Hi! I was wondering if you do a whole theme blog like this with the gif banner of like a cherry fruit stand or something? Pink and red for the colors! Thank you so much 💓
Stop calling the crumbs shit. None of you realize how hard it is to photoshop crumbs falling mid-air via a birds-eye perspective. They don't just have 'mid-air granola crumbs' on google, no one has ever thought of photographing that before. I had to color a bunch of boulders brown. I had to find images of various boulders and color them brown, whnich yeah, when I say it out loud, does make it sound like a funny euphemism for shit, but it's really more of a light brown color and it took a lot of time and effort, so stop.
I dont ship Mohabbot because I don't like Mohan or Supriya. Shes annoying and not a good enough actress to justify that. Its only made worse with her being surrounded by such amazing actors. Every time shes on screen i just feel the urge to fastforward, she just pulls me out of the show.
I don't care that her mom is getting remarried and thats giving her a panic attack (which, as someone whos parents both got remarried when i was adult, that felt dumb as hell). I don't care about her paitents. When Robby yelled at her I was like damn, finally. I hope they cut the character for the next season and replace her with someone who can actually act and doesn't need to cling to a ship to stay relevant.
need tumblr to know that this year is the 1069th anniversary of the assassination of julius caesar, not last year. people joked about it last year but it's this year. tumblr please
Panda, Border Collie (10 y/o), 8th & University Place, New York, NY • “She managed to find all the coffee places with treats. She eats kibble. She fills your life with love and caring. Even though sometimes you feel like it’s just for the treats. She’s very smart.”
Summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, fluff, jack's leg makes an appearance
word count: 4.9k
a/n: thank you all so much for still tuning in and interacting with every part. I'm trying my best to respond to you all but if i've missed you, i just want you to know that i'm very appreciative of your support and loooove reading all your responses (i see all you say in the tags, too) <333. hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
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Living with Jack is infinitely easier than you ever imagined it would be. You knew he would make a good roommate—he’s thoughtful and respectful—but you still braced yourself for the usual bumps in the road. You anticipated those awkward silences in the kitchen and the "you ate the last of my cereal" arguments you used to have with Talia. The discomfort of you not being quite sure where to place yourself in his home when it’s just a temporary move.
Instead, you get mornings where you both come home from the night shift, take one look at each other, and just know who needs the shower first. He had a rough night? You wave him through. You’ve had a bad shift? He’s already stepping back, surrendering the shower with a sleepy smile. No debates. Just a quiet understanding and adjustment.
There are days when he starts chopping vegetables without asking, sensing that you're too exhausted to cook. On other days, you’ll warm the pan and season the sauce just the way he likes it. You take care of the dishes when he cooks; he dries them without needing a reminder.
No negotiations. No discussions. Just... this effortless, almost eerie rhythm.
Jack has always been better at taking action than providing explanations. You know this from work. When the ER is drowning, he doesn’t give long pep talks; he orders pizza, extra garlic knots included.
You just had no idea this quality would carry over into your home life. You casually mention that you’re almost out of that ridiculously expensive conditioner—the one you only splurge on when you’re feeling indulgent—and three days later it’s in the shower caddy. Same brand, same scent. He doesn’t say anything about it. You don’t either. You just stand there under the water, fingers wrapped around the bottle, heart beating messily.
It’s the specific brand of oat milk you love, even though he still sticks to his regular kind, appearing in the fridge. Your favourite chocolate, the one with sea salt, tucked into the pantry. The phone charger you keep meaning to replace, with its frayed wire, mysteriously disappearing, and a new one coiled neatly sitting on the counter.
He never hands these things to you outright. Never frames them as gifts. They simply integrate into your life as if they’ve always been there. And he’s careful about it. That’s the part that gets you. He doesn’t act like you owe him anything. If you thank him, he just shrugs it off, saying, “I was at the store anyway.”
You have to assume that this is just what Jack does—things he would do for others, too. This is simply life when there’s no burden of medical debt on your shoulders. You'd probably be the same way if you could.
You can't read into it because he never lingers when he brushes past you in the hallway. He never lets his hand rest too long at your waist when he helps steady you in the ER. He avoids doing anything that could be misconstrued. He’d act this way for anyone he shared a home with. It doesn’t mean anything.
It can’t. If he had feelings for you, real feelings, he wouldn’t be this careful.
So you do what you can. You tidy up and ensure the house is liveable. You tackle the laundry, folding his shirts just the way he likes. You refill his coffee supply before it runs low. You have food ready for him when he comes home drained from a shift after you've had a day off.
It’s so easy living with Jack that it's hard. Each time you find yourselves moving around each other like this, as if it’s been the routine for years, your chest tightens. This wasn’t meant to feel so natural. It wasn't meant to feel like home.
The bed situation doesn’t help. Delays keep piling up—shipping errors and warehouse issues. One email after another that sounds vaguely apologetic but not nearly enough. When it finally arrives, you’re almost giddy (and sad, but you don't linger on that). This is it. This is your way of establishing a boundary—a much-needed one if you’re gonna survive this.
You’re halfway through putting it together, the Allen key clenched between your teeth, hair sticking to your forehead, when you realise two of the legs are missing. You stare blankly at the assembly instructions. You count the parts again, emptying the box like the legs might magically appear from underneath a flap of cardboard.
Nothing. It feels almost cosmic, as if the universe itself wants to keep you in his bed.
Jack finds you sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by wooden slats and frustration. He pauses in the doorway, takes in the chaos—the half-built frame, and the screwdriver clutched too tightly in your hand. He takes off his running shoes without a word.
“What’s wrong?” he asks gently.
“It's missing two legs,” you reply flatly, holding up the useless bracket as if it could explain the whole situation. Your hands tremble more than they should over something so trivial. “I can't believe this keeps happening.”
He takes a look, counts the pieces. “We can call them for replacements.”
“Which are gonna be here in three to five business weeks,” you mutter, scrubbing your eyes hard. "Why does this keep happening to me?" Your laugh sounds thin, barely masking your irritation.
He sits down beside you among the remnants of your thwarted project, bumping his shoulder against yours. “I don’t mind sharing,” he says softly, trying to lighten the mood. “I’ve gotten used to you stealing the duvet, anyway.” His tone is light.
You roll your eyes. “That’s not the point.”
He smiles. “It’s kind of the point.”
And maybe for him, it’s sweet. Maybe for him, it’s easy in a comforting way. He's just being kind, trying to prevent you from having an obvious breakdown over a fucking bed.
For you, though, it’s a crisis. Three more weeks in his bed feels like playing with fire. Most mornings, you wake up wrapped in his arms—not just close by, not just sharing a mattress, but firmly in his hold. Like, sometime in the night, your body decides for you, like it gravitates towards him. Your back tucked against his chest, his arm heavy and warm around your waist, and his breath slow against the back of your neck. Sometimes your fingers are tangled in his shirt. Sometimes his nose is buried in your hair.
You don’t remember crossing the distance. You just wake up there. And the worst part? You sleep better like that. You hate that you sleep better like that.
You need a bed of your own. You need a place where you don’t wake up already intertwined. Where your heart doesn’t trip over itself before you’re even fully conscious. Where domesticity doesn’t sneak up on you in the shape of shared blankets and cuddles.
Because this—this quiet, effortless merging of lives—is more intimate than anything loud or dramatic. It’s folding his laundry without thinking and knowing which shirts he wants air-dried. It’s him automatically setting aside the corner piece of lasagna because he knows you like the crispy edge. It’s your shampoo tucked away in his shower caddy, your favourite tea stashed in his pantry, and a spare toothbrush that no longer feels temporary. It's getting to watch him with bed hair sitting at the kitchen island with a coffee, after working out with sweat dripping down his neck, and curled up on the couch pretending not to watch your show.
It’s terrifying how easy it is. How natural. How dangerously close to permanent it feels. And the worst part is you can’t tell if he feels it too or if he’s just being kind, just honouring the terms of something that was never supposed to matter this much.
The house smells faintly of coffee and your microwaved lunch from earlier. You’re hunched over your textbook at the table, highlighter in hand, surrounded by a chaotic spread of notebooks. Your eyes blink more slowly as you attempt to take in what you’re reading.
But you’re distracted because across from you, Jack is seated, deeply engrossed in a crossword puzzle. His pencil taps rhythmically against the paper, brows knitted in concentration. For a moment, you can’t help but admire him—the way his neck curves, the muscles in his forearms flexing with each word he writes.
You clear your throat and glance back at your notes, pretending you’re entirely focused. You need to stop daydreaming and get your shit together.
Suddenly, you hear the scrape of a chair as he gets up and heads into the kitchen. A few moments later, the rich scent of brewing coffee wafts over to you.
“Thought you might need a refill,” he says, sliding a steaming mug across the table, just the way you like it.
“Thanks,” you reply softly, your hands brushing against his as you reach for the mug.
He sits back down, pencil ready again. You watch him take a careful sip, a faint smile tugging at the edge of his mouth as he looks at you. You try to refocus, but the warmth of his hand brushing yours on the mug lingers longer than it should.
“Need help?” he asks softly, leaning just a little closer across the table, and you jump slightly, though only your pen moves. You swear you can feel his leg moving closer, feel the heat through your pants, but you don’t dare look down.
“No, I’ve got it,” you reply, and he just watches you for a moment, then nods, turning back to his paper.
The house is quiet, filled only with the sounds of your scribbling, the tap of his pencil, and the occasional sip of coffee. For a moment, you forget about the exam and all the stress. It’s just the two of you in this space.
You glance up at him after not hearing his pen for a while. He’s focused on the crossword, his jaw tight with concentration. But his pencil hovers over a word he’s been stuck on for ages.
“Yearning,” you whisper quietly, taking a sip of your coffee to mask the flutter in your chest. Is that another sign from the universe?
In the little pause before he writes it in, he glances at you, just briefly, sending you a quick smile. You take another sip of coffee. He taps the pencil against the table.
You do your best to refocus on your notes.
It's another typical night at PTMC. Same scrubs. Same scuffed shoes. Same stale coffee.
Jack stands in front of the board, stethoscope draped around his neck, scanning through the list of patients. As usual, nothing seems out of the ordinary. Nausea. Chest pain. Two psych holds.
Just as he’s about to step over to a computer, he feels it—the prickling sense that someone is watching him. He pauses, scanning the hub with his eyes.
Ellis is hovering just off to his left, pretending to review labs on the computer. He can see her biting the inside of her cheek, her shoulders twitching as if she’s holding back a comment. Further down the hub, Shen leans against the counter, taking a deliberately casual sip of his coffee. Lena, however, isn’t hiding her interest at all. She’s openly watching him with raised eyebrows, a slow grin spreading across her face.
Jack exhales sharply through his nose. “Whatever it is,” he mutters, turning toward the computer, “I’m not interested.”
“Oof,” Lena replies, clearly amused. “Someone’s feeling feisty tonight.”
Ellis mumbles under her breath, "Happens every time his missus isn't here." He can hear Shen snicker in response.
Normally, Jack doesn't mind them goofing off. Because normally you're right beside him, laughing along. But tonight's different, all thanks to Ellis. Because you're not here. She'd sent you a text asking to switch shifts, which means that instead of enjoying a day off together tomorrow, you're at home now, and Jack’s left to deal with his team on his own.
You were on the couch when he left, all snuggled up under that silly kitten-patterned blanket you brought over. One knee bent, with a socked foot peeking out. The TV was glowing with that show you insist is good, though he’d caught your eyes closing multiple times during it.
That could have been your evening together tomorrow, and that’s what’s really bugging him. Your days off had finally lined up after weeks of barely getting to see each other during shifts. And yes, he might still have those few uninterrupted hours before work but they just aren't cutting it anymore. Plus, there's the fact that you're studying for an exam he knows you'll ace, which eats up more of your time together.
And Jack knows he is being greedy, but he can also already hear the ticking clock—you're moving out again soon, and he's not taking advantage of you being there enough.
It’s getting a little scary how quickly he’s adjusted to you living with him. It feels so natural to walk into the house and expect to see your shoes by the door, to hear your laughter coming from the kitchen, or to catch a hint of your shampoo drifting from the bathroom.
Weeks have passed. Weeks where the blessed Amazon gods have seen fit to delay your bed delivery at every possible turn. Shipping error. Weather delay. Warehouse backlog. And now, apparently, the exact replacement legs you need are out of stock. He had nodded sympathetically when you showed him the email, but inside, he’d felt something dangerously close to relief.
He’s taking what he can get. Because every night you’re still in his bed is another night he gets to wake up with you tucked against him like you moved there on purpose. Another morning where he pretends he doesn’t notice that you always end up with your back to his chest or that your hand finds the fabric of his shirt in your sleep.
He never moves first, but he doesn’t move away either.
He’s trying to figure out how he’s supposed to convince you to drop the whole separate-bed idea without sounding like a lunatic, without breaking whatever fragile rules you’ve both built around this fake marriage.
Because that’s what it is. Paperwork. A solution. A practical arrangement that somehow turned into shared groceries, inside jokes and your conditioner in his shower.
Because if you wanted him, really wanted him, you wouldn’t be trying so hard to get your own bed.
You weren’t supposed to feel like home. And he definitely wasn’t supposed to be standing in the middle of the Pitt, pretending he’s annoyed his coworkers are goofing off, when deep down he’s just frustrated about not being able to spend his day off with you tomorrow.
It’s only when he swipes his badge at the counter and a name flashes across the screen that’s definitely not his that the laughter finally bursts free behind him.
He closes his eyes for half a second, opens them again and sees the exact same thing as he did before. Your name glows back at him in bright hospital-blue letters.
“Hey, Trouble,” Ellis calls out. “Looking good tonight.”
Shen leans over the counter, pointing his cup at Jack’s head. “Yeah! Did you change your hairstyle or something?”
“Very funny,” Jack replies dryly, pinning his badge back onto his shirt. Well, your badge.
He doesn’t even need to think twice about how this happened. This morning, you had come in, worn out, and carelessly dropped your badge on the counter by the door. He had tossed his on top of yours, not thinking much of it. Later, he’d stayed longer than intended, lingering by the TV before eventually joining you when you shifted your legs to make space for him without looking away from the screen.
"Thought you didn't like this," you'd mumbled, a playful grin tugging at your lips.
“I don’t,” he shot back automatically. And honestly, he isn't quite sure he knows what the show's about, but he likes watching it with you. Likes seeing how you react—how you smile, laugh, and frown at scenes.
He left later than he’d meant to because your feet were brushing against his thigh, because you were so warm and cosy, curled up on the couch, and it felt stupidly easy to stay. And he hadn't thought about grabbing the right badge in his rush to leave, just swiped one before he hurried out the door.
And now he’s standing in the Pitt holding your badge instead of his.
“Well,” Lena says, folding her arms and flashing a knowing grin. “Looks like you need to call the missus. You won’t make it through the shift without your badge.”
A chorus of exaggerated “oooohs” erupts behind him. Jack tries to drown them out and pulls out his phone. He takes two steps toward the break room, ready to call you, and hopefully not ruin your evening, but Lena interrupts with news of an incoming trauma. All he manages to do is shoot off a few quick messages.
Jack: Can you bring me my badge? Accidentally took yours. Sorry!
Jack: Take an Uber. I'll pay.
He felt his phone buzz moments later, just as he has his hands deep in a guy's chest trying to clip an artery. Bridget offers to check for him, but he declines; he doesn't want her accidentally seeing something that could be misinterpreted. So he can't look, no matter how much he wants to. He really hopes you’re not mad.
He sees the moment you arrive, having shifted responsibility of the case over to Ellis by then. He sees the way your eyes scan the ER automatically for him before you even step fully into the Pitt. He turns his back before your gaze can land on him. He needs to stay focused.
The moment he's free, he removes his gown and gloves quickly, heading straight for where you're chatting with Lena.
He takes you in as he walks over. The tilt of your head as you laugh, the hoodie that slouches down your figure. His hoodie. He really needs to stop getting so worked up seeing you in that.
"Hey," you greet him, leaning into his side with a casualness that floors him before he remembers that you're acting. His arm comes up automatically before his brain catches up, settling around your waist, his thumb brushing against you unconsciously.
"I'm sorry," he says. He presses a kiss to the crown of your head—softer than he intends. Slower. He hopes you don't think he's overdoing it. You don’t show it if you do.
"Don't worry about it. It's good for me to get out of the house on days off, or I might just end up glued to the couch," you say with a bright laugh.
Reaching into your bag, you pull out his badge first. Before he can take it, you step closer, close enough for him to feel your warmth even through his scrubs. Your fingers lightly brush against his chest as you unclip your badge from where it rests on him. Jack's breath catches for a moment before he can steady himself.
You don’t look up at him at first. Your focus is on the plastic, on the small metal clasp. But he sees the way your lashes lower, the faint press of your lips together like you’re concentrating too hard for something so simple. Then you clip his badge back onto him, your knuckles grazing his sternum softly.
“Here you go,” you murmur softly now, smoothing the fabric of his scrub top afterwards—an unnecessary, lingering pat over the place where his heart is trying very hard not to give him away.
Jack swallows hard. Finally, you meet his gaze, and there's a warmth in your expression, almost shy, that feels out of place against the easy grin you're trying to put on for the crowd.
“…and something to get you through the shift,” you add quickly, like you need to break whatever that moment just was. You step back half an inch and reach behind you for the bag he hadn’t noticed. "Lena mentioned you were stuck in trauma, so I took the chance to make something quick for you."
Make. The word strikes him harder than it should. You hand over the bag, and as he opens it, he finds a Tupperware container inside, still faintly warm to the touch.
Fried rice. You made this for him. His heart stumbles, then starts pounding harder, heat blooming slow and steady in his chest.
“Thought you might be starving,” you say lightly. “I know you didn’t bring anything to eat.” You give him a pointed look, and he’s aware of the hypocrisy—how he’d be after you if you did the same. He just didn't know you'd noticed when it came to him.
His fingers tighten slightly around the container. “You… made this?” he asks, and it comes out quieter than he means it to.
You shrug, a little bashful now. “It’s just fried rice. Nothing special.”
Nothing special. He thinks about you standing in the kitchen, hair tied back, probably in his hoodie, chopping vegetables, waiting for the pan to heat up, and taking the time to do something so small yet so thoughtful for him.
He wants to say something, thank you, you didn’t have to, something that acknowledges just how much this means to him. But the words stick, stubborn and inadequate. Instead, he just moves closer, his fingers brushing against the edge of the counter as if to anchor himself.
“You didn’t have to,” he finally manages to say, his voice low and rough around the edges.
You shrug, brushing a lock of hair from your face, your smile softening. “I wanted to.”
That one sentence, simple, unassuming, strikes him harder than anything else. His throat tightens. He can’t remember the last time someone had done something so quietly, so deliberately for him. His usual defences—his control, even the careful lines he draws (or tries to draw) around his feelings for you—start to crumble under the weight of your kindness.
He steps closer without thinking, crowding into your space. Close enough that he can see the faint crease between your brows when you’re trying not to smile too hard. Close enough that if he tilted his head an inch, he could kiss you.
He doesn’t, even if he desperately wants to.
“I… I really appreciate it,” he says, though it sounds thinner than he intends. He wants to do something more, say something more to show you just how much this means to him.
But then he remembers where you are, and that you people are watching, as Lena cuts in.
"Wow. Where do I find a wife like that?" she grins. "You're one lucky man."
“I know,” he replies instantly, his gaze locked on you. It’s the most genuine thing he’s said all day. You can’t help but smile back at him, amused by the situation rather than feeling awkward like you used to.
"Where's our stuff, mama?" Ellis interjects, pulling your attention away from him.
“Husband privileges,” you tease, your eyes flickering back to Jack for just a moment. "Gotta live with me to earn this," you grin.
"Hey, Abbot," Ellis spins around, eyes wide. "Looking for a roommate?"
"No," he says flatly, but he can't help the twitch that tugs at his mouth when you lean back into his side, laughing loudly.
The key turns in the lock with a soft click, and Jack lets out a breath before the door even swings open. His right leg is aching. It’s a dull, deep pain that starts at the end of the bone and spreads up into his thigh—phantom nerves misfiring, scar tissue pulling tight after a long shift. All he wants is to sit down.
What he doesn’t expect is the lamp still being on. You’re curled up on the couch, your hands lost in the oversized sleeves of your hoodie. You blink slowly when you hear him come in.
“You’re still up?” he asks, voice softening.
You rub at your eyes, words coming out mumbled. “Was waiting f'you. You want something to eat?”
His heart does something it shouldn’t when it hears that. Like that means something, it absolutely does not.
“Nah, I’m not hungry.” He pauses for a second. “I’m gonna go shower.” He tries to downplay his movements—shifting his weight carefully, avoiding the subtle hitch in his gait as he makes his way to the bathroom. He hates it when you see it on the bad days. He hates that you can tell the difference between a manageable ache and the kind that crawls up his spine and sits there all night. Hates that flicker of worry in your face. This is not something that will ever make you want him.
The shower helps a little. Warm water loosens the tight pull of the muscle. He washes it carefully, using mild soap and gentle hands, and rinses thoroughly, before patting it completely dry afterwards.
By the time he steps out, shorts hanging low on his hips, you’ve moved to the bed. He hobbles his way into bed, trying to hide just how much it hurts.
Your gaze sharpens instantly, taking in everything he tries to conceal. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he grunts, easing himself down onto the mattress. “Leg’s just acting up today.”
He keeps his voice level, trying not to let you see how much it’s bothering him.
“Anything I can do?” you ask, genuinely concerned.
He instinctively shakes his head. “No, sweetheart,” he replies, reaching for the lotion on the nightstand. It's unscented and thick. Rolling up the leg of his shorts, he reveals the strong thigh that narrows to a rounded end below his knee.
You sit up straight. “Let me.”
Before he can resist, you gently take the bottle from his hand. There’s no pity in your face. No flinching. Just focus. You warm the lotion between your palms first.
“Tell me if I’m doing it wrong,” you say, serious in a way that makes his chest tighten. He almost says he’s fine, almost insists, but you’re already there, already warm, already undoing him.
Your hands settle against his skin, and he inhales sharply. The lotion feels cool at first, but as your palms begin to spread it slowly and deliberately, warmth follows. You instinctively avoid the scar seam, circling it instead of pressing directly on it. Your thumbs work their way upward along the muscle, applying firm, careful pressure.
“Is the pressure okay?” you murmur.
“Yeah,” he replies, his voice rough.
You massage from the end upwards, promoting circulation, the way his physical therapist taught him. With gentle compression, you stroke slowly toward the knee, pressing into the tight muscles, easing the knots that have developed from compensating all day.
Jack lets his head fall back against the headboard. He didn’t realise how much it hurt until it started to feel better.
You shift closer without thinking, one leg tucking under you as you focus. Your brow furrows slightly when you reach a sensitive spot. “Here?” you ask quietly.
“Little to the left,” he breathes.
You adjust immediately. The intimacy of it nearly undoes him. You’ve seen this before, of course, it's hard not to when you're living together, but you've never done it for him. Still, your hands move with intention, almost as if you’ve memorised every spot that brings him relief.
After a minute, you shift to a gentle tapping along the edge, desensitisation, something the physical therapist suggested to soothe the overactive nerve endings.
“You read up on that,” he realises quietly.
You shrug, keeping your gaze down. “Thought if it’s gonna hurt you, I might as well know how to help.”
That’s when his throat tightens. You didn’t have to learn this. His hand moves without thinking, settling over your wrist, not to stop you—just to feel you there.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
You look up, and in this moment, there’s no performance, no audience, no sterile hospital corridor—just the gentle glow of the lamp and the calming rhythm of your hands against his skin.
“You really don’t have to take care of me like this,” he adds.
Your expression softens. “I know," you say, and then look down, shrugging. "…It's what friends do, right?" Your mouth opens like you’re about to say something else. Just long enough that he almost thinks—but then you nod.
He forces a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and nods in return. “Right,” he says. “Friends.”
You continue the massage, as if the shift in the air never happened. He remains still, aware that in a few minutes you’ll wipe your hands on the towel waiting on his side of the bed. He knows you’ll turn off the lamp before he can reach it. He knows you’ll curl up on your side of the mattress first. And somewhere around ten a.m., as always, you’ll drift toward him.
Not on purpose. Never on purpose.
But you will. And when he wakes, he'll pretend he doesn't like it.
He'll pretend what he’s feeling is just what a friend feels. He’ll pretend like his every move doesn’t carry more weight than you'd ever know, if that's what you want. He'll take friends any day.
Friends...Friends? DEATH SENTENCE THE TENSION WITH FRIENDS?!
Why, why are these two brilliant, smart doctors so damn STUPID
I hope that bed never gets made. I hope something happens that makes her get rushed to the E.D so one of them can fucking say something. I HOPE SOME ASS HITS ON HER IN FRONT OF HIM AND ROBBY TELLS HIM TO GET OVER HIMSELF IF IT REALLY DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING TO HIM WITH A KNOWING SMIRK.
Summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, fluff, jack's leg makes an appearance
word count: 4.9k
a/n: thank you all so much for still tuning in and interacting with every part. I'm trying my best to respond to you all but if i've missed you, i just want you to know that i'm very appreciative of your support and loooove reading all your responses (i see all you say in the tags, too) <333. hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
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Living with Jack is infinitely easier than you ever imagined it would be. You knew he would make a good roommate—he’s thoughtful and respectful—but you still braced yourself for the usual bumps in the road. You anticipated those awkward silences in the kitchen and the "you ate the last of my cereal" arguments you used to have with Talia. The discomfort of you not being quite sure where to place yourself in his home when it’s just a temporary move.
Instead, you get mornings where you both come home from the night shift, take one look at each other, and just know who needs the shower first. He had a rough night? You wave him through. You’ve had a bad shift? He’s already stepping back, surrendering the shower with a sleepy smile. No debates. Just a quiet understanding and adjustment.
There are days when he starts chopping vegetables without asking, sensing that you're too exhausted to cook. On other days, you’ll warm the pan and season the sauce just the way he likes it. You take care of the dishes when he cooks; he dries them without needing a reminder.
No negotiations. No discussions. Just... this effortless, almost eerie rhythm.
Jack has always been better at taking action than providing explanations. You know this from work. When the ER is drowning, he doesn’t give long pep talks; he orders pizza, extra garlic knots included.
You just had no idea this quality would carry over into your home life. You casually mention that you’re almost out of that ridiculously expensive conditioner—the one you only splurge on when you’re feeling indulgent—and three days later it’s in the shower caddy. Same brand, same scent. He doesn’t say anything about it. You don’t either. You just stand there under the water, fingers wrapped around the bottle, heart beating messily.
It’s the specific brand of oat milk you love, even though he still sticks to his regular kind, appearing in the fridge. Your favourite chocolate, the one with sea salt, tucked into the pantry. The phone charger you keep meaning to replace, with its frayed wire, mysteriously disappearing, and a new one coiled neatly sitting on the counter.
He never hands these things to you outright. Never frames them as gifts. They simply integrate into your life as if they’ve always been there. And he’s careful about it. That’s the part that gets you. He doesn’t act like you owe him anything. If you thank him, he just shrugs it off, saying, “I was at the store anyway.”
You have to assume that this is just what Jack does—things he would do for others, too. This is simply life when there’s no burden of medical debt on your shoulders. You'd probably be the same way if you could.
You can't read into it because he never lingers when he brushes past you in the hallway. He never lets his hand rest too long at your waist when he helps steady you in the ER. He avoids doing anything that could be misconstrued. He’d act this way for anyone he shared a home with. It doesn’t mean anything.
It can’t. If he had feelings for you, real feelings, he wouldn’t be this careful.
So you do what you can. You tidy up and ensure the house is liveable. You tackle the laundry, folding his shirts just the way he likes. You refill his coffee supply before it runs low. You have food ready for him when he comes home drained from a shift after you've had a day off.
It’s so easy living with Jack that it's hard. Each time you find yourselves moving around each other like this, as if it’s been the routine for years, your chest tightens. This wasn’t meant to feel so natural. It wasn't meant to feel like home.
The bed situation doesn’t help. Delays keep piling up—shipping errors and warehouse issues. One email after another that sounds vaguely apologetic but not nearly enough. When it finally arrives, you’re almost giddy (and sad, but you don't linger on that). This is it. This is your way of establishing a boundary—a much-needed one if you’re gonna survive this.
You’re halfway through putting it together, the Allen key clenched between your teeth, hair sticking to your forehead, when you realise two of the legs are missing. You stare blankly at the assembly instructions. You count the parts again, emptying the box like the legs might magically appear from underneath a flap of cardboard.
Nothing. It feels almost cosmic, as if the universe itself wants to keep you in his bed.
Jack finds you sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by wooden slats and frustration. He pauses in the doorway, takes in the chaos—the half-built frame, and the screwdriver clutched too tightly in your hand. He takes off his running shoes without a word.
“What’s wrong?” he asks gently.
“It's missing two legs,” you reply flatly, holding up the useless bracket as if it could explain the whole situation. Your hands tremble more than they should over something so trivial. “I can't believe this keeps happening.”
He takes a look, counts the pieces. “We can call them for replacements.”
“Which are gonna be here in three to five business weeks,” you mutter, scrubbing your eyes hard. "Why does this keep happening to me?" Your laugh sounds thin, barely masking your irritation.
He sits down beside you among the remnants of your thwarted project, bumping his shoulder against yours. “I don’t mind sharing,” he says softly, trying to lighten the mood. “I’ve gotten used to you stealing the duvet, anyway.” His tone is light.
You roll your eyes. “That’s not the point.”
He smiles. “It’s kind of the point.”
And maybe for him, it’s sweet. Maybe for him, it’s easy in a comforting way. He's just being kind, trying to prevent you from having an obvious breakdown over a fucking bed.
For you, though, it’s a crisis. Three more weeks in his bed feels like playing with fire. Most mornings, you wake up wrapped in his arms—not just close by, not just sharing a mattress, but firmly in his hold. Like, sometime in the night, your body decides for you, like it gravitates towards him. Your back tucked against his chest, his arm heavy and warm around your waist, and his breath slow against the back of your neck. Sometimes your fingers are tangled in his shirt. Sometimes his nose is buried in your hair.
You don’t remember crossing the distance. You just wake up there. And the worst part? You sleep better like that. You hate that you sleep better like that.
You need a bed of your own. You need a place where you don’t wake up already intertwined. Where your heart doesn’t trip over itself before you’re even fully conscious. Where domesticity doesn’t sneak up on you in the shape of shared blankets and cuddles.
Because this—this quiet, effortless merging of lives—is more intimate than anything loud or dramatic. It’s folding his laundry without thinking and knowing which shirts he wants air-dried. It’s him automatically setting aside the corner piece of lasagna because he knows you like the crispy edge. It’s your shampoo tucked away in his shower caddy, your favourite tea stashed in his pantry, and a spare toothbrush that no longer feels temporary. It's getting to watch him with bed hair sitting at the kitchen island with a coffee, after working out with sweat dripping down his neck, and curled up on the couch pretending not to watch your show.
It’s terrifying how easy it is. How natural. How dangerously close to permanent it feels. And the worst part is you can’t tell if he feels it too or if he’s just being kind, just honouring the terms of something that was never supposed to matter this much.
The house smells faintly of coffee and your microwaved lunch from earlier. You’re hunched over your textbook at the table, highlighter in hand, surrounded by a chaotic spread of notebooks. Your eyes blink more slowly as you attempt to take in what you’re reading.
But you’re distracted because across from you, Jack is seated, deeply engrossed in a crossword puzzle. His pencil taps rhythmically against the paper, brows knitted in concentration. For a moment, you can’t help but admire him—the way his neck curves, the muscles in his forearms flexing with each word he writes.
You clear your throat and glance back at your notes, pretending you’re entirely focused. You need to stop daydreaming and get your shit together.
Suddenly, you hear the scrape of a chair as he gets up and heads into the kitchen. A few moments later, the rich scent of brewing coffee wafts over to you.
“Thought you might need a refill,” he says, sliding a steaming mug across the table, just the way you like it.
“Thanks,” you reply softly, your hands brushing against his as you reach for the mug.
He sits back down, pencil ready again. You watch him take a careful sip, a faint smile tugging at the edge of his mouth as he looks at you. You try to refocus, but the warmth of his hand brushing yours on the mug lingers longer than it should.
“Need help?” he asks softly, leaning just a little closer across the table, and you jump slightly, though only your pen moves. You swear you can feel his leg moving closer, feel the heat through your pants, but you don’t dare look down.
“No, I’ve got it,” you reply, and he just watches you for a moment, then nods, turning back to his paper.
The house is quiet, filled only with the sounds of your scribbling, the tap of his pencil, and the occasional sip of coffee. For a moment, you forget about the exam and all the stress. It’s just the two of you in this space.
You glance up at him after not hearing his pen for a while. He’s focused on the crossword, his jaw tight with concentration. But his pencil hovers over a word he’s been stuck on for ages.
“Yearning,” you whisper quietly, taking a sip of your coffee to mask the flutter in your chest. Is that another sign from the universe?
In the little pause before he writes it in, he glances at you, just briefly, sending you a quick smile. You take another sip of coffee. He taps the pencil against the table.
You do your best to refocus on your notes.
It's another typical night at PTMC. Same scrubs. Same scuffed shoes. Same stale coffee.
Jack stands in front of the board, stethoscope draped around his neck, scanning through the list of patients. As usual, nothing seems out of the ordinary. Nausea. Chest pain. Two psych holds.
Just as he’s about to step over to a computer, he feels it—the prickling sense that someone is watching him. He pauses, scanning the hub with his eyes.
Ellis is hovering just off to his left, pretending to review labs on the computer. He can see her biting the inside of her cheek, her shoulders twitching as if she’s holding back a comment. Further down the hub, Shen leans against the counter, taking a deliberately casual sip of his coffee. Lena, however, isn’t hiding her interest at all. She’s openly watching him with raised eyebrows, a slow grin spreading across her face.
Jack exhales sharply through his nose. “Whatever it is,” he mutters, turning toward the computer, “I’m not interested.”
“Oof,” Lena replies, clearly amused. “Someone’s feeling feisty tonight.”
Ellis mumbles under her breath, "Happens every time his missus isn't here." He can hear Shen snicker in response.
Normally, Jack doesn't mind them goofing off. Because normally you're right beside him, laughing along. But tonight's different, all thanks to Ellis. Because you're not here. She'd sent you a text asking to switch shifts, which means that instead of enjoying a day off together tomorrow, you're at home now, and Jack’s left to deal with his team on his own.
You were on the couch when he left, all snuggled up under that silly kitten-patterned blanket you brought over. One knee bent, with a socked foot peeking out. The TV was glowing with that show you insist is good, though he’d caught your eyes closing multiple times during it.
That could have been your evening together tomorrow, and that’s what’s really bugging him. Your days off had finally lined up after weeks of barely getting to see each other during shifts. And yes, he might still have those few uninterrupted hours before work but they just aren't cutting it anymore. Plus, there's the fact that you're studying for an exam he knows you'll ace, which eats up more of your time together.
And Jack knows he is being greedy, but he can also already hear the ticking clock—you're moving out again soon, and he's not taking advantage of you being there enough.
It’s getting a little scary how quickly he’s adjusted to you living with him. It feels so natural to walk into the house and expect to see your shoes by the door, to hear your laughter coming from the kitchen, or to catch a hint of your shampoo drifting from the bathroom.
Weeks have passed. Weeks where the blessed Amazon gods have seen fit to delay your bed delivery at every possible turn. Shipping error. Weather delay. Warehouse backlog. And now, apparently, the exact replacement legs you need are out of stock. He had nodded sympathetically when you showed him the email, but inside, he’d felt something dangerously close to relief.
He’s taking what he can get. Because every night you’re still in his bed is another night he gets to wake up with you tucked against him like you moved there on purpose. Another morning where he pretends he doesn’t notice that you always end up with your back to his chest or that your hand finds the fabric of his shirt in your sleep.
He never moves first, but he doesn’t move away either.
He’s trying to figure out how he’s supposed to convince you to drop the whole separate-bed idea without sounding like a lunatic, without breaking whatever fragile rules you’ve both built around this fake marriage.
Because that’s what it is. Paperwork. A solution. A practical arrangement that somehow turned into shared groceries, inside jokes and your conditioner in his shower.
Because if you wanted him, really wanted him, you wouldn’t be trying so hard to get your own bed.
You weren’t supposed to feel like home. And he definitely wasn’t supposed to be standing in the middle of the Pitt, pretending he’s annoyed his coworkers are goofing off, when deep down he’s just frustrated about not being able to spend his day off with you tomorrow.
It’s only when he swipes his badge at the counter and a name flashes across the screen that’s definitely not his that the laughter finally bursts free behind him.
He closes his eyes for half a second, opens them again and sees the exact same thing as he did before. Your name glows back at him in bright hospital-blue letters.
“Hey, Trouble,” Ellis calls out. “Looking good tonight.”
Shen leans over the counter, pointing his cup at Jack’s head. “Yeah! Did you change your hairstyle or something?”
“Very funny,” Jack replies dryly, pinning his badge back onto his shirt. Well, your badge.
He doesn’t even need to think twice about how this happened. This morning, you had come in, worn out, and carelessly dropped your badge on the counter by the door. He had tossed his on top of yours, not thinking much of it. Later, he’d stayed longer than intended, lingering by the TV before eventually joining you when you shifted your legs to make space for him without looking away from the screen.
"Thought you didn't like this," you'd mumbled, a playful grin tugging at your lips.
“I don’t,” he shot back automatically. And honestly, he isn't quite sure he knows what the show's about, but he likes watching it with you. Likes seeing how you react—how you smile, laugh, and frown at scenes.
He left later than he’d meant to because your feet were brushing against his thigh, because you were so warm and cosy, curled up on the couch, and it felt stupidly easy to stay. And he hadn't thought about grabbing the right badge in his rush to leave, just swiped one before he hurried out the door.
And now he’s standing in the Pitt holding your badge instead of his.
“Well,” Lena says, folding her arms and flashing a knowing grin. “Looks like you need to call the missus. You won’t make it through the shift without your badge.”
A chorus of exaggerated “oooohs” erupts behind him. Jack tries to drown them out and pulls out his phone. He takes two steps toward the break room, ready to call you, and hopefully not ruin your evening, but Lena interrupts with news of an incoming trauma. All he manages to do is shoot off a few quick messages.
Jack: Can you bring me my badge? Accidentally took yours. Sorry!
Jack: Take an Uber. I'll pay.
He felt his phone buzz moments later, just as he has his hands deep in a guy's chest trying to clip an artery. Bridget offers to check for him, but he declines; he doesn't want her accidentally seeing something that could be misinterpreted. So he can't look, no matter how much he wants to. He really hopes you’re not mad.
He sees the moment you arrive, having shifted responsibility of the case over to Ellis by then. He sees the way your eyes scan the ER automatically for him before you even step fully into the Pitt. He turns his back before your gaze can land on him. He needs to stay focused.
The moment he's free, he removes his gown and gloves quickly, heading straight for where you're chatting with Lena.
He takes you in as he walks over. The tilt of your head as you laugh, the hoodie that slouches down your figure. His hoodie. He really needs to stop getting so worked up seeing you in that.
"Hey," you greet him, leaning into his side with a casualness that floors him before he remembers that you're acting. His arm comes up automatically before his brain catches up, settling around your waist, his thumb brushing against you unconsciously.
"I'm sorry," he says. He presses a kiss to the crown of your head—softer than he intends. Slower. He hopes you don't think he's overdoing it. You don’t show it if you do.
"Don't worry about it. It's good for me to get out of the house on days off, or I might just end up glued to the couch," you say with a bright laugh.
Reaching into your bag, you pull out his badge first. Before he can take it, you step closer, close enough for him to feel your warmth even through his scrubs. Your fingers lightly brush against his chest as you unclip your badge from where it rests on him. Jack's breath catches for a moment before he can steady himself.
You don’t look up at him at first. Your focus is on the plastic, on the small metal clasp. But he sees the way your lashes lower, the faint press of your lips together like you’re concentrating too hard for something so simple. Then you clip his badge back onto him, your knuckles grazing his sternum softly.
“Here you go,” you murmur softly now, smoothing the fabric of his scrub top afterwards—an unnecessary, lingering pat over the place where his heart is trying very hard not to give him away.
Jack swallows hard. Finally, you meet his gaze, and there's a warmth in your expression, almost shy, that feels out of place against the easy grin you're trying to put on for the crowd.
“…and something to get you through the shift,” you add quickly, like you need to break whatever that moment just was. You step back half an inch and reach behind you for the bag he hadn’t noticed. "Lena mentioned you were stuck in trauma, so I took the chance to make something quick for you."
Make. The word strikes him harder than it should. You hand over the bag, and as he opens it, he finds a Tupperware container inside, still faintly warm to the touch.
Fried rice. You made this for him. His heart stumbles, then starts pounding harder, heat blooming slow and steady in his chest.
“Thought you might be starving,” you say lightly. “I know you didn’t bring anything to eat.” You give him a pointed look, and he’s aware of the hypocrisy—how he’d be after you if you did the same. He just didn't know you'd noticed when it came to him.
His fingers tighten slightly around the container. “You… made this?” he asks, and it comes out quieter than he means it to.
You shrug, a little bashful now. “It’s just fried rice. Nothing special.”
Nothing special. He thinks about you standing in the kitchen, hair tied back, probably in his hoodie, chopping vegetables, waiting for the pan to heat up, and taking the time to do something so small yet so thoughtful for him.
He wants to say something, thank you, you didn’t have to, something that acknowledges just how much this means to him. But the words stick, stubborn and inadequate. Instead, he just moves closer, his fingers brushing against the edge of the counter as if to anchor himself.
“You didn’t have to,” he finally manages to say, his voice low and rough around the edges.
You shrug, brushing a lock of hair from your face, your smile softening. “I wanted to.”
That one sentence, simple, unassuming, strikes him harder than anything else. His throat tightens. He can’t remember the last time someone had done something so quietly, so deliberately for him. His usual defences—his control, even the careful lines he draws (or tries to draw) around his feelings for you—start to crumble under the weight of your kindness.
He steps closer without thinking, crowding into your space. Close enough that he can see the faint crease between your brows when you’re trying not to smile too hard. Close enough that if he tilted his head an inch, he could kiss you.
He doesn’t, even if he desperately wants to.
“I… I really appreciate it,” he says, though it sounds thinner than he intends. He wants to do something more, say something more to show you just how much this means to him.
But then he remembers where you are, and that you people are watching, as Lena cuts in.
"Wow. Where do I find a wife like that?" she grins. "You're one lucky man."
“I know,” he replies instantly, his gaze locked on you. It’s the most genuine thing he’s said all day. You can’t help but smile back at him, amused by the situation rather than feeling awkward like you used to.
"Where's our stuff, mama?" Ellis interjects, pulling your attention away from him.
“Husband privileges,” you tease, your eyes flickering back to Jack for just a moment. "Gotta live with me to earn this," you grin.
"Hey, Abbot," Ellis spins around, eyes wide. "Looking for a roommate?"
"No," he says flatly, but he can't help the twitch that tugs at his mouth when you lean back into his side, laughing loudly.
The key turns in the lock with a soft click, and Jack lets out a breath before the door even swings open. His right leg is aching. It’s a dull, deep pain that starts at the end of the bone and spreads up into his thigh—phantom nerves misfiring, scar tissue pulling tight after a long shift. All he wants is to sit down.
What he doesn’t expect is the lamp still being on. You’re curled up on the couch, your hands lost in the oversized sleeves of your hoodie. You blink slowly when you hear him come in.
“You’re still up?” he asks, voice softening.
You rub at your eyes, words coming out mumbled. “Was waiting f'you. You want something to eat?”
His heart does something it shouldn’t when it hears that. Like that means something, it absolutely does not.
“Nah, I’m not hungry.” He pauses for a second. “I’m gonna go shower.” He tries to downplay his movements—shifting his weight carefully, avoiding the subtle hitch in his gait as he makes his way to the bathroom. He hates it when you see it on the bad days. He hates that you can tell the difference between a manageable ache and the kind that crawls up his spine and sits there all night. Hates that flicker of worry in your face. This is not something that will ever make you want him.
The shower helps a little. Warm water loosens the tight pull of the muscle. He washes it carefully, using mild soap and gentle hands, and rinses thoroughly, before patting it completely dry afterwards.
By the time he steps out, shorts hanging low on his hips, you’ve moved to the bed. He hobbles his way into bed, trying to hide just how much it hurts.
Your gaze sharpens instantly, taking in everything he tries to conceal. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he grunts, easing himself down onto the mattress. “Leg’s just acting up today.”
He keeps his voice level, trying not to let you see how much it’s bothering him.
“Anything I can do?” you ask, genuinely concerned.
He instinctively shakes his head. “No, sweetheart,” he replies, reaching for the lotion on the nightstand. It's unscented and thick. Rolling up the leg of his shorts, he reveals the strong thigh that narrows to a rounded end below his knee.
You sit up straight. “Let me.”
Before he can resist, you gently take the bottle from his hand. There’s no pity in your face. No flinching. Just focus. You warm the lotion between your palms first.
“Tell me if I’m doing it wrong,” you say, serious in a way that makes his chest tighten. He almost says he’s fine, almost insists, but you’re already there, already warm, already undoing him.
Your hands settle against his skin, and he inhales sharply. The lotion feels cool at first, but as your palms begin to spread it slowly and deliberately, warmth follows. You instinctively avoid the scar seam, circling it instead of pressing directly on it. Your thumbs work their way upward along the muscle, applying firm, careful pressure.
“Is the pressure okay?” you murmur.
“Yeah,” he replies, his voice rough.
You massage from the end upwards, promoting circulation, the way his physical therapist taught him. With gentle compression, you stroke slowly toward the knee, pressing into the tight muscles, easing the knots that have developed from compensating all day.
Jack lets his head fall back against the headboard. He didn’t realise how much it hurt until it started to feel better.
You shift closer without thinking, one leg tucking under you as you focus. Your brow furrows slightly when you reach a sensitive spot. “Here?” you ask quietly.
“Little to the left,” he breathes.
You adjust immediately. The intimacy of it nearly undoes him. You’ve seen this before, of course, it's hard not to when you're living together, but you've never done it for him. Still, your hands move with intention, almost as if you’ve memorised every spot that brings him relief.
After a minute, you shift to a gentle tapping along the edge, desensitisation, something the physical therapist suggested to soothe the overactive nerve endings.
“You read up on that,” he realises quietly.
You shrug, keeping your gaze down. “Thought if it’s gonna hurt you, I might as well know how to help.”
That’s when his throat tightens. You didn’t have to learn this. His hand moves without thinking, settling over your wrist, not to stop you—just to feel you there.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
You look up, and in this moment, there’s no performance, no audience, no sterile hospital corridor—just the gentle glow of the lamp and the calming rhythm of your hands against his skin.
“You really don’t have to take care of me like this,” he adds.
Your expression softens. “I know," you say, and then look down, shrugging. "…It's what friends do, right?" Your mouth opens like you’re about to say something else. Just long enough that he almost thinks—but then you nod.
He forces a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and nods in return. “Right,” he says. “Friends.”
You continue the massage, as if the shift in the air never happened. He remains still, aware that in a few minutes you’ll wipe your hands on the towel waiting on his side of the bed. He knows you’ll turn off the lamp before he can reach it. He knows you’ll curl up on your side of the mattress first. And somewhere around ten a.m., as always, you’ll drift toward him.
Not on purpose. Never on purpose.
But you will. And when he wakes, he'll pretend he doesn't like it.
He'll pretend what he’s feeling is just what a friend feels. He’ll pretend like his every move doesn’t carry more weight than you'd ever know, if that's what you want. He'll take friends any day.
Friends...Friends? DEATH SENTENCE THE TENSION WITH FRIENDS?!
Why, why are these two brilliant, smart doctors so damn STUPID
I hope that bed never gets made. I hope something happens that makes her get rushed to the E.D so one of them can fucking say something. I HOPE SOME ASS HITS ON HER IN FRONT OF HIM AND ROBBY TELLS HIM TO GET OVER HIMSELF IF IT REALLY DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING TO HIM WITH A KNOWING SMIRK.
The Color Game. “Humans can’t reliably recall colors. This is a simple game to see how good (or bad) you are at it. We’ll show you five colors, then you’ll try and recreate them.” I scored 39/50 but got a perfect score on one color.
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