feel the panic under it. "Hey, I know. I know. You did exactly the right thing. You brought her here. She's okay."

His eyes were already on Rosie. Burning. Checking. Assessing. Trying to be doctor and father at the same time. Trying and failing. Because this wasn't some kid. This was his kid. Rosie shifted weakly in the bed, eyes barely opening. And in the smallest, sleepiest little voice—

"Daddy…"

That was it. That was the sound of your husband's heart breaking in real time. Robby was at her side instantly, one hand brushing her curls back, the other holding her tiny hand like letting go wasn't an option.

"Hey, bug," he said, and his voice cracked right down the middle. "Hey, I'm here. I'm right here."

Rosie blinked up at him.

"Don't like it."

His face folded. Completely.

"I know, baby. I know."

She reached for him with weak little fingers. And every person in that room quietly stopped pretending this wasn't destroying them. Frank looked at the ceiling. Dana looked very hard at the monitor. Mel kept working. You stood there trying not to come apart completely. Because seeing Robby scared—really scared—was somehow worse than your own fear. Because if he was scared—then this was real. And that was terrifying.

Robby stayed at Rosie's bedside for exactly thirty seconds before Dana shut that down. It happened the moment he reached for the stethoscope hanging around his neck. A reflex. Instinct. Doctor before thought. Dana caught his wrist. Not hard. Just enough.

"No."

The room went still. Robby looked at her, already tense, already halfway in that dangerous space between physician and father.

"I can help."

"I know."

His voice sharpened.

"Dana—"

She didn't let him finish.

"No, Michael."

Not Robby. Michael. Which somehow made it heavier. Dana held his gaze, calm and unmovable, her voice low and firm.

"You are not her doctor right now."

The words landed hard. Robby's jaw tightened. Every instinct in him was fighting it. You could see it. He needed to do something. Fix something. Control something. That was how he survived everything. Action. Knowledge. Medicine. And right now all of that was being taken away. Dana softened, but only slightly.

"You are her dad."

Silence. Frank stood near the foot of the bed, unusually quiet. Mel kept checking Rosie's breathing, giving Dana the space because she knew Dana was right. Even Rosie, half-asleep and feverish, seemed still. Robby looked at his daughter. Small in the hospital bed. Flushed cheeks. Oxygen tubing. Tiny hand still wrapped around two of his fingers. And something in him gave. Not broke. Just… shifted. Because Dana was right. And he hated that she was right. You stepped closer then, your hand finding his without thinking. Warm. Tight. Familiar. He gripped it immediately. Harder than usual. Like he needed something solid to hold onto. You squeezed back. I'm here. Always. He let out a slow breath. Then nodded once. Barely.

"Okay."

His voice sounded rough. Not doctor voice. Dad voice. The one that only existed for you and Rosie. Dana gave the smallest nod back.

"Good."

Then, because she was still Dana:

"Now stop trying to work and stand there looking stressed like a normal parent."

Despite everything, that almost made you laugh. Almost. Robby swallowed hard.

"I hate this."

"I know."

And somehow that sounded like surrender. Dana stepped in then, practical as ever.

"Great. Since everyone is done having an emotional breakthrough, I need this arm."

She gently reached for Rosie's hand. Rosie frowned weakly.

"No."

Dana crouched beside the bed, suddenly softer.

"Unfortunately, tiny dictator, I need to put your IV in."

Rosie's lower lip trembled.

"No needles."

Frank immediately stepped forward.

"Counteroffer: if you survive this tremendous injustice, I will personally bring you the best contraband popsicle in the hospital."

Rosie sniffled.

"The red one?"

"The illegal red one."

Dana sighed.

"I work with children."

"You chose this life," Frank said.

"I absolutely did not."

Despite everything, you laughed—a broken, tired little sound. Robby looked at you for half a second, and there it was again: that silent thing between you. I'm barely holding it together. Me too. Your fingers stayed laced with his. Neither of you let go. Rosie reached weakly toward him.

"Daddy stay."

He was beside her instantly.

"I'm not going anywhere."

He climbed onto the edge of the bed without hesitation, one arm carefully around her while Dana worked. Rosie buried her face against his chest.

"I don't like this place."

He kissed the top of her head.

"I know, bug. I know."

Dana glanced up.

"Offended, honestly. We worked very hard on this place."

"No offense," Rosie mumbled.

"Some offense taken."

Mel checked her lungs again, her expression unreadable in the way that made you want to scream. You stayed close, your hand resting against Robby's back now, slow comforting circles between his shoulder blades. Grounding him. Trying to ground yourself. Samira appeared quietly in the doorway then, having clearly heard enough to know this wasn't a normal visit. Her eyes went straight to Rosie. Then to you. And immediately softened. She crossed the room and wrapped you in a hug before you could pretend you didn't need one. And that—that nearly undid you more than anything else. Because Samira hugs were dangerous. Too kind. Too safe.

"I'm okay," you whispered.

Samira pulled back just enough to give you a look.

"Lying."

You gave a watery laugh.

"Probably."

She brushed your hair back gently.

"She's in the best place she can be."

You nodded. Even though that didn't make it easier. Samira stepped to the bedside, smiling softly.

"Hey, Rosie-girl."

Rosie cracked one sleepy eye open.

"Auntie Samira."

"There she is."

Rosie looked around blearily. Then asked, in the smallest voice—

"Where's Uncle Jack?"

And there it was. The tiny knife straight to everyone's chest. Because of course she noticed. Of course she expected him too. Samira smiled, warm and easy even as her eyes softened.

"He's at home sleeping, baby. Night shift means Uncle Jack turns into a very grumpy vampire during the day."

That got the tiniest sleepy smile.

"He grumpy."

"He is extremely grumpy."

Frank nodded solemnly.

"Medical fact."

Samira leaned down closer.

"But he told me if you were brave, he'd come by later with snacks and probably let you boss him around."

Rosie considered this.

"Okay."

"Thought so."

Dana was threading the IV line now, focused and careful.

"Everyone in this child's life is exhausting."

"Correct," Frank said.

Rosie looked up at Robby again. Still feverish. Still too warm. Still too tired. But calmer now. Because he was there.

"Daddy?"

"Yeah?"

Her tiny fingers curled in his scrub top.

"Don't go to work."

And there it was again. That quiet devastation. Robby closed his eyes for one second. Just one. Then opened them and kissed her forehead. His hand found yours again where you stood beside the bed. Firm. Certain.

"I'm not going anywhere."

And this time—everyone in the room believed him.

For a little while, things almost felt manageable. Not okay. Never okay. But quieter. Rosie was settled with oxygen, the IV finally in after what Frank dramatically referred to as "the betrayal of modern medicine," and the fever had stopped climbing—for now. She was still too warm. Still too pale. Still curled against Robby like if she let go, the world might end. Which, honestly, felt reasonable. He stayed half-sitting on the edge of the bed, one arm around her, fingers absentmindedly tracing slow circles against her back. His other hand found yours whenever he could reach it. Like if either of you let go, something terrible might happen. You understood that feeling. You were sitting in the chair beside the bed now, exhaustion settling heavy into your bones, your free hand smoothing Rosie's curls back every few minutes just to reassure yourself she was still there. Still breathing. Still here. Mel came back in with updated labs, quiet and focused. Robby looked up immediately. Too quickly. Doctor reflex. Dad panic. Mel noticed.

Of course she noticed.

"She's dehydrated," Mel said gently. "Which we expected. Her lungs are tight, but not alarming. We're staying ahead of it."

Not alarming. You clung to that. Not alarming. Good. Safe. Okay. You nodded like your body remembered how. Robby asked, voice too controlled,

"And the fever?"

"We're watching it."

Which was not an answer. He knew that. You knew that. Mel knew that he knew. But she held his gaze anyway. Steady.

"She's okay, Michael."

He nodded once. Didn't look convinced. Neither were you. Frank reappeared carrying a juice box like it was a sacred offering.

"For the patient," he announced.

Dana, behind him, didn't even look up from Rosie's chart.

"She is four and currently on fluids."

Frank looked offended.

"She may desire options."

"She desires chaos because you raised her wrong."

Frank pointed at Dana.

"That accusation is both rude and completely accurate."

Mel, adjusting Rosie's blanket, said without looking up,

"You absolutely encourage bad behavior."

Frank grinned.

"She thinks I'm fun."

"She thinks glitter glue is a personality trait."

"Which is why she and I understand each other."

That got the smallest smile from Mel—the kind she tried to hide and absolutely failed at. Rosie stirred against Robby's chest, blinking slowly.

"Unca Fwank?"

Frank was at the bedside immediately.

"Yeah, Rosie-girl?"

She stared at him for a long second with the heavy seriousness only sick children possess.

"You old."

Silence. A beat. Then Mel snorted. Dana turned away suspiciously fast. You laughed so suddenly it startled you. Even Robby let out a tired, helpless laugh into Rosie's hair. Frank placed a hand over his heart.

"Wow. Brutal. I show up with medical-grade juice offerings and this is the thanks I get?"

Rosie blinked.

"Wrinkly."

"Unbelievable. I'm being bullied by a toddler."

Mel, still fighting a smile, murmured,

"She's not wrong."

Frank looked personally betrayed.

"Et tu, King?"

"Especially me."

And somehow, absurdly, that helped. Because if Frank was still being dramatic and Mel was still pretending she wasn't amused—maybe the world hadn't fully tilted off its axis. Samira slipped back in a little later with your phone charger, your abandoned bag, and the kind of quiet care that made her impossible not to love.

"I raided your life," she said, setting everything down beside you.

You looked up at her like she'd handed you emotional support itself.

"I might actually cry."

"Acceptable."

She squeezed your shoulder. Rosie cracked one sleepy eye open.

"Auntie Samira…"

"There she is."

Rosie blinked slowly.

"Where's Uncle Jack?"

And there it was. The tiny knife straight to everyone's chest. Because of course she noticed. Of course she expected him too. Samira smiled, warm and easy even as her eyes softened.

"He's probably breaking at least three traffic laws trying to get here."

That got the tiniest sleepy smile.

"He fast."

"He drives like he has no respect for the law or other people."

Frank nodded solemnly.

"Medical fact."

Samira smiled, brushing a curl off Rosie's forehead.

"He's on his way. And he's probably bringing enough snacks to qualify as a health code violation."

Rosie considered this.

"Good."

"Very good."

Dana was threading the IV line now, focused and careful.

"Everyone in this child's life is exhausting."

"Correct," Frank said.

Rosie looked up at Robby again. Still feverish. Still too warm. Still too tired. But calmer now. Because he was there.

"Daddy?"

"Yeah, bug?"

Her tiny fingers curled tighter in his scrub top.

"Fix it."

And there it was. The knife. Because she said it so simply. Because to her, Daddy fixed things. Broken toys. Nightmares. Scraped knees. This should be no different. Robby closed his eyes for one second. Just one. Then opened them. You felt his hand tighten around yours. He kissed her forehead gently.

"I'm trying, baby."

And somehow that was worse. Because you could hear it—the helplessness. The desperation. The fact that if he could take this from her and carry it himself, he would do it without hesitation. For a few minutes, there was peace. Hospital peace. The strange kind. Machines beeping softly. Muted voices in the hall. The rise and fall of your daughter's breathing. Robby's thumb brushing over your knuckles. Your hand still resting against his. Just enough to say: I'm here. I know. Me too. And then—Rosie's body jerked. Small at first. Then again. Sharper. Wrong. You sat up immediately.

"Robby."

He was already moving. Rosie's breathing changed. Too fast. Too shallow. Then—the monitor alarm screamed. Everything happened at once. Dana was at the bedside before the second beep. Mel was already reaching for the oxygen settings. Frank's voice cut through the room—

"Get respiratory—now."

Rosie's little body trembled again and your entire world dropped out from under you.

"Rosie—"

Your voice didn't sound like yours. Robby had both hands on her now, trying to keep her still, trying to keep himself still.

"Hey, hey, bug—look at me. Rosie, look at Daddy."

But her eyes were glassy. Too unfocused. Too far away. Your legs moved before your brain did. You were there. At the bed. At her side. Your hand on her leg. Her hand. Anything.

"Baby, Mommy's here, Mommy's here—"

The fever. Too high. Her body too hot. The possibility hit you all at once. Febrile seizure. The thought made your blood run cold. You looked at Robby. And that—that was the worst part. Because he knew it too. And for the first time that night—you saw real fear. Not controlled concern. Not doctor focus. Fear. Pure. Sharp. Paralyzing. And if Robby was scared—truly scared—then terror became something alive inside your chest. Dana's voice was calm. Too calm.

"We've got her. Stay with me."

Mel was adjusting meds, Frank already beside her without being asked, handing her exactly what she needed before she said it. A practiced thing. An us thing. Everyone was doing everything. And somehow it still felt like not enough. Rosie made a small, broken sound. And Robby—your steady, impossible, always-in-control Robby—looked like he was trying not to break apart right there beside her. He pressed his forehead briefly to hers. One second. Just one. And whispered, so quietly you almost missed it—

"Please, baby."

And that was the moment. The one you'd remember forever. Not the monitors. Not the panic. That. Your husband begging your daughter to stay. And nothing in the world had ever felt scarier.

The seizure stopped. And somehow—the silence after was worse. No alarms. No shouting. No frantic movement. Just the sound of everyone trying to breathe again. Rosie lay still in the hospital bed, tiny and flushed and terrifyingly quiet, her little chest rising too fast, too shallow. Too still. Your whole body was shaking. Your hand was still wrapped around her leg, like if you let go this would somehow become real. Maybe it already was. Maybe you were still waiting to wake up. Robby stood frozen at her bedside, one hand locked around Rosie's tiny fingers so tightly it looked painful. His other hand braced against the bed rail like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Because no one wanted to be the first person to break whatever fragile thing was holding the room together. Then Mel stepped closer, checking her pupils, her breathing, listening to her lungs again. Calm. Steady. Like the world hadn't just tilted off its axis. Finally, softly—

"She's postictal."

You blinked. Your brain felt slow. Heavy. Mel looked at both of you this time.

"She's okay. She's exhausted. Her body needs a minute."

Okay. That word again. You nodded like you understood it. You didn't. Not really. Because okay still felt impossibly far away. Dana adjusted the monitor, eyes on the numbers.

"She's coming back down."

Frank stood near the door, arms crossed so tightly it looked like he was physically holding himself together. For once, no jokes. No commentary. Just watching. Samira had appeared beside you at some point and you hadn't even noticed. Her hand was warm against your back. Grounding. Keeping you upright. Rosie made the smallest sound. Barely there. A weak little whimper. And every person in the room turned toward her like the world had started again. Your heart stopped. Then started. Too fast. Her eyes fluttered. Slowly. Heavy. Confused.

"Daddy?"

That—that was the moment Robby nearly broke. He moved so fast it hurt to watch, leaning over her immediately, one hand brushing damp curls from her forehead.

"I'm here, bug. I'm right here."

Her sleepy eyes searched again.

"Mommy?"

And that was yours. You were there before the word had fully left her mouth, your hand cupping her warm little face, brushing tears and sweat and curls away all at once.

"I'm here, baby. I'm right here."

Her lip trembled.

"Tired."

And there it was. The smallest word in the world. The biggest relief you'd ever felt. Robby swallowed hard beside you.

"I know, baby."

She reached weakly for both of you. No hesitation. Robby climbed onto the edge of the bed and carefully pulled her against him despite the wires, the oxygen, the monitors. Careful. Like she might shatter. Maybe she already had. Maybe all three of you had. You climbed up beside them, ignoring the awkward angle and the hospital equipment and everything else that didn't matter. Rosie curled between you both immediately, one hand fisted in Robby's scrub top, the other reaching for yours. Like she needed proof. That both of you were real. That both of you were staying. You took her hand and kissed her forehead with shaking lips. Still here. Still yours. Still breathing. And suddenly—you couldn't breathe. The adrenaline hit all at once. The crash after the fear. Your hands shook harder. Your chest hurt. Your eyes burned. Because she was okay. Because she hadn't been. Because for one horrible second you thought—No. You couldn't even finish the thought. Robby looked at you. And because he knew you—really knew you—he saw it instantly.

The panic. The aftermath. The collapse. His hand found yours across Rosie without a word. Warm. Certain. Anchoring. You held on like drowning people held on to wreckage. Dana stepped back slightly, finally letting herself exhale. Mel rubbed a hand over her face. Frank looked at the ceiling like he was personally negotiating with the universe. Nobody said it. But everyone had felt it. How close fear had gotten. Mel checked Rosie again, gentler now.

"Her fever spiked too fast. That likely triggered it. We're staying ahead of it now."

You nodded. Maybe. You weren't sure. You couldn't feel your body properly. Only adrenaline and relief and leftover terror. Robby hadn't looked away from either of you. Not once. Dana glanced at him. Then, quieter than usual—

"Michael."

He looked up. Barely.

"They're okay."

Two words. Simple. But they cracked something open. His face shifted. Not dramatic. Not obvious. Just enough. Enough that you saw it. Enough that Dana saw it. Enough that Frank looked away. Robby nodded once. Then once more like maybe the second one would make it true.

"Okay."

But his voice broke anyway. And because sometimes kindness looked like pretending not to notice—Mel busied herself with the chart. Frank made himself useful somewhere else. Dana adjusted the IV for absolutely no reason. Samira squeezed your shoulder. And the room gave him that small mercy. A minute to be a father instead of a doctor. A minute to be scared. A minute to breathe. Rosie shifted sleepily between you both. Her voice barely more than air.

"Daddy came."

Then, after a beat—

"Mommy too."

And that—that destroyed everyone. You let out a broken laugh that turned into tears all over again. Robby pressed a kiss to the top of her head and closed his eyes.

"Always," he whispered.

Always. Not sometimes. Not if he could. Always. And maybe that was the truest thing he'd ever said. Hours later, after the meds, after the fever finally started coming down, after the worst of the fear had loosened its grip—Rosie slept. Really slept. Heavy. Safe. Exhausted. She looked impossibly small in the hospital bed. Tiny fingers still curled around the ear of Mr. Bunny. Flushed cheeks softer now. Breathing steadier. Better. Not perfect. But better. And right now—better felt like everything.

The room was finally quiet. Not emergency room quiet—that never really existed. There were still monitors beeping softly somewhere down the hall, footsteps passing outside the door, the low hum of the hospital carrying on whether your world had stopped or not. But inside this room—quiet. Rosie was asleep. Really asleep. Curled on her side in the hospital bed, one hand still wrapped around Mr. Bunny's ear, curls messy against the pillow, cheeks still pink from fever but softer now. Her breathing was steady. Even. The most beautiful sound in the world. You sat on one side of the bed. Robby on the other. Neither of you had really moved in the last hour. Like standing watch. Like if you looked away, something bad might happen. Exhaustion sat heavy in your bones, but sleep felt impossible. Every time Rosie shifted, your heart stopped. Every single time. Your fingers rested lightly against her ankle over the blanket. Proof. Still here. Still warm. Still yours.

Across from you, Robby sat leaning forward, forearms on his knees, still in scrubs, watching her with that same look he'd had all day. Like he was trying to memorize the fact that she was okay. Like if he watched hard enough, he could keep her that way. You reached across the bed and touched his hand. He turned it over immediately, fingers threading through yours like instinct. For a while, neither of you said anything. There wasn't much left to say. Finally, quietly, you asked:

"Are you okay?"

Robby let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh.

"No."

Honest. Immediate. You nodded.

"Yeah. Same."

He rubbed his thumb over your knuckles.

"I keep replaying it."

You knew exactly what he meant. That moment. The monitor. The shaking. The fear. The worst few minutes of your life. You looked down at Rosie.

"I thought we were losing her."

Saying it out loud made your throat close. Robby's jaw tightened.

"So did I."

There it was again. That honesty he only gave you when things were too big for pretending. He leaned back slightly, scrubbing a hand over his face.

"I've told parents their kid was going to be okay. I've stood in those rooms and watched them wait for me to say the right thing."

His voice was low. Rough.

"And today I was standing there realizing if someone else was in my place, I'd hate them for how calm they sounded."

You gave the smallest, saddest smile.

"Dana was very calm."

"She was infuriatingly calm."

"She threatened you."

"She was right."

"She usually is."

"Unfortunately."

That got the tiniest smile from him. Then it faded. He looked at Rosie again.

"When she said fix it…"

Your chest hurt. Because yes. That.

"She looked at me like I could."

"You would have if you could."

He swallowed hard.

"Yeah."

Quiet. Then quieter:

"I would've taken all of it. Every fever she'll ever have. Every bad night. Every scared second. I would've taken it all if it meant she never had to feel like that again."

You stood and walked around the bed. No hesitation. Just the need to be closer. You sat beside him and leaned into his side, his arm coming around you automatically. Familiar. Safe. Home.

"She knows that," you said softly.

He frowned a little.

"She's four."

"She knows you show up. She knows when she's scared, you're there. She knows Daddy fixes monsters and bad dreams and broken toys and scary hospitals."

You looked up at him.

"That matters."

His hand moved to your hair. Slow. Thoughtful.

"I should've answered my phone."

There it was. The guilt. You pulled back enough to look at him properly.

"No."

"I should have."

"You were working."

"I still should've answered."

"You were saving someone else's kid."

That stopped him. Because that was the truth. The brutal, impossible truth of who he was and what he did. You touched his face. Gentle.

"This is not your fault."

His eyes closed for a second. Just one. Like he needed permission to believe that. A soft knock came at the door. Neither of you moved. Jack stepped in quietly, hoodie over scrubs, looking like he'd come straight from trying to pretend he wasn't worried. He'd clearly already found Samira first—he had that look, the one that said he knew enough and hated all of it. His eyes went straight to Rosie sleeping in the bed. Then to both of you. Softer.

"How is she?"

No jokes. No sarcasm. Just Jack. Robby looked back at Rosie before answering.

"Better."

A pause.

"Scared the hell out of us."

Jack nodded once. Like that was enough explanation. Because it was. He walked over, setting a coffee beside you and a small plastic bag on the chair.

"For you," he said. "Samira said neither of you have eaten like functioning adults."

You looked inside. Crackers. Juice. Hospital gift shop nonsense. Perfect.

"She's a snitch."

"She's correct."

Also true. He stepped closer to the bed, looking down at Rosie with that soft expression he'd never admit to having.

"She asked for me?"

You smiled tiredly.

"First thing she asked Samira."

That hit him. You saw it. Small. Quick. But there. He rubbed the back of his neck.

"Yeah, well. She's got standards."

Rosie shifted a little in her sleep, tiny hand tightening around Mr. Bunny. Jack reached into the bag and quietly pulled out a stuffed giraffe wearing a ridiculous little hospital t-shirt. You stared.

"Of course you bought that."

He looked offended.

"What kind of uncle would I be if I showed up empty-handed?"

"Probably still her favorite."

"Obviously."

He set it gently beside her pillow. For when she woke up. No big speech. No big moment. Just there. Like he always would be. And somehow—that meant everything.

A couple of hours later, the room felt lighter. Not normal. Not quite safe enough for that yet. But lighter. The sharp edge of panic had dulled into something softer—exhaustion, relief, the strange fragile calm that comes after surviving something you were sure would break you. The fever had finally started coming down. Her breathing was easier. The monitors had stopped sounding like threats. Mel had explained that because of the seizure and how high the fever had spiked, they were keeping Rosie overnight for observation upstairs in pediatrics. Which, while terrifying in its own way, also meant she was stable enough to leave the chaos of the ED. That mattered. That helped. For now, though, she was still here—waiting for a room upstairs to open. Safe. Watched. Still yours. And for the first time all day, everyone in the room had started acting like they believed she was actually going to be okay. Rosie was still asleep, sprawled dramatically across the hospital bed like she had personally fought death and found it inconvenient.

Mr. Bunny had been joined by the stuffed giraffe Jack brought, both tucked under one arm like emotional support staff. Frank had declared himself "off-duty but still emotionally available," which mostly meant he'd stolen the chair in the corner and was pretending not to nap. Dana had finally left after threatening Robby one last time to stop trying to read his own daughter's chart like she wouldn't notice. Samira had promised to come back with actual food and not just crackers pretending to be dinner. Mel had gone to check on another patient, after reminding Frank—for at least the third time—that being pregnant did not, in fact, make her medically decorative. He had disagreed. Loudly. Jack was leaning against the wall drinking bad coffee and looking like he intended to stay there until someone physically removed him. And Robby—Robby was still beside Rosie. Of course he was. One hand resting lightly over her blanket-covered leg like proximity alone could keep her safe.

You sat beside him, your shoulder against his, both of you too drained to pretend personal space mattered. The afternoon light coming through the hospital blinds made everything feel strangely softer. Quieter. Rosie stirred. Just a little. A sleepy frown. A shift under the blanket. Every adult in the room immediately noticed. Like a pack of emotionally unstable meerkats. Frank sat up. Jack straightened. You and Robby were already there. Her eyes blinked open slowly. Heavy with sleep. Confused for a second. Then—

"Daddy?"

Robby leaned forward instantly.

"Hey, bug."

Her voice was rough with sleep.

"Why'm I here?"

Well. That was a question. You exchanged a look with Robby. The universal parent look of: how honest are we being today? Robby chose carefully.

"You got really sick, remember? Your fever got too high, so Mommy brought you here so we could help."

Rosie frowned like she disapproved of this entire experience.

"Bad hospital."

Dana would have been offended. You smiled softly, brushing curls from her forehead.

"Very rude of it, honestly."

She looked around the room slowly. At Frank. At Jack. At the giraffe. Her eyes narrowed slightly.

"That mine?"

Jack pushed off the wall immediately.

"Yes. I brought tribute."

She held her hand out with the authority of a tiny queen.

"Gimme."

"Excellent. Demanding already. She's feeling better."

He handed it over solemnly. Rosie inspected the giraffe. Approved. Then her sleepy eyes landed fully on him.

"Uncle Jawk."

Jack smiled.

"Yeah, bug?"

She lifted the giraffe slightly.

"You good uncle."

That—that nearly killed him. Frank made an offended noise from the corner.

"Excuse me? I also brought emotional support and superior charm."

Rosie looked at him.

"You old."

Jack lost it. Actually laughed, loud and helpless. Robby dropped his head for a second, shoulders shaking. You were openly laughing now. Frank pointed dramatically.

"This is targeted abuse."

"Wrinkly too," Rosie added helpfully.

"Unbelievable. I save lives."

Jack wiped at his eyes.

"She's my favorite person."

"Traitor," Frank muttered.

Rosie settled back against the pillows, giraffe tucked under one arm. Then she looked around again.

"Where Auntie Mel?"

Frank answered immediately.

"Bossing everyone around. Very pregnant. Very scary."

From the doorway, Mel's voice:

"I can still hear you, Frank."

Perfect timing. She walked in carrying a chart and the kind of look that said she was deciding whether murder was worth the paperwork. Rosie brightened immediately.

"Auntie Mel!"

Mel softened instantly, walking to the bedside and brushing a hand over Rosie's hair.

"There she is. Feeling better?"

Rosie nodded once. Then very seriously, she pointed at Mel's stomach.

"Baby okay?"

And there it was. Mel smiled—real and warm.

"Baby's okay, sweetheart. Just like you."

Rosie seemed satisfied with that. Critical information received. She nodded once.

"Good."

Robby was trying and failing not to smile. You kissed Rosie's forehead.

"How are you feeling now?"

She considered it.

"Tired."

"Fair."

"Hungry."

Better. Definitely better. Frank stood immediately.

"I was born for this moment."

"You were absolutely not," Jack said.

Frank ignored him.

"I shall retrieve the sacred red popsicle."

And disappeared before anyone could stop him. Rosie watched him go, then snuggled deeper into the pillows, sleepy but calmer now. She looked at all of you—her strange collection of hospital aunties and uncles and exhausted parents—and smiled. Small. Real. Safe. And just like that—the whole day felt survivable.

By the time Rosie was finally moved upstairs to pediatrics, the sun was starting to set. The frantic terror of the day had faded into something quieter. Not gone. Probably never gone, if you were being honest. But quieter. The pediatric floor felt different from the ED. Softer. Less chaos. More quiet voices. More pastel walls trying very hard to convince children hospitals were fun. Rosie, now significantly recovered and therefore significantly bossier, had strong opinions about all of it.

"This room pink."

"Yes," you said, helping settle her into the new bed.

"Too pink."

Jack, carrying approximately twelve unnecessary things behind you, nodded solemnly.

"She's right. It lacks edge."

Frank, who had somehow followed despite being repeatedly told to go home, pointed at the cartoon frog mural.

"That frog has seen things."

"It's judging me," Jack agreed.

"It should."

Rosie giggled. Real giggled. And the sound of it nearly knocked the breath out of you. Because there it was. Your girl. Still your girl. Robby was handling admission paperwork with the kind of intensity usually reserved for trauma cases, because if he stopped moving, he might have to feel things again. Dana had texted three separate threats reminding him he was not allowed to secretly practice medicine on the pediatric floor. He had ignored all of them. Naturally. Mel leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the whole circus unfold with tired amusement.

"You all know she is, in fact, allowed to rest without a committee present."

"No," Frank said immediately.

"Incorrect," Jack added.

Samira, arriving with actual food and better judgment than everyone else, sighed.

"This is why none of you are allowed in civilized society."

Rosie, from the bed:

"Stay."

And that was that. Nobody argued with the patient. Hospital law. A little while later, Princess and Perlah appeared—both out of scrubs, both very clearly off shift, and both looking like they had absolutely no intention of staying away once they'd heard Rosie had been admitted. Princess walked in first, holding a small stuffed unicorn and a level of offended concern usually reserved for major crimes. Perlah followed with juice boxes and snacks like she was responding to a humanitarian crisis.

"There's my girl," Princess said immediately, crossing to the bed.

Rosie brightened.

"Auntie Princess!"

Princess leaned down, kissing her forehead.

"I leave for one day off and you start scaring people?"

Rosie pointed at Frank.

"Uncle Fwank old."

Princess didn't even blink.

"Correct."

Frank looked around the room.

"This is harassment."

Perlah stepped in next, gentler, smiling as she brushed Rosie's curls back.

"Hi, sweetheart. Heard you gave everyone a very dramatic day."

Rosie accepted the juice box with the seriousness of a CEO accepting a merger.

"I sick."

Perlah nodded.

"Yes, baby, we noticed."

Before anyone could recover, Santos and Whitaker appeared in the doorway—both freshly off shift, still carrying that exhausted end-of-day energy. Whitaker pointed into the room before she even stepped inside.

"Absolutely not. Why are half of the ED staff in pediatrics for one four-year-old?"

Jack, from the chair:

"Because she's important."

Frank raised a hand.

"And because she's funny."

Whitaker narrowed her eyes.

"This is how hospitals collapse."

Santos walked in behind her, smiling softly at Rosie.

"I was trying to leave like a responsible adult, but apparently that wasn't allowed."

Rosie sat up a little.

"Auntie Santos!"

"There she is."

Santos leaned down, squeezing her hand gently.

"How're you feeling?"

Rosie held up the stuffed giraffe.

"Got giraffe."

Whitaker nodded seriously.

"Excellent. Medically necessary."

Javadi appeared last, quieter than the rest, carrying a coloring book someone had clearly forced into his hands. He looked at the room, then at the sheer number of people gathered around one tiny hospital bed. Then deadpan:

"I leave for ten minutes and the entire emergency department relocates."

Even Robby laughed at that. A real one. Small. Tired. But real. Princess crossed her arms.

"Well obviously. She's our favorite patient."

Frank looked offended.

"She is not a patient. She is management."

"Worse," Mel said.

Rosie, entirely pleased with herself, sat surrounded by stuffed animals, snacks, and what was quickly becoming an illegal number of visitors. You stood there for a moment just taking it in. The noise. The teasing. The ridiculous amount of people who loved your daughter enough to show up. Who stayed. Who made hospitals feel less like hospitals. Robby came back from the nurses' station and stopped in the doorway, taking in the crowd with one long look. Then:

"Why are there somehow more of you?"

Princess smiled sweetly.

"Support."

Whitaker added,

"Surveillance."

Perlah:

"Snacks."

Jack:

"Vibes."

Frank:

"Justice."

Javadi:

"Poor boundaries."

That one made everyone laugh. Even Mel. Especially Mel. Rosie looked up at Robby.

"Daddy, they stay."

He looked at the room full of people who had absolutely no intention of leaving. Then at his daughter. Then sighed. Defeated.

"Yeah, bug. I gathered that."

She smiled, deeply pleased with herself. Then, sleepier now, she reached for both of you.

"Mommy stay. Daddy stay."

You sat beside her immediately.

"We're staying."

She nodded. Satisfied. Then, after a long pause:

"Uncle Jawk stay too."

Jack looked deeply honored. Frank made another offended noise.

"This favoritism is getting ridiculous."

Rosie pointed at him with sleepy authority.

"Uncle Fwank go home."

The room dissolved. Even Whitaker laughed. Frank clutched his chest.

"I have been exiled from my own found family."

Samira patted his shoulder.

"Gracefully accept defeat."

He sighed dramatically.

"For her, I shall endure."

Rosie was already drifting back to sleep again, smiling against your shoulder. Safe. Warm. Here. And surrounded by entirely too many aunties and uncles—it somehow felt exactly right.

The room was quiet again by the time visiting hours had become more of a suggestion than a rule.

Eventually, everyone had been bullied into leaving. Frank had gone last, dramatically announcing that Rosie would "never financially recover" from missing him, while Mel stood beside him looking deeply unimpressed. At one point, as he kept talking, he reached for her hand without even thinking, his other hand briefly resting against her stomach like second nature before she rolled her eyes and told him to stop being dramatic. He did not. Naturally. Jack had promised to come back in the morning with better coffee and worse opinions, and while he was talking, Samira stood beside him with that familiar patient look, their hands linked together like it was the most natural thing in the world. She apologized for him without sounding even slightly sincere. Princess and Perlah had kissed Rosie goodnight like honorary aunties with full legal rights. Santos, Whitaker, and Javadi had finally been chased home after lingering far longer than necessary. Dana had texted three separate warnings that said essentially the same thing.

Go home. Eat something. Stop being insane. Robby was ignoring that too. Naturally.

Now it was just the three of you. Rosie asleep in the hospital bed, one arm around Mr. Bunny, the giraffe tucked beside her like backup security. The soft glow of the hallway lights spilled into the room. The monitors beeped quietly. Steady. Safe. The best sound in the world. You sat in the chair beside her bed, your hand resting lightly over the blanket near her foot. Robby sat beside you, close enough that your knees touched, both of you too tired to pretend otherwise. For a while, neither of you said anything. Just watched her breathe. Just existed in the relief of it. Finally, quietly, Robby said,

"They'll monitor her overnight. Keep an eye on the fever, make sure there's no more seizure activity."

You nodded. You already knew, but hearing him say it still helped. Made it feel real. Manageable.

"If her fever stays under control and she keeps drinking fluids, they'll discharge her tomorrow."

Tomorrow. Such a small word. Such a huge relief. You let out a breath you felt like you'd been holding since noon.

"Tomorrow sounds nice."

"Tomorrow sounds perfect."

Silence again. Softer this time. You looked over at him. His hair was a mess. His scrubs were wrinkled. He looked exhausted in a way that went deeper than being tired. But he was here. Still here. Still holding it together. Barely. You reached for his hand. He took yours immediately, like instinct. And before you could stop yourself—

"I should've brought her in sooner."

The words came out quiet. Too honest. Robby frowned immediately.

"What?"

"I thought it was just the flu. I kept thinking if I got fluids into her, if I got her fever down, if I just—"

Your voice caught.

"I kept telling myself not to panic. And what if I waited too long?"

There it was. Your guilt. The awful, ugly what if. Because mothers carried those too. He turned fully toward you.

"No."

You looked away.

"What if I missed something?"

"You didn't."

"I should've known sooner."

His hand tightened around yours.

"Hey."

That voice. The one that made you look at him. The one that meant listen.

"You got her here. You knew when it mattered. You trusted your gut and you brought her in."

His eyes were steady. Certain.

"You did exactly what she needed."

Your throat tightened. Because part of you still didn't believe it. Because fear liked to rewrite things after the fact. He softened.

"She's upstairs because of you. She's sleeping because of you. She's okay because you moved when it counted."

That hit. Hard. You looked over at Rosie. Sleeping. Safe. Still here. And suddenly your eyes burned all over again.

"I was so scared."

Your voice was barely there. Robby nodded.

"I know."

Not fixing it. Not dismissing it. Just knowing. And somehow that made it worse. You leaned closer, your shoulder pressing into his.

"I thought if something happened to her, I'd never forgive myself."

His arm came around you immediately. Instinct. Like breathing.

"Nothing happened."

"But it almost did."

Quiet. Honest. True. He rested his cheek briefly against your hair.

"Yeah."

And for a second, neither of you said anything. Because sometimes there wasn't a better answer than the truth. Finally, you whispered,

"She asked you to fix it."

His hand moved over yours. Slow.

"She asked for both of us."

That broke something open. Because she had. Daddy. Mommy. Both. Not one carrying it alone. Never one carrying it alone. You looked up at him. Small. Tired. Certain.

"I love you," he said.

Simple. Quiet. Like truth. Not dramatic. Not performative. Just real. The kind of words said after surviving something. Your eyes stung instantly. Good. Excellent. Love that. You smiled anyway.

"I love you too."

His thumb brushed across your knuckles. Slow. Familiar. Then he leaned over and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Gentle. Lingering. The kind of kiss that said everything words didn't. Thank you. I'm sorry. I'm here. We're okay. You closed your eyes for a second and let yourself breathe. Really breathe. For the first time all day. When you opened them again, Rosie shifted softly in her sleep but didn't wake. Still safe. Still okay. You leaned into Robby then, letting your head rest on his shoulder. His arm tightened around you automatically. Like home. Like the only place in the world that made sense. Together, you sat there in the dim hospital room, watching your daughter sleep. Listening to the steady beep of the monitors. Holding hands. Breathing. Tomorrow would come. The fever would break. Rosie would go home. Life would keep moving. But for now—for this quiet little moment in the middle of the storm—this was enough.

[quicksilver21]

A Year, Anyways: Chapter 9

M.R. x reader

Series summary: Robby left for his sabbatical without a thought and you’re left to pick up the pieces. But now he’s back at PTMC and trying desperately to reconnect. Robby learns the truth of how long a year really is.

WC: 2k

Tags/Content: unexpected pregnancy, motherhood, past relationship, second chance relationship, slow burn, implied age gap, hurt, angst, reader is high key avoidant, no use of Y/N, possible OC ish, Robby calls reader baby, mental heaviness, hospital inaccuracies, they’re really bad at communicating, lot of swearing

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The heart monitor beeped a soft steady rhythm as Mason’s chest rose and fell in his sleep. Babies bounce back fast, you knew that, but it was crazy to see it in your own child. Mason was tough. An hour ago, maybe, he had been cooing at you while playing with Robby’s finger. He was fine, you knew that, still you hadn’t left his side since the allergy attack.

Robby sat in the chair on the other side of the small hospital crib. His mouth worked like he was turning something over in his head.

He probably was.

It didn’t really matter.

You didn’t have enough energy left to care.

Your back aches from the way you had been slumped over the side of the crib, watching how Mason’s nose twitched in his sleep.

Still, you have to remind yourself that the doctors said he was fine. The monitors say he is fine. Robby keeps telling you he is fine.

It’s all fine.

So fine, your eyes start to drift shut from your awkward position. You’ll have a crick in your back in the morning.

Worth it.

“That scared the shit out of me,” Robby's voice comes out soft and a little broken. Too honest for the small room in the pediatric ward.

“Me too.” You mutter as your eyes shut and breathing starts to slow.

“No, you know what scared me?” That peaks your interest enough for you to open your eyes.

“Mason not being able to breathe?”

“That, yes,” he runs a hand over his exhausted faced. “But you froze. I’ve seen you in countless emergency situations. You’ve never done that.”

You open your mouth to explain yourself, but no words come out. It’s true, you froze. You froze when you needed to be a doctor.

“No,” he says suddenly, dragging you from your spiraling. “Don’t get lost in your head. I’m not talking like I’m your boss. I’m talking like… whatever the fuck we are.”

Whatever the fuck we are.

Truer words had never been spoken.

“He was having an allergic reaction.” You softly, taking the time to stretch your joints out. Maybe it was to seem in control, you didn’t feel in control. It sure as hell looked like exhaustion.

“They asked about his weight,” he continues, searching the air for the words like they might magically appear there. “You couldn’t answer. And you looked at me like you thought I could.”

You shake your head, trying to back yourself up into that corner in your head where you could be safe. You were tired. Really tired.

“Anyone would have panicked.” You say dryly. Slumping in the spare chair, your fingers fiddling with the hem of your shirt. People panicked in those situations, still it didn’t feel good.

“You’re right, but I’ve never seen you panic.”

You watch Mason again. The hospital onesie seemed awfully uncomfortable. You knew they were soft, but it didn’t smell like home. The nurses had told you hours ago to stop fussing. The best thing you could do was rest apparently.

“I’m his mother. I was supposed to know.” It doesn’t fix the buzzing in your head or the pressure in your chest. But, you were too worn out to come up with something better to fit in your box.

“No.”

You glance over. He was watching Mason too. His eyebrows pinched together in that way you remember them doing when he was trying to solve the problems of the world.

“You weren’t supposed to know.” He stands up slowly, leaning over the crib to adjust a wire that didn’t need adjusting. “You were supposed to be his mom. You did that.”

Al laugh escaped before you can stop it.

Not because it was funny.

Because it sounded so simple when he said it.

Just be his mom.

You were never just his mom. The past year of your life couldn’t be summed up into a simple job description. It was a series of impossible choices made by a woman running on three hours of sleep and blind panic.

“That’s easy to say now.”

His eyes float over to meet yours. You could see him trying to make sense of you.

“What does that mean?”

You stare at Mason’s tiny hand curled in the hospital sheets.

God, you don’t have the energy for this.

For a moment, you think about telling him nevermind. But you’re too tired to do damage control.

“I didn’t have anyone else,” you say before your brain could stop it.

Robby opens his mouth.

“Those first months,” you continue, staring at the floor between your shoes. “I didn’t have anyone else.”

You’d regret it later. Sure. Blame it on the heaviness in your limbs.

“I filled out every form myself,” you continue. “Every sleepless night, every doctor's appointment, every decision was my call.”

“I know,” he says, sucking in a breath to continue. Your finger shoots up between you before he can speak.

“Don’t,” you say quietly. “You know what happened. You don’t know what it was like.”

He takes your words in as he settles back into his chair. Truthfully, he didn’t know how to handle this version of you. You weren’t screaming and you weren’t running. You just… spoke. Honestly.

“You’re right. I don’t know what it was like.” He bows his head, “But I’m here now.”

“Every time I turn around, you’re there.” Your eyes snap to him, taking in every breath and movement in his face. You needed him to hear this. You don’t know why you do, but you do. It didn’t have to make sense. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

The air in the room felt heavy, not in a panicking way. In a way that you hadn’t felt in many months. You were sleep deprived, starving, and emotionally worn out.

“You know what I remember about his birth?” You start softly. Robby looks at you, really looks.

“Paperwork.”

It was simple. A simple thing to remember in the grand scheme of a life altering event.

“Everyone talks about the big things.” You shake your head, gnawing at your lip. “I remember paperwork. The insurance forms, emergency contacts, the pediatrician forms…” your voice trails off as the memories you had pushed away for so long flood back in.

“The nurse handed me the birth certificate paperwork and asked me who the father was…”

Your voice catches.

Funny.

You could remember what you ate for breakfast that morning. Couldn’t remember the names of half the nurses who floated through your room that night. Couldn’t remember Mason’s first cry. But you remembered that.

That little blank line.

The cheap hospital pen.

The pitying look in the nurse’s eye when you paused.

“I didn’t know what to write.”

Your eyes, misty and red-rimmed finally lift to his.

“You know what I ended up doing?” Your breath shakes from the weight of the memory.

Robby doesn’t answer.

“I sat there for twenty minutes staring at that line.” Your laugh comes out hollow and broken.

“Twenty minutes. Because I kept thinking if I wrote your name down, I was choosing for you.” A tear traced down your cheek. You don’t wipe it away.

“And if I left it blank I was choosing for Mason.”

You swallow hard. “Nobody talks about sitting in a hospital making choices that don’t belong to you.”

You try to steady your shaking hands, “Do you know how badly I wanted someone else to tell me what to do?”

He doesn’t move. Just sits in his hospital chair like a statue. To ashamed to meet your eye.

Your voice was barely above a whisper.

“Just once.”

The words hang there for a second.

Then the exhaustion finally wins.

“Screw you for putting me through that.” It’s pried somewhere deep in your soul. The reason you had been avoiding the whole time.

The silence seems to choke the air out of the room. For many minutes, there doesn’t seem to be any ambient noise. Just the sound of bated breath and facts.

Robby’s gaze falls to his hands. He rubs his palms together once. Then again.

He can’t fix that for you.

He knows that.

He can’t undo any of it.

It’s a year he can’t take back.

The muscle in his jaw ticks. There isn’t some joke he can make. There isn’t some carefully chosen thing he can say to make everything hurt less.

There’s just him.

“Jesus…” he sucks in a breath. “I don't know what to say to that.”

“Yeah, no one does.”

His eyes drift over to Mason. His son. The son who he loved dearly. Then to the woman across from him who he would move mountains for if she asked. He couldn’t move this one.

He tries to picture you there alone in that hospital room.

The image makes something painful twist in his chest.

“What did you put?” The question comes out quiet.

You wipe your eyes with the edge of your sleeve. “I left it blank for three days. Then I wrote your name.”

His eyes shut. Just for a second.

“You wrote my name.” It comes out sounding more like a question than a statement.

Even at your angriest. Even when you felt the most abandoned. Even when you were completely alone.

You still chose him.

It’s an earth shattering revelation. For the past month, he’d been acting like he needed to earn his place here. But you’d given him a place from the start. Even angry. Even alone. You’d written his name.

“Why?”

“Because I was angry, not stupid.” You say softly.

He lets out a laugh. That was so you to say.

“Do you know what kills me?” He starts softly.

“What?”

“You keep talking like I wasn’t there… and I wasn’t. But, somehow, you’ve convinced yourself I would’ve chosen not to be.”

“Hell,” he sucks in a breath. “I would’ve thought that too.”

He looks down at his hands. His dry cracked hands from washing them too much.

“But God, I wish you’d stop looking at me like I looked at him and walked away.”

He rubs a hand over his face.

“You know what the worst part is? If things had been different… if I hadn’t left…” his voice cracks. “I don’t know if I would have been the man you were describing. Fuck, I don’t know if I’d be the man I’m trying to be now.”

It’s ugly.

Honest.

And not the answer you expected.

You’d spent so much time being angry at the version of him that left that you never stopped to consider he might be angry at that version too.

“I don’t know.” You admit quietly, with a shake of your head. “But you’re everywhere, Michael.”

You try to select your words carefully.

“You show up. You know his bedtime. You know the bottles he likes.” Your voice is exhausted and a little forced. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

His eyes meet yours, pleading and raw. For once he wasn’t apologizing. He was just here.

“You don’t have to trust me tomorrow. Or next week.”

He looks to Mason like the four month old could give him some guidance.

“I just need you to stop acting like I’m temporary.”

You nod once, a small pivotal gesture.

“Yeah, probably should.”

The monitor continued their steady rhythm.

Nothing was truly fixed.

The hurt was still there, sitting between you.

Tomorrow would still be hard.

But, for the first time in a long time, the room didn’t feel as suffocating. The possibility of keeping him in your life felt real.

The thought lodged somewhere between your ribs.

Somehow, that was more frightening than the anger ever had been.

AN: I would like to point out how few italicized thoughts there are in this one…

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© quicksilver21 2026

[shamebats]

"it's just stress" oh thank god, it's just the silent killer that slowly kills you, perfectly harmless, no need to worry

[ofwings]

Are you single?

do these look like the posting habits of someone experiencing romance

[90s-kid-sad-adult]

I made you short?

[taknbythewind]

perception is the key, it’s evident to me

summary: maybe things between you and jack aren’t as professional as you thought…

pairing: jack abbot x resident!reader

wc: ~2.3k

warnings: none really just teasing from santos and extremely brief medical talk (cuz idk how to write all that), hashtag dr abbot is a flirt

a/n: send me dr abbot and pope cody requests, its summer break and i’m daydreaming extra

“You and Abbot need to figure your shit out soon or I’m going to lose it,” Santos groaned as she threw herself into the rolling chair next to you at the charting station.

Your fingers paused over the keys, briefly glancing at her out of the corner of your eye before focusing back on the screen, “What are you talking about?”

Santos just stared at you, “Seriously?” she deadpanned. You just gave her an expectant look, waiting for her to elaborate. She let out a tortured sigh, “I don’t know what’s going on between you guys, but the longing looks and the lingering touches are freaky. You need to figure it out before I file a complaint to HR,” she grumbled.

“There’s nothing going on between us,” you scoffed, ignoring the rest of her comment. There was nothing to report to HR, even if you knew she was only joking. She was in no place to talk about workplace relationships.

“Yeah, like anyone believes that,” she laughed.

“It’s true,” you defended, “we’re just friends, barely that even, we’re coworkers,” you explained. “I’m still not sure if he even likes me.”

She guffawed, “Please, he’s obsessed with you!”

“He tolerates me,” you corrected.

“I’m starting to understand what your guys’ issue is,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief.

You sighed, turning to fully face her, “We don’t have an issue. He’s our boss, Trin. As handsome as that man may be, that’s a can of worms I’d rather leave unopened.”

“Technically, Robby’s our boss,” she perked up at your slight admission.

“Technically, he’s still an attending,” you shot back.

“An attending that you want to bone,” she chuckled, finally scanning her badge to at least pretend she was charting alongside you.

Your cheeks burned and you glanced around quickly to make sure no one heard her brazen comment, finding everyone to be distracted with their own duties in the busy ED.

“Jesus, Trinity, are you trying to fuel the rumor-mill?” you hushed, “Just drop it, as interested as I possibly might be, there’s no way he would even glance my way.”

“For a doctor, you’re pretty dumb,” she said simply, making you scoff. Santos began actually tackling her mountain of charting, leaving you offended and confused as you tried to do the same.

You typed away on your computer, fighting your eyes that kept drifting to the entrance of the ED hoping for a glimpse of him, since it was drawing closer to shift change. You chewed on the inside of your cheek as Santos' words echoed in your mind. If other people were picking up on your silly crush, you worried what Dr. Abbot himself thought. You were certain you kept things professional, but Santos' questioning had you second guessing the reality of what you presented.

Your stomach sank at the thought of him knowing about your feelings. Maybe you had been too obvious and should rethink your interactions with your attending. You didn't want to make him uncomfortable—and you especially didn't want to face the inevitable rejection that would come once he really did figure it out.

Strictly professional, from here on out. No more longing looks, as Santos put it, from you.

You only made it through a chart and a half—losing the battle of unprofessional thoughts that tried to steal your focus—when the never-ending intake of the ED demanded your attention again, Dana calling out a case for you to take on.

“Dana, I’m playing catchup here,” you protested.

“I don’t care, and the patient in central 7 doesn’t either, kid,” Dana scolded, handing you a tablet.

You sighed and accepted the device from her, closing out your electronic pile of charting that will still be waiting for you when you get off in an hour. Any hope you had of actually getting out on time was officially smothered.

Luckily, it was a pretty straightforward case. A high school football player with a gnarly dislocated shoulder that just needed a reset and some scans to rule out any internal issues. The kid would be stuck with a sling for a few weeks, but he’d live.

Stepping out of central 7, you just ran your hands under the sanitizer dispenser before your last name was being called from the ambulance bay entrance.

“Jump on this one,” Robby called to you from the side of the gurney. You moved to rush over to trauma room 1 where the they were heading, and couldn’t ignore the flutter in your chest when you caught sight of the very handsome doctor you’ve been waiting to arrive.

Schooling your expression, you stepped up to the bedside next to Robby as he relayed the case to you, and started the eFAST exam. Swallowing thickly, you allowed yourself one glance at him—just one, purely professional glance—to hold you over while you worked along side him. When you looked up, you found his eyes already on you, face unreadable, but gaze piercing. You felt yourself flush from head to toe at being caught and quickly looked back towards the monitor, clearing your throat.

“Chest, lungs, and belly are clear,” you announced with a steady voice, though it was far from what you felt.

“Good,” Robby replied, “what are your next steps?” he asked you.

You thought through all the next possible courses of action and announced what you thought was best, “and better do a full work up, CBC, BMP, and CMP, just to be safe.”

“Very good, Dr. Y/l/n” Abbot said lowly, pointedly. You kept your head down and focused on the patient—willing your heart to return to a normal rhythm, missing the curiously amused look Robby shot the man in front of you.

Once the patient was stable and all the proper orders placed, you rushed out of the trauma room, not lingering for any small talk like you might usually do. Shoving your gown and gloves into the biohazard bin, you took a deep breath as you beelined for the monitors to—hopefully—finish the rest of your charting and clock out with your dignity still intact.

Picking up the dictation device to speed things up, you get lost in the flow of differentials and diagnoses. You were on your last chart, only a couple hours past the technical end of your shift when the sound of your first name startled you from right behind you.

You let out a gasp of surprise, dictating device clattering onto the desktop, “Christ, you scared me,” you breathed through a chuckle, looking over your shoulder to see the man who's been haunting your thoughts, “don’t sneak up on me like that.”

He rounded the small work station to face you and fixed you with another unreadable look, leaning his forearms on the narrow desk, demanding your attention. He smelled like antiseptic and the aftershave he uses, fresh and woodsy with a slight hint of mintiness, and underlined with something undeniably him. Your body breathed deeper on its own, like his scent was a resource you've been deprived of, subconsciously leaning towards him.

His eyes searched your face in the way that always made your body feel warm and your head a little fuzzy, like he was memorizing your features and cataloging each reaction you gave him.

“Good job on that trauma earlier” he said in his low tone.

You almost preened at the praise before your eyes caught movement in the distance over his shoulder. Santos walked past, raising her thin eyebrows at your close proximity in a pointed look. Heat rose to the back of your neck and you sat up straighter, putting some distance between the two of you and cleared your throat.

Right, professional.

"Thank you, Dr. Abbot," you replied simply, professionally, looking back to your monitor. Pretending to read over your charting, you missed the furrow that briefly pulled at his brows.

“Dr. Abbot?” he questioned. You hummed in response, eyes focused ahead and not meeting the intense gaze that you felt assessing your every expression. "Everything alright? Shift go okay?"

“I’m just very behind on charts and would like to get home at a reasonable time,” you supplied breezily.

“That why you blew me off in trauma 1 earlier?” he raised his eyebrows. You hummed noncommittally in reply. “Yeah?” he murmured lowly, dipping his head to try and catch your gaze.

"I'm not sure what you mean," you said.

"No? So you weren't avoiding me in there?" he hummed with a quirked brow, "and not when you ran out before I could say more than four words to you?" All you could do was shake your head dumbly. "Or right now, how you refuse to look away from the chart you're just clicking around on, instead of talking to me?"

Shit. Maybe you didn't know how to be casual and professional around him. It was either stare after him with hearts in your eyes or cold shoulder—which he was clearly not going to let fly.

Unable to avoid it any longer, you met his eye. He was leaning so close he was practically laying on the desk, his forearms crossed underneath his chest. You had to will your focus to remain on his piercing gaze and not glance at the sight of the delicious flesh oh his biceps within biting distance.

When all you did was look at him with your mouth hanging open he chuckled softly.

"Right, so you wanna tell me what's goin' on?" he asked, genuine worry lacing his features.

"It's nothing, I promise," you sighed out, voice sincere, but the way you trailed off said there was more. He looked at you pointedly, eyebrows raised and stance unwavering. "It's just," you began again, trying to chose your words carefully and not reveal your silly (huge) feelings for the older man, "some people may view our interactions as...unprofessional, and although I don't mind them, I don't want anyone getting the wrong idea and assuming there's anything actually going on besides our professional relationship."

There. You said it, and it was professional, and casual, and in no way revealing of your true feelings and...he was looking at you funny. Now what did you do wrong, you groaned internally.

"Huh," was all he said after a long moment, brows furrowed as he tilted his head curiously at you.

You swallowed nervously, thinking you offended him, "I-I'm not implying that there is anything unprofessional—" His gruff chuckle cut you off, "what?" you asked a bit defensively, still worried you completely dug yourself into a ditch with your attending who was laughing at you.

"Nothing, its just," he paused to shake his head slightly, a small smile pulling at his mouth to slightly reveal his perfectly imperfect teeth where he bit into his lower lip softly, "I was sorta hoping there was something going on besides our 'professional relationship,'" he said, glancing away...shyly?

Was Dr. Abbot blushing?

You felt something like heat bloom in your chest and expand through your body, tingling down your spine and into the tips of your fingers. You couldn’t be sure you weren’t vibrating in your seat from pure excitement.

Trinity was right, again. Damn she’s got killer intuition.

Stealing your nerves you managed to reply with impressive stability and even a little flirtatiously; “Is that right, Dr. Abbot?”

At the shift in your tone he looked at you again, taking in the bite of your lip where you were trying to suppress your giddiness.

“Yeah,” he said, “ain’t exactly been subtle about it,” he said pointedly and you blushed at your naivety. It all made sense now. It was silly to deny the magnetic pull you’ve felt towards him for so long, you definitely have some lost time to make up for now.

“I didn’t know!” you giggled. He shook his head in amusement.

“I’m sorry sweetheart,” he tsked, “I’ll try and be more clear,” he leaned even closer to hold your gaze, taking a moment to look at you before continuing, “I want you,” he rasped, watching as you swallowed thickly. His eyes falling to your pink lips where they parted, breath picking up ever so slightly, before slowly returning to yours. “What’d ya say, hmm?” he teased, “Let me take you on a date, out me out of my misery?”

You let out a shaky breath, all thoughts leaving you. You nodded quickly in response when you realized he was waiting for your answer. He tutted with a small smirk.

“Words, pretty girl,” he said quietly, just got you. Your eyes widened and you cursed yourself for letting him have such an obvious effect on you, but could anyone blame you?

“Yes, that sounds nice,” you answered, a bit breathless. A wide grin spread across his face, eyes crinkling and canines glistening as he stood up to his full height from where he was draped over your desk.

“Great!” he called as rapped on the desk once, making you jump slightly as the noise snapped you out of the trance he’d put you under. “Breakfast after work sound good?” he said breezily and you nodded before he raised his brows expectantly and you answered yes with a burning blush. He winked before he turned around, retuning to the chaos of the pitt.

You took a deep breath, suddenly aware how hot you’d become. Turning back to yours computer you catch Trinity looking at you from by the nurses station, jaw a little slack but ultimately her face was gloating. I told you so, was written all across it. You just rolled your eyes, but there was no hiding the excited on your face as you finally turned back to your charts.

You and Abbot will definitely be figuring things out.

[crosshajr]

HEAT WAVE.

in which jack tries his best to keep you cool during the hottest day of the year.

( any other uk gals & guys absolutely hating this heat??? we aint built for this. )

FLUFF! all fluff. fem! reader.

the heat starts before sunrise.

by eight in the morning, the apartment already feels unbearable, heavy air sticking to your skin no matter where you stand. every window is open, every fan is running, and somehow it still feels like you’re breathing through soup.

jack, unfortunately, handles this entirely too well.

probably because he’s an er doctor / ex combat medic and apparently prepared for every possible human condition, including melting alive.

“cold water,” he tells you for the fifth time that day, pushing a sweating glass into your hands. “small sips. not too fast.”

you glare at him from where you’re sprawled dramatically across the couch in shorts and one of his old loose fitting t-shirts. “if you say electrolytes one more time, i’m leaving you.”

“you can’t. it’s too hot outside.”

annoyingly, he’s right.

he’s spent the entire day implementing increasingly ridiculous survival strategies. curtains closed to block sunlight. damp washcloths in the freezer. homemade iced tea. strategically placing a fan in front of a bowl of ice like some kind of exhausted scientist.

and worst of all? all of it actually works.

“you’ve thought about this way too much,” you mumble as he presses a cold bottle of water against the back of your neck.

he shrugs. “heat stroke cases go up every summer.”

“romantic.”

“i contain multitudes.”

by nighttime, the temperature barely drops.

you’re both lying in bed on top of the sheets, trying not to move because movement somehow makes it worse. jack’s hair is damp from another cold shower, his t-shirt abandoned somewhere on the floor hours ago.

you hear him sigh beside you before he rolls closer automatically, half-asleep and seeking you out of habit.

the second his arm touches your waist, you immediately squirm away. “absolutely not.”

his eyes crack open. “rude.”

“you are a human furnace.”

“i’m just trying to cuddle my girlfriend.”

“you’re trying to kill me.”

he groans and flops onto his back dramatically. “this heat wave is destroying our relationship.”

“survival first.”

“wow.” jack scoffs.

you point weakly at him from across the mattress. “stay on your side before i start hissing at you.”

he snorts tiredly. “noted.”

the next afternoon, you come home expecting another miserable day of sweating through existence.

instead—

cold air hits your face the second you open the door. you stop dead in the entryway.

“…jack?” you call out.

from somewhere down the hall, he calls, “living room.”

you follow the sound and find him kneeling beside a brand-new portable ac unit, screwdriver still in hand, hair messy, looking annoyingly pleased with himself.

you stare at the machine. then at him.

“did you install air conditioning?”

“i did.”

“today?”

“i had a post-shift moment of clarity.”

you blink at him in disbelief before immediately walking straight into the stream of cold air with an emotional sigh.

jack laughs softly from behind you. “there it is.”

“i could kiss you right now.”

“could?”

you turn toward him, already crossing the room. “doctor jack abbot,” you say solemnly, grabbing his face with both hands, “you’re the love of my life.”

he grins as you kiss him, cool air humming softly around the apartment for the first time all week.

“yeah,” he murmurs against your mouth. “i figured you’d react well.”

[deliciousangelfestival]

Keep Up - 4 | Jack Abbot

Character: Jack Abbot x doctor female!reader

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

Words Count : 7,986

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

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , -

More Jack Abbot stories : 2nd Masterlist

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

"Diaz," Jack murmured before he could stop himself.

The patient gave a small knowing smile. "I know," he said, shrugging lightly. "I look a lot like him. Perks of being an identical twin."

For a second Jack forgot where he was.

Same eyes. Same smile. Same face. It felt like grief playing a cruel joke on him, holding up a mirror to something he had spent years learning to set down.

Beside him, Ellis shifted awkwardly, suddenly looking like she deeply regretted being present for whatever this moment was.

"Dr. Abbot?" she asked carefully.

Jack blinked and pulled himself back. "I'll take it from here," he said, quieter than usual. "Thanks, Ellis."

She nodded once, glanced between the two of them, and slipped out through the curtain without another word.

Jack pulled the stool closer and sat down, reaching for his stethoscope. "Sorry," he said, placing it against the man's chest. "You just really look like him."

Too much like him.

And suddenly he understood. He had spent years assuming you were avoiding the guilt, the weight of a night that hadn't gone the way it was supposed to. But this was different. Seeing Rafael felt like reopening something that had never fully closed. For him it was a shock. For you, seeing that face, it had to be something else entirely.

"Take a deep breath," Jack said.

Rafael inhaled.

"And let it out."

Jack listened carefully, moving the stethoscope across his chest. Rafael exhaled slowly and then spoke into the quiet. "That's why she doesn't want to meet me, right?" he said. "I bring back bad memories."

Jack said nothing.

Rafael gave a small shrug, though the sadness behind it was visible. "My parents still get teary-eyed every time they look at me," he admitted. "Grief does strange things to people."

Jack looked down for a moment. "Gabriel talked about you," he said finally. "Never showed us a photo though."

Rafael raised an eyebrow.

Jack huffed quietly. "He used to say, just look at my face, we look exactly the same." He glanced at Rafael again and exhaled slowly through his nose. "Now I get it."

Rafael let out a soft laugh. "We used to mess with people all the time." The smile faded slightly at the edges. "After he came back I kept meaning to take more photos with him. That's my biggest regret."

The room went quiet for a moment.

Jack finished listening to his lungs and pulled the stethoscope away. "You don't need the head of the OR for this," he said. "Your lungs sound fine. It's asthma."

"Yeah." Rafael rubbed the back of his neck. "I figured."

Jack leaned back and crossed his arms, studying him. "Then tell me something. Why do you keep trying to meet her?"

Rafael looked at him for a moment. Really looked at him, the way someone did when they were seeing more than the surface of a thing. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.

"Gabriel was right about you," he said.

Jack frowned. "What?"

Rafael leaned back against the bed, easy and unhurried. "You always get protective when it comes to her."

******

FLASHBACK Diaz. Gabriel Diaz was the soldier who had gotten closest to you during the deployment. The two of you had fallen into something that looked, from the outside, almost exactly like siblings. Specifically the kind where the older one had decided the arrangement without asking and the younger one had never quite managed to get rid of them.

Diaz appointed himself the older one. You never agreed to this. It didn't matter.

One morning, six in the morning, too early for anything to be tolerable, he appeared at the entrance of the medic tent holding two protein bars and wearing the expression of someone who had slept well and wanted everyone to know it.

You didn't look up from the supply inventory. "No."

"I didn't ask anything yet."

"You're going to. I'm preventing the problem early."

Somewhere behind him a few soldiers laughed. Diaz turned to them with an expression of genuine wounded dignity. "You hear this? I survived deployment just to get bullied by the smallest person in the camp."

"You survived," you said, still not looking up, "because everyone else got tired of listening to you talk."

"Cold," he muttered. Then he tossed a protein bar onto your table anyway.

You looked at it. "No."

"You haven't eaten since yesterday."

"I'm busy."

"You say that every single day."

"I mean it every single day."

Diaz pulled a chair over, turned it backward, and sat down on it with the energy of someone who had nowhere else to be and had decided your workspace was a perfectly good place to be nowhere. "You know what your problem is? You have scary only child energy."

You finally looked up. "What does that mean."

"It means nobody taught you basic survival." He counted on his fingers. "Eat food. Sleep. Drink water. Stop staring at supply charts like they said something personally offensive to you."

"I'm a doctor."

"You're sleep deprived and you haven't eaten and you're approximately this tall." He held his hand at a height that was designed to be annoying. "I'm concerned."

"I know where the morphine is stored."

He raised both hands immediately. "Okay. Respectfully terrifying. Eat the protein bar."

Jack was leaning against the tent pole nearby, arms crossed, watching the whole exchange with the quiet amusement of someone who had seen this play out before and had stopped trying to intervene. "There's a lot of him," he said to you dryly. "You might as well get used to it."

You sighed the sigh of someone accepting a fate they didn't choose. "It's annoying older brother energy."

Diaz pointed at himself immediately. "See? Family."

"You invited yourself."

"Still counts."

Jack looked between the two of you. "You actually see him like a brother?"

You glanced over at Diaz, who had located someone else's coffee and was drinking it without asking. "He bothers me too much to be anything else."

"Rude," Diaz called from across the tent. "I care about you deeply." Then, louder, with great satisfaction, "Unlike Abbott over here."

Jack closed his eyes briefly. "Don't."

Diaz grinned. "Oho." He looked between the two of you with the energy of a man who had just found something interesting. "There's tension."

"There is no tension," you said flatly.

Jack looked away. Slightly too fast.

Diaz pointed. "You see that?" He addressed the nearest soldiers like a man presenting evidence. "That right there. That is unresolved workplace chemistry."

"You're inventing things," you muttered.

"Oh please." He leaned forward on the chair back. "You only yell at people you actually care about."

"I yell at everyone."

"Not like him." Diaz tilted his head toward Jack. "With him it's different. It's got feeling in it."

Jack sighed. "I miss when soldiers had respect for authority."

"You started it, sir," Diaz said pleasantly. "Walking around being all intense and mysterious."

Jack looked genuinely offended. "I'm not mysterious."

"You absolutely are." Diaz turned to you. "Doc. Back me up."

You looked at Jack. Just for a second, maybe a second and a half, which was already longer than was strictly necessary. Then you looked away. "Little bit."

Diaz slapped the table so hard the supply jars rattled. "I KNEW IT."

"Eat your protein bar," you said.

"You know what," Diaz said, standing up and pointing between the two of you with absolute conviction, "when you two finally get married I want full credit. I want a speech. I want a framed photo at the reception."

You grabbed a roll of gauze from the table and threw it at him. He was already moving, ducking out of the tent with a laugh that carried across half the camp, and you stood there for a moment before deciding it was completely pointless to chase him and walking back toward the tent entrance.

Jack was still there.

"So," he said, with the particular casualness of someone who had thought about how to phrase something and was pretending they hadn't. "Big brother energy." A beat. "I thought that was your type."

You stopped walking.

You turned and looked at him, just briefly, just long enough. "He's not my type," you said simply, and walked back into the tent.

Jack stayed where he was for a moment. The camp moved around him, the usual noise and heat and motion, and he stood in the middle of it thinking about those four words with an expression he was grateful nobody was looking at.

"God help me," he muttered under his breath.

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

The next morning came too quickly. War had no respect for sleep.

You were halfway through paperwork when a shadow fell across the table beside you.

"You look terrible."

You didn't glance up. "So do you."

Diaz placed a hand over his chest. "That's rude. I came here because I care about you."

"You bother me. That's not the same as caring."

"Same thing," he said cheerfully, and pulled a chair over.

You finally looked up.

Combat vest. Full gear. The particular way soldiers carried themselves on mission days, weight distributed differently, movements a little more deliberate.

Something tightened in your chest without permission.

"You heading out?"

"Easy mission." He shrugged. "In and out."

You hated when soldiers said that. Easy never meant easy. It just meant they hadn't found out what it was yet.

You reached across the table without saying anything and grabbed a medical patch, tossing it toward him.

Diaz caught it and grinned. "Aw. You do care."

"I care about paperwork. One less incident report is good for everyone."

"Cold," he said, and meant it as a compliment.

He stood up, checked his gear once with the automatic efficiency of someone who had done it a thousand times, and then reached over and patted your head with his full palm the way he always did specifically because he knew it annoyed you.

You shoved his shoulder immediately. "Idiot."

"Tiny doctor."

He started walking backward toward the tent entrance, pointing past you. "Tell Abbott he needs to stop walking around looking miserable. It's affecting morale."

Jack, leaning against the supply shelf nearby with a coffee in hand, did not look up. "I heard that."

"Good." Diaz pointed between the two of you. "Figure your thing out before I get back. It's painful to watch."

"There is no thing," you said.

Diaz looked at Jack. "She always this deep in denial?"

"Every single day," Jack said.

Diaz shook his head with the solemn disappointment of a man who had tried his best. "Unbelievable. Both of you." He turned back toward the entrance and lifted one hand in a lazy salute. "See you later, Doc."

"Go be useful," you said, not looking up.

He laughed and walked out into the morning light, and the tent felt slightly emptier after him the way it always did, the particular absence of someone who took up more space than their size accounted for.

The medic tent was busy as usual. Minor injuries, routine checkups, the steady controlled chaos of a normal day. Until Clark appeared in the entrance and the expression on his face made the room change before he said a single word.

"We got casualties."

Everything sharpened immediately. You were on your feet before the sentence finished.

"Where?"

Clark gave the coordinates and your heart stopped. Because Diaz's unit had been sent there. You grabbed your trauma bag too fast, hands moving on muscle memory while your brain was still catching up. Vest. Gloves. Equipment. Your ears were ringing.

Jack was already outside beside the vehicle in full combat gear when you came out of the tent. Helmet on, weapon secured, ready in the way that meant he had already heard and had already made his decisions.

"Abbot."

He opened the passenger door. "I know." A beat. "Let's hope everybody made it."

You hated how carefully he said it.

The drive felt too long and not long enough at the same time.

When you arrived the smoke was still settling. Dust covered everything. The smell hit before anything else, burnt metal and gunpowder and blood, the specific combination that your brain had learned to file under work faster. Jack scanned the perimeter while he talked. "IED. Roadside. The enemy's position was down but the blast caught them badly."

You nodded and moved. Because hours ago these men had been eating breakfast and arguing and laughing and complaining about the heat, and now some of them were screaming and some were silent and you had learned by now that the silent ones were the ones to run toward.

You never got used to that part. Not fully. You just got better at moving through it.

"Where's Diaz?" You turned to Jack. "Have you seen him?"

Jack shook his head and grabbed the radio. "Anyone got eyes on Gabriel Diaz?"

Static. Voices overlapping. Then, "We found him!"

You ran before they finished the sentence.

He was sitting against a damaged wall with his rifle still in his hands, breathing too hard, blood soaked through his vest in a pattern that made your stomach drop the moment you saw it. Too much. Wrong location.

"Diaz."

He looked up. "Hey." Then coughed, and the cough brought blood, and you were already crouching.

"Don't talk." You pulled open the front of his vest and went still for just a second. Small entry wound, left chest, close to the sternum. Shrapnel. Small and precise and devastating.

Jack arrived beside you and read it at the same moment you did.

"Cardiac tamponade," you said, hands already moving. Blood filling the pericardial sac, compressing the heart, preventing it from pumping the way it needed to. "He's bleeding internally."

Jack looked at Diaz. Then at you. Weak pulse, too pale, consciousness coming and going like a signal in bad weather.

"It's too late," he said quietly.

You looked up at him. "No."

"Y/N."

"Jack." Your voice cracked at the edge, just slightly. "I've read the studies. There's still time. He's still conscious." You looked back at Diaz, at the rise and fall of his chest, shallow and wrong but there. "We decompress in the helicopter. We still have the golden hour."

Jack was quiet for a moment, watching you, watching the way you were holding onto this with both hands.

"Do it," he said.

Inside the medevac helicopter everything was loud and violent. The rotors roared and the aircraft shook and blood coated your gloves and Diaz kept sliding in and out of consciousness in a way that made your chest seize every time his eyes went unfocused.

"Hey." You snapped your fingers in front of his face. "Eyes open."

He blinked slowly. "You always this bossy?"

"Yes."

"Scary," he murmured.

"Diaz."

Jack sat on the other side applying pressure, handing you supplies without being asked, his movements steady and practiced in a way that you were grateful for because yours were not as steady as they usually were and you both knew it.

Diaz looked between the two of you with the dimmed, half-present expression of someone running on fumes. "You guys arguing means I'm alive, right?"

Neither of you laughed.

You inserted the needle carefully. Emergency field decompression, a needle into the chest cavity to relieve the pressure around the heart. Temporary. Imperfect. Just enough. Your own heartbeat was loud in your ears.

Come on.

The monitor shifted. Not good. But less bad than it had been thirty seconds ago.

You exhaled a breath that had been sitting in your chest since the moment you saw the wound. "He's stabilizing."

Jack looked at you across Diaz's body and for the first time since arriving at the blast site he allowed himself something that was almost hope. Just barely. Just enough to get through the next hour. 

Clark met you outside the medical tent when you landed. He looked at your face and then at your hands and then back at your face. "You did it?"

You pulled off your gloves slowly. "Yeah." You looked exhausted in a way that went deeper than physical. "I'm sorry."

Clark frowned. "For what?"

"It was risky. I made a call without full information and if it had gone wrong—"

"It didn't," Clark said. He looked toward the helicopter and then back at you. "It was risky," he said honestly, because Clark never softened things unnecessarily. "But you bought him time." He tapped your shoulder once. "You did good."

You nodded and walked toward the tent.

Clark waited until you were out of earshot. Then he walked to where Jack was standing and lowered his voice. "He's not going to make it."

Jack said nothing.

"The damage is too extensive. We can transfer him, get him into a proper surgical facility, but." Clark looked toward the tent where you had gone. "The fact he's still breathing is already past what it should be."

Jack looked over at you through the tent opening. You were at the wash station, scrubbing your hands with the focused mechanical motion of someone keeping themselves together through sheer discipline. Still believing. Still moving. Still carrying every patient like they were yours to save personally.

His jaw tightened.

"I know," he said quietly.

A long pause settled between them.

"I don't have the courage to tell her," Jack said.

Clark looked at him for a moment. Then he looked away.

Neither of them moved.

****

You adjusted Diaz's blanket one last time. The medication had made him quieter, and the quiet made him look smaller somehow, which you hated because Diaz had never been a small presence in any room he occupied.

"You've got that face again," he said.

"What face?"

"The one where you're thinking too much and pretending you're not."

You checked his IV instead of answering. "You should rest."

"You always avoid the question."

"I'm a doctor. It's professionally sanctioned."

"You're annoying is what you are."

You looked at him flatly. "You're literally dying and still irritating. That's genuinely impressive."

"Talent," he said.

Despite yourself, something almost became a smile.

His expression softened then, the performance dropping into something quieter and more honest. "Hey."

You looked at him.

"Thanks," he said.

"For what."

"For yelling at me in the helicopter." His breathing stayed uneven, careful, the kind of breathing someone did when they had learned their body needed to be managed. "Kept me awake."

"Someone had to."

"Yeah." A weak smile. "You're pretty good at bossing people around."

"Get some sleep," you said, shaking your head.

He looked at you for a moment longer than the conversation required. Then, "Go check on the others."

"You sure?"

"I'll still be ugly when you get back."

You rolled your eyes and adjusted the blanket corner one final time. "Debatable."

That earned the smallest laugh. The kind that cost him something.

"I'll be back," you said.

"Yeah." His voice had gone softer, quieter, in a way you didn't examine too closely. "See you later, Doc."

You didn't understand why that sentence stayed with you until later. Until it was too late to ask him what he meant by it.

Jack came in a while after you left. Pulled a chair up beside the cot and sat down without ceremony.

Diaz looked over. "Sir."

"Stay still."

"Yes, sir." A beat. "You look terrible too, by the way."

"So does everyone in a war zone." Jack crossed his arms. "How are you feeling."

"Like a miracle, apparently." Diaz shifted carefully against the pillow. "Clark keeps saying that word."

Jack said nothing.

Diaz was quiet for a moment, looking at the tent ceiling. Then, "Sir."

"Hm."

"I kinda want to see you both get together."

Jack blinked.

Of course. Half dead, barely breathing, and still. "No wonder she finds you exhausting," Jack said.

Diaz let out a weak laugh that turned into a cough that he rode out with his eyes closed. When he opened them again his expression had shifted into something softer and more deliberate. "She doesn't find me exhausting," he said. "She just doesn't know how to say she cares about people without making it an argument."

Jack looked at him.

"Neither do you," Diaz added quietly.

The tent was still around them. Outside, the camp moved and breathed and carried on, and in here it felt like a separate thing entirely, a small pocket of honesty that the rest of the world wasn't part of.

"I'm gonna miss you both," Diaz said. Simply, softly, the way soldiers said the things they actually meant. No drama, no ceremony. Just the sentence, placed down carefully between them.

Jack's jaw tightened. He looked away briefly, at the tent wall, at nothing. This was the part he hated most. Not the explosions, not the chaos, not even the loss itself. This part. The part where someone knew and said it sideways so the people around them didn't have to carry the weight of a direct goodbye.

"You can tell her yourself," Jack said.

Diaz smiled. It didn't reach his eyes the way it usually did. "Yeah," he said.

They both sat with that for a moment.

Then Jack leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, and looked at Diaz directly. "I'll take care of her."

Diaz looked at him. Really looked, the way he did when he was deciding if someone meant something. Then something settled in his expression, something that looked like relief and something else underneath it, something that might have been peace.

"Knew it," he said quietly.

Jack looked away before his face could do anything he'd have to account for.

***********

Exhaustion finally caught up to you hours later.

Every patient had been checked. The paperwork was done. You had eaten half of something that Diaz would have found deeply inadequate and he would have told you so and you would have rolled your eyes and eaten the other half just to make him stop talking about it.

The chair beside the supply shelf was close enough. Just twenty minutes. That was all you needed.

You closed your eyes.

When you woke up the light had changed.

Your heart dropped before the rest of you was fully conscious. Too bright. Too quiet. The specific quality of silence that a tent had when it was holding something you weren't ready for.

You were on your feet before you had decided to stand.

"How long was I—"

Nobody answered fast enough. You were already moving, boots hitting the ground, the wrongness of the quiet pulling you forward before your brain had caught up with what your body already knew.

You pushed through the tent flap and stopped.

Your knees went weak so suddenly that stopping was the only thing that kept you upright.

Diaz.

Still. Too still. The blanket pulled up, the monitor dark, the cot holding the particular terrible silence of something that had been a person and was now just the absence of one. No stupid comments waiting. No grin. No protein bar appearing from somewhere you hadn't seen him go.

"No." Your voice cracked open. "No."

You stepped forward and your legs almost went out from under you and then a hand caught your shoulder, firm and steady, and held you up.

Jack.

"It wasn't your fault," he said.

You shook your head. The tears were already there, burning. "I should have checked on him. I should have stayed, I promised I'd come back, I told him—"

"Listen to me." His voice was quiet and steady, the voice that cut through noise, the voice that had pulled you back to yourself in the middle of chaos more times than you could count. "It's already a miracle you brought him back here at all. You gave him more time."

"But I lost him." The words came out in pieces. "I lost him anyway."

Jack looked at Diaz once. Then back at you. And then you stopped thinking about what you were doing and pressed your forehead against his chest because there was nowhere else to go and your legs were not going to hold you up through this alone.

The grief came ugly and exhausted and entirely without dignity, the kind that had been waiting behind the work and the adrenaline and the deliberate forward motion for hours, and now it had found the gap and it came through.

Jack went still for half a second. Then his arms came around you slowly and carefully, one hand resting against the back of your head, and he held you the way someone held something they were trying to keep from breaking entirely.

He didn't tell you it was okay. He didn't tell you to stop. He didn't say the things people said when they didn't know what else to offer, because Jack had been in enough of these moments to know that sometimes there was nothing to say and the only honest thing was to stay.

So he stayed.

And held you together while you fell apart.

And outside the tent the camp kept moving, indifferent and relentless, the way war always did.

********

PRESENT TIME

You were at the park because of one very annoying text message.

Can I have a playdate with Riot on Saturday?

There was no reasonable way to say no to that. Especially when Riot wagged his entire body every time Jack Abbot existed within a fifty meter radius.

Jack was standing near the bench with his hands in his jacket pockets when you arrived, relaxed and annoyingly good-looking for someone who probably considered coffee a complete breakfast. When he spotted you something in his face softened in a way he didn't bother to hide.

"I thought you wouldn't come," he said.

Before you could respond, Riot made the decision to slip his leash entirely.

"Riot—"

Too late. The dog sprinted toward Jack with the full committed energy of an animal who had been waiting for this specific moment all week. Jack crouched immediately, arms open, completely unbothered by the seventy pound German Shepherd throwing himself forward.

"There's my favorite guy." Jack caught him, both hands going straight to his ears. "Missed you too, buddy."

Your lips almost moved. Almost.

Then you noticed someone standing a short distance away and everything in your body went still at once.

Same face. Same eyes. Same build. Grief had apparently learned how to walk around and show up at parks on Saturday morning.

You turned to Jack.

"No."

He already had the expression of someone who knew exactly what was coming. "Listen to him first," he said quietly.

"Is this an ambush?"

"A badly planned intervention," he corrected.

"Abbot."

He sighed once, soft and resigned. "If you want to yell at me later, that's fair. But hear him out first."

You crossed your arms. "You have no idea what his family said to me."

"I know." He stepped slightly closer and lowered his voice. "He told me." A pause, quieter still. "You didn't deserve any of it."

He said it with the particular certainty of someone who had already made up their mind about something and wasn't interested in arguing the point. No hesitation, no qualification. Just that.

Something shifted in your chest in a way you didn't have a clean response to.

Jack glanced toward Rafael and then back at you, voice dropping to something that was almost conversational except for the edge underneath it. "If he says anything that bothers you, I'll punch him."

You blinked. "You can't punch grieving people."

"I can if they're rude."

"Abbot.”

"And if his family tries to contact you again," he continued, with the calm of someone discussing the weather, "I'll make sure that stops."

You stared at him for a second. It was a little terrifying. It was also, against your better judgment, oddly comforting. You looked away before your face did something about that.

"I'll be right here," Jack said simply.

You looked over at Rafael. He was standing with his hands at his sides and the specific posture of someone who had been nervous for longer than just this morning. Gabriel had walked into every room like he had been expecting and was simply arriving. This man looked like he wasn't sure he had the right to be here at all.

You walked over slowly.

Rafael straightened immediately. "Hi," he said, and there was an awkward honesty in the word that disarmed you slightly. "I'm Rafael Diaz. Gabriel's twin." He paused. "Which I guess is obvious."

"Hi," you said quietly.

You looked away for a moment, at the path, at Riot still occupying Jack's full attention nearby. "I'm sorry I've been avoiding you," you said finally.

Rafael shook his head immediately. "No. It's understandable." He looked down briefly, then back at you with the expression of someone who had been rehearsing this and had decided to abandon the rehearsed version. "After what my family did to you, I understand completely."

The silence that settled between you was heavy with everything neither of you had said yet.

Rafael rubbed the back of his neck. "I wanted to apologize," he said. "For my mom. For all of them." His jaw tightened slightly. "They were grieving. I know that. But grief doesn't excuse what they did to you." He swallowed once. "The letters. Showing up at your place. I didn't know how bad it had gotten until recently. If I had known earlier, I would have stopped it."

He looked genuinely ashamed. Not performing it, not offering it as a transaction. Just carrying it and putting it down in front of you.

FLASHBACK

The first thing you did after landing in the States was visit Gabriel's grave. Alone. Still carrying guilt like something stitched between your ribs that hadn't loosened since the helicopter ride home.

The cemetery was quiet in the way only cemeteries were. Flowers rested against his headstone, fresh ones, which meant someone had already been. You crouched slowly, hands trembling slightly, and stared at his name in the stone.

"I'm sorry," you whispered.

The words tasted hollow. Because sorry didn't restart hearts. Didn't undo war. Didn't change what had happened in that tent while you were sleeping twenty feet away.

"You should be."

You turned.

His mother stood at the edge of the path. Eyes swollen, grief sharpened into something with edges. Before you could speak the slap landed hard, snapping your head to the side.

"You left him." Her voice shook. "You were supposed to save him."

"I tried," you said quietly.

"We heard you left him alone."

No. She’s wrong. 

"I was checking on other patients. I came back as soon as—"

"You left my son to die alone." Her voice broke open into something raw and terrible. "Do you know what that did to us?"

You stood there and said nothing. Because grief made people cruel and maybe, in the part of you that ran the scenario on a loop at three in the morning, you believed her. Maybe if you had stayed. Maybe if you had checked on him sooner. Maybe.

"I'm sorry," you said again.

She looked at you like the words made it worse. "You should have died instead."

That one stayed. Long after everything else faded, that one stayed.

The letters came after. Blaming you, calling you careless, calling you worse things than that. Flowers left at your door and then notes and then sometimes strangers showing up with questions that were really accusations wearing a different face. You moved apartments. Then moved again. Eventually you stopped using your real address entirely, redirecting everything to your university mailbox. Cleaner. Safer. Further away.

Because grief had teeth. And sometimes it bit whoever was standing closest.

You didn't see Rafael for years.

Until an ordinary shift at your previous hospital. Busy day, nothing remarkable about it, and then you looked up from the nurses station and the room stopped making sense.

Gabriel. Standing at the desk. Alive. Same face, same eyes, same everything, smiling politely at the receptionist like he had just walked out of a memory you had spent years trying to put down.

Your ears rang. Your chest seized so completely and so fast that you had no warning before the floor came up.

You woke up in an exam room with someone handing you water and someone else saying, “You fainted”, and it took longer than it should have to understand what had happened. Rafael. Gabriel's twin. Not Gabriel. Obviously not Gabriel.

But trauma didn't care about logic. Every time you saw that face your body remembered the grief before your mind could catch up. And suddenly you were back in the medic tent, too tired, too late, watching the monitors go flat while the camp slept quietly outside.

So yes. You had been avoiding Rafael Diaz for a very long time.

PRESENT TIME

"I appreciate the apology," you said quietly.

Rafael nodded immediately, like he had expected nothing more and was grateful for what he got. "I don't think," you started, then exhaled slowly, "I can look at your face without feeling guilty."

"I understand," he said. Too quickly, too easily, the way someone answered when they had already made peace with a harder version of the answer.

A small sad smile crossed his face. "I just wanted to say sorry." A pause. "And maybe finally meet the people Gabriel wouldn't stop talking about."

He pointed toward Jack. "Him." Then toward Riot, who was sitting on Jack's foot with the contentment of an animal who had no concept of complicated human situations. "And the dog."

"Riot?"

"He said the puppy liked you more than him." Rafael's smile shifted into something more genuine. "Apparently that was the whole thing."

Behind you, Jack said, "Still is," with complete sincerity.

Rafael laughed. Softly, briefly, but real. The first time since he'd arrived that he actually looked lighter, like something had come loose. "Yeah," he said quietly, looking at nothing in particular. "That sounds like my brother."

He reached into his jacket pocket and held out the folded piece of paper. You looked at it for a moment before you took it. Your name on the front in handwriting you would have recognized anywhere. Messy and fast and entirely unbothered by the concept of neat penmanship.

To my scary tiny doctor.

Your throat tightened in a way you couldn't swallow down completely.

"I found it when I went through his things again recently," Rafael said. "I think he meant it for you."

You folded it carefully and held it without opening it. You weren't going to open it here. Not in front of anyone. Not yet.

"He talked about you both a lot," Rafael continued, glancing briefly toward Jack. "He said you were the only doctor who ever scared him more than the enemy." A small pause. "He meant it as the highest compliment he knew how to give."

Something moved through you that was almost a laugh. "That sounds exactly like him."

Rafael smiled properly for the first time, and it was so familiar, so completely and painfully familiar, that you had to look at the ground for a moment and breathe through it.

He stayed quiet for a beat. Then he looked between you and Jack with an expression that had something resolved in it, something that had come here needing to be set down and had finally been set down.

"I'm glad my brother met you both," he said simply. He looked at you directly, no performance in it, just honesty. "Thank you for giving him more time." A breath. "We watched the video he made. In the tent." His voice stayed steady but only just. "He was still himself in it. Right until the end." He pressed his lips together briefly. "That was because of you."

You didn't trust your voice enough to answer that. You nodded once, and he seemed to understand that was everything you had right now, and he accepted it without asking for more.

Rafael looked down at Riot, who had wandered over at some point and was now sitting directly on Rafael's feet with the calm authority of a dog who had decided something. Rafael crouched down and let Riot sniff his hand, and then Riot leaned into him, heavy and warm and certain.

Rafael exhaled slowly. His hand moved over the dog's head. "Hey, buddy," he said quietly.

Nobody said anything for a moment.

*********

Rafael eventually left. The silence he left behind felt awkward and heavy in equal measure, the kind that settled after something necessary and painful had finally been said out loud.

You stood there for a moment. Then you turned toward Jack and glared.

He sighed immediately. "Yeah. I deserve that."

"You ambushed me."

"I know."

You crossed your arms. "I thought you were on my side."

Jack's expression shifted, the easy deflection gone, something more direct underneath it. "Always." Too fast. Too certain. Like there had never been another option worth considering and he didn't understand why you would ask.

You looked away first.

"Then why?" you asked quietly.

Jack shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. "Because I wanted to hear him apologize too." He paused. "For what his family did to you."

The words landed steadily between you. Not dramatic, not performed. Just honest, the way Jack was when something had been sitting with him long enough to stop being careful about it.

He looked toward the path Rafael had taken, jaw tightening slightly. "If I had known sooner." He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. Because you understood what sat behind it. Every letter. Every accusation. Every stranger showing up at your door with grief wearing the face of blame. Jack would have burned the whole thing down without hesitating.

"It wasn't your fault," he said quietly.

You looked at him. Really looked, the way you didn't usually let yourself because it gave too much away. Because Jack always sounded the most serious when it came to you, and you had never fully worked out what to do with that.

A beat passed.

"Are you seriously going to beat them up?" you asked.

Jack didn't hesitate. "In a heartbeat."

You blinked. Then a laugh escaped you, small and genuine, the kind that arrived without permission. And with it something lifted, not everything, not all at once, but enough. Like a weight that had been sitting between your shoulder blades had shifted slightly and given you room to breathe.

"Well." You exhaled slowly as Riot happily trotted ahead. "That was a tough morning."

The conversation with Rafael had been heavier than expected. Necessary, but heavy.

Jack glanced at you. Then toward Riot. Then back. "I'll make it up to you."

You looked at him. "Then take Riot today."

He blinked. "That's it?"

"Do you think I'd ask for more?"

He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. "I thought you'd ask for dinner."

You stopped walking. Riot stopped too, looked back at both of you, decided nothing interesting was happening, and went back to sniffing the path. Jack turned toward you. "Or a triathlon bike?"

You smiled. Wide and genuine, the kind that arrived before you could curate it. "Are you going to buy it for me?"

Jack saw it and something settled quietly in his expression. After the weight of the last hour, that smile felt like something worth paying for. "If it could brighten your day," he said simply. "I will buy it."

You tilted your head. "Do you even know how much it costs?"

"How much are we talking? "Three thousand?"

You scoffed. "That's adorable."

He looked offended. "How much?"

"Almost right."

"How is that almost right?"

"You're only missing a few thousand."

Jack stared at you. "Do people pedal gold now?"

You laughed quietly. And damn it, that alone almost made the morning worth it. Jack looked at you for a second longer than necessary. If money fixed that look on your face, he'd honestly consider it.

"You seriously don't want dinner?" he asked.

"Nah." You stretched your arms lightly above your head. "I think I'll run thirty miles and shake the rest of this off."

Jack nearly stopped walking. "You run thirty miles for emotional regulation?"

"Yes."

"That sounds medically concerning."

Before you could reply, Riot suddenly redirected his entire existence toward Jack. Circling him, tail wagging violently, jumping with the energy of an animal who had been waiting for an excuse.

You frowned. "I think you put a spell on him."

Jack looked deeply pleased with himself. "I absolutely have charm." He looked down at Riot. "Even Riot understands quality people."

Riot shoved his nose straight into Jack's tote bag and emerged with half a sandwich.

Jack looked down. "Oh."

You raised an eyebrow. "You brought breakfast?"

"Emergency sandwich."

"Emergency."

Jack nodded seriously. "For low morale."

"Woof."

Riot took a large, satisfied bite. Jack sighed dramatically and looked down at him with the expression of a man who had already accepted his fate. "Seems like I need to start preparing better."

"For?"

"This boy has expensive taste."

You crossed your arms. "Do you even know what to buy if he stays at your place?"

Jack went quiet. Then, with complete honesty, "No."

You laughed. "At least you're self-aware."

Jack looked at you with that casual ease he had when he was about to say something that landed harder than it appeared. "If you stayed too, I probably wouldn't have that problem."

You blinked.

There it was again. That thing he did. Dropping something dangerous into the middle of a perfectly normal sentence and then standing there looking completely unbothered by it, like he hadn't said anything worth noticing.

"Excuses," you muttered.

"Creative problem-solving," Jack corrected.

You rolled your eyes. He smiled. Riot finished the sandwich without apology.

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

The pet shop happened naturally, the way things did when neither of you had technically suggested it but somehow you were both inside one anyway. Jack had decided Riot deserved better snacks, which was either very thoughtful or a reason to extend the morning, and you weren't going to examine which one too closely.

You stood beside him in the food aisle debating nutrition labels like two people sharing custody of something they both loved and would never admit out loud.

"It feels like the old supply runs," you muttered.

Jack picked up a bag of treats and looked at it with genuine suspicion. "At least this food looks edible."

"Honestly? Better than army food."

"When you're surviving," Jack said seriously, "that stuff tasted like luxury."

"It ruined my tastebuds for months."

Jack grabbed another bag from the shelf. "That explains why you drink hospital coffee."

"You drink the same coffee."

"I'm emotionally damaged." He said it without hesitation. "It's different."

You considered that for a moment. "Fair."

From across the aisle came the very specific sound of someone going completely still.

Princess had not planned on running into anyone from the Pitt today. It was her day off. She was buying cat food. She was minding her own business entirely. Then she heard a voice that sounded familiar and her brain did the thing where it refused to let her keep walking without checking.

She leaned slowly around the end of the aisle.

Oh my God.

Dr. Abbot. Dr. Y/N. And the dog, sitting in the cart like he belonged there, which apparently he did.

Princess stood very still for approximately two seconds, running the calculations. Then she reached into her bag, pulled out her phone, and raised it to her ear with the practiced ease of someone making a very important call that was definitely not a cover for taking a photo.

She was absolutely taking a photo.

She angled it carefully. Got all three of them in the frame. The cart, the matching coffee cups, the dog bed, Jack reading a nutrition label while you pointed at something on the shelf with the focused energy of two people who had done this kind of thing before.

Click.

She lowered the phone, tucked the cat food under her arm, and walked to the other end of the store at a pace that was not quite running.

The message sent before she reached the exit.

The Pitt ER Group Chat had been quiet for exactly four minutes.

It was a good photo, unfortunately. You and Jack standing in the pet food aisle, a shopping cart between you containing a dog bed, two bags of food, and two matching coffee cups that had ended up there without either of you noticing. Riot sitting on Jack's foot. Both of you reading the back of the same nutrition label.

guys. explain this.

The chat woke up immediately.

Whitaker: ????????

Santos: WHY DO THEY LOOK LIKE THEY FILE TAXES TOGETHER

Princess: NO BECAUSE WHY DOES THIS LOOK DOMESTIC

A minute passed.

Robby: Why does this look like a family outing?

Whitaker: DR ABBOTT HAS A SECRET LIFE???

Princess: ARE THEY LIVING TOGETHER???

Jack's phone buzzed. He glanced down at it with the unbothered expression of a man reading something mildly interesting.

Robby: Be honest. Is this what you meant when you said you had plans today?

Robby: Also. Since when do you willingly enter pet stores?

Jack scoffed quietly, the sound of someone privately entertained.

You glanced over. "What?"

"Nothing."

"You made a face."

"What face?"

"The one that means trouble."

Jack put his phone in his pocket and looked at you with the particular calm of someone who had already decided what they were going to do. "Come here for a second."

"Why?"

"Just stand there."

Before you could question it further he had his phone out and the camera open, and Riot, with absolutely no prompting, squeezed himself between the two of you with the satisfied energy of an animal who understood his assignment.

Click.

You frowned. "What are you doing?"

"Making things worse."

"What?"

"You'll see."

He uploaded it before you could look at the screen. 

Caption: Buying stuff for our son. Co-parenting is expensive.

The chat responded immediately and without mercy.

Santos: SON??????

Whitaker: WAIT THEY HAVE A KID?????

Princess: I KNEW THEY WERE OLD MARRIED PEOPLE

Dana: I'm muting this chat.

Then, Jack got a message from Robby. 

Robby: Jack. Please tell me the child is the dog.

You had no idea any of it had happened until the parking lot.

Your phone buzzed. Then again. Then three times in quick succession. You frowned and pulled it out, opened the notifications, and stopped walking entirely.

The photo. The caption. The comments multiplying in real time.

You stood there for a moment reading it. Then very slowly, with great deliberateness, you turned around.

Jack was opening the car door for Riot with the composed expression of a man who had done nothing wrong and was fully prepared to stand by that position.

"Jack," you said.

He looked up with a calm that was almost insulting. "Hm?"

"Jack Abbot."

The corner of his mouth moved. Just slightly. "You know," he said, turning back to Riot, "that's the first time you've called me by my first name."

You stared at him. "Delete it."

"No."

"Jack."

"Say it again."

You glared at him over the roof of the car. "I hate you."

Jack leaned casually against the door like he had nowhere else to be and no intention of moving anytime soon. "No, you don't."

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. Nothing came out, which was its own kind of answer and you both knew it. Because annoyingly enough he sounded way too sure of himself, the specific kind of sure that came from knowing something for a long time and simply waiting for the other person to catch up.

Jack's smirk widened just slightly. "See?"

You hated that smirk.

Almost as much as how badly you wanted to prove him wrong.

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