welcome ! my name is val and i love daydreaming about fictional characters and bringing those delusions to life through writing
about me ! val ; 20s ; english isn't my first language; multifandom; mostly sfw blog; lit major who's decided to pour all the knowledge from her creative writing lessons into her fanfiction
i won't take smut requests, since i write those better at my own pace andd when the horny muses come to me with their best ideas.
rude comments or messages on my inbox will get you immediately blocked.
Hiiiii, I have a request cause I love your writing so much!!! Jack Abbot x Samira Mohan’s best friend who is also her polar opposite. Reader is loud and non-traditional, leaning into the alt aesthetic and piercings and tattoos and such. Maybe she works in the arts/humanities. Samira drags her with to drinks one night and Jack is smitten. Reader is oblivious so Samira has to play matchmaker! Thank you! 💕💕💕💕💕
omg i loved writing this so much!! thank you so much for such a cool request anon <3 also sorry it took me this long to get to it but finally, here's your fic:
based on this request
wc: 2.2k
pairing: jack abbot x alt!reader
summary: when samira's alt, loud and carefree friend comes visit the er, jack finds himself enthralled. so, naturally, samira is left with no other option but to play matchmaker.
c. warning: reader wears piercings, has tattoos and is described as alt/having an alternative style; reader is an art teacher at a high school, reader wears (alt) makeup and combat boots.
a/n: oh i love these two together guys. i hope you like them too!!
masterlist | requests
the hospital lobby is a monument of clinical neutrality, all beige walls, muted gray floors, and the low, collective hum of people who’ve been waiting for far too long and workers who are begging for their shifts to be over. it is dr. samira mohan’s natural habitat: structured, and precise.
and then, there is you.
you stand near the sliding glass doors, a walking, breathing vibrance of color and sound that completely disrupts the boring stillness of the building. as a public high school art teacher, your personal style leans heavily into a loud, unapologetic alt aesthetic. today, you are wearing an oversized, patch-covered denim jacket over a band tee, fishnets under ripped jeans, and combat boots that click heavily against the linoleum. the faint jingle of your stacked necklaces and piercings accompanies every tilt of your head, and your arms are a living canvas of tattoos that stretch down to your knuckles.
you are waiting to pick samira up from her shift. since her car broke down a couple of days ago you agreed to pick her up. afterall, you shared an apartment and she’d had to drive to work more than once when your own car didn’t want to cooperate, so it was only fair. to pass the time, you pace around, minding the people around you to make sure you don’t bother any of the doctors and nurses around you. you pass the time, humming to the tune blasting through your headphones, entirely oblivious to the stares of the passing staff.
from across the central nurses' station, dr. jack abbott stops mid-sentence.
he is holding a patient chart, his expression usually a mask of calm, focused professionalism. but as his gaze lands on you, his hands freeze. he watches, utterly fascinated, as you throw your head back and laugh at something on your phone, your smile bright enough to cut through the oppressive hospital lighting. you are entirely out of place in his world, yet he cannot seem to look away from your magnetic energy.
"earth to jack," samira says, snapping her fingers in front of his face as she approaches the desk with her own stack of files. "robby said he needs the lab results for the girl in bay five."
jack blinks, clearing his throat as he quickly adjusts his white coat, a subtle flush creeping up his neck. "right. sorry. just... noticed someone near the ambulance bay."
samira follows his gaze, her eyes softening into an immediate, knowing smirk when she sees your familiar figure pacing near the glass doors. "ah. that's my best friend. she's here to pick me up."
jack doesn't say anything else, but his eyes trail after you until you and samira finally exit the building, your loud, animated hand gestures visible even through the glass.
the next day, the hospital is calmer than usual, with few intakes and only few complicated cases, but jack’s mind is entirely elsewhere. he waits until a mutual break in the doctors' lounge before he casually slides into the chair across from samira, holding two cups of fresh coffee.
he hands one to her, offering a practiced, easygoing smile. "rough shift yesterday. did you and your friend manage to get some rest?"
samira takes the cup, her dark eyes flashing with sharp amusement. she leans back, watching him over the rim of her mug. "we did, yeah. though she stayed up until 2:00 am grading watercolor projects. why do you ask?"
jack shifts in his seat, tapping his fingers against his coffee cup. for a man who handles high-stress medical emergencies without breaking a sweat, he looks remarkably nervous right now. "she just... seems very different from you. a bit of a polar opposite."
"she is," samira agrees, enjoying his transparent curiosity. "she teaches art at a local high school. i’ve lost count of how many half-finished sculptures and stray paint supplies i’ve found laying around the apartment. but she's the best person i know."
"an art teacher," jack echoes, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he pictures your vibrant energy in a classroom full of teenagers. "that fits. she certainly has a presence."
"she does," samira says, leaning forward with a sudden, calculating glint in her eye.
she recognizes that look on jack's face; the clean-cut, professional doctor abbot is completely smitten by a girl who looks like she belongs at a underground rock show.
"in fact, she's been trying to drag me out to this new dive bar downtown for weeks to celebrate the end of the school semester. i think i'm finally going to give in tonight. you should come with us, jack. get out of the scrubs for once."
jack hesitates for a fraction of a second, his usual reservations wrestling with the image of your bright smile. "i wouldn't want to intrude on your friends night."
"trust me," samira says, hiding her grin as she stands up to return to the floor. "you won't be intruding at all."
"i was thinking of getting a new tattoo," you casually comment, adjusting the heavy silver septum ring in your nose as you look at yourself in the mirror of the dive bar’s restroom.
you have fully leaned into your favorite look tonight: all plaid and leather, covered in enamel pins, heavy eyeliner that accentuates your expressive eyes, and your favorite platform boots.
"cool. where this time?" samira says as she finished retouching her lipstick.
“honestly? no idea. but one of my students drew this beautiful moth the other day and i asked for her permission to get it tattooed.”
samira’s eyebrows lift. “what did she say?”
“she asked me if i had hit my head.” you chuckle. “no, but seriously. it’s really good. girl has talent.”
finally, you slide out of the restroom, instantly absorbing the atmosphere of the bar. they’re playing an old classic rock tune, the neon signs are buzzing, and the air smells faintly of beer and fried food. it’s perfect.
but as you approach the booth samira pointed at, your eyes widen slightly. sitting in one of the cushioned seats, looking incredibly handsome in a casual dark sweater and jeans that show off his broad shoulders, is the doctor you saw briefly at the hospital yesterday. jack abbot.
you’d noticed him moving around, carrying a air of professionalism around him. you noticed the way he respectfully corrected the interns, how he was open to help anyone who approached him for help. and of, course, the fact that he was of the most attractive men you’d seen in a long time also didn’t go unnoticed.
the moment you’d gotten into your car, you couldn't help it nad had asked samira about him. she’d told you how much she admired him, how much she enjoyed working with him.
“why you ask?” she’d questioned, turning to look at you as you drove.
you simply shrugged. “just curious.”
"hey!" now your voice naturally carries over the music as you slide into the booth opposite him, leaning your elbows on the sticky wooden table. "you're samira's coworker, right? jack?"
jack looks up, and for a moment, he forgets how to speak. up close your energy is overwhelming in the best possible way. the sharp contrast of your dark, alternative aura against your warm, animated expression takes his breath away.
"i… yes," jack stammers slightly before catching himself, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles. "i'm jack."
samira watches the exchange with a playful glint in her eyes and finally sits down next to you.
"it's nice to meet you doc," you laugh, waving a hand casually, the silver rings on your fingers catching the red neon light. "should we order the loaded fries? because if i don't get carbs in my system after dealing with thirty freshman who think drawing dicks on their desks is avant-garde, i am going to pass out."
for the next two hours, the dynamic of the table is entirely driven by you. you are loud, passionate, and hilarious as you recount stories of your high school art students, your absolute disdain for school board budgets, and a bunch of anecdotes involving some of your students' parents.
jack is completely smitten. he doesn't just listen; he hangs on every single word you say. every time you laugh, his entire face lights up. whenever you lean in to emphasize a point, your hand occasionally brushing against his arm, a spark of pure electricity flashes in his eyes. he asks you insightful questions about art theory, about your experience as a teacher, genuinely interested, his deep voice a smooth, grounding anchor to your rapid-fire storytelling.
you, however, are completely, blissfully oblivious.
you think he is just being polite. you assume that a clean-cut, successful doctor like jack abbot is just being a good sport by hanging out with his colleague’s weird, loud friend. you treat him with the easy, teasing familiarity you show everyone, entirely missing the way his gaze lingers on your lips or how his hand hovers near yours on the table.
samira sits back, sipping her drink, watching the entire exchange unfold with the quiet satisfaction of a master chess player. she sees jack practically vibrating with a desire to ask for your number, and she sees you, completely blind to the fact that you have just brought a brilliant medical professional to his knees.
"you know," samira announces suddenly, checking her phone with an incredibly unconvincing look of surprise. "i completely forgot i promised to call the supervisor back about the weekend schedule. i need to step outside where it's quiet. and honestly, i'm exhausted. i might just take a rideshare back to the apartment."
jack knows she's lying, fully knowing the supervisor isn't going to pick up any work calls at this time, but he doesn't say anything. instead, he calmly takes a swig of his beer.
you blink, confused. "wait, really? but we haven't even finished the fries!"
"jack will help you finish them," samira says smoothly, sliding out of the booth before you can protest. she catches jack’s eye, giving him a subtle, encouraging nod that says don't mess this up, before turning to you. "don't stay up too late, babe."
the silence that settles over the booth after samira leaves is suddenly charged with a completely different kind of energy. without her presence acting as a buffer, you suddenly realize how close jack is sitting across from you. the red neon light casts long, dramatic shadows across his face, highlighting his sharp jawline and the intense, focused warmth in his eyes.
"well," you say, laughing a bit nervously as you pop a fry into your mouth. "i guess it’s just us now. sorry if i bored you with all the art talk. samira usually tunes me out after ten minutes."
"you didn't bore me at all," jack says softly. he leans forward, crossing his forearms on the table, closing the distance between you. the noise of the bar seems to fade into the background as he looks at you, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register. "in fact, i don't think i've been this entertained during a conversation in a very long time. you're passionate about what you do. it's... beautiful to watch."
you freeze, a fry halfway to your mouth. your heart does a sudden, erratic skip against your ribs. you look at him, searching his face for any sign of a joke, but his expression is entirely earnest, filled with a raw admiration that makes your cheeks flush hot.
"wait," you say, your loud demeanor suddenly dropping into something softer, a little vulnerable. "are you... are you flirting with me right now, dr. abbot?"
jack lets out a soft, breathless laugh, his eyes fixed entirely on yours. "i've been trying to flirt with you since i sat down. thanks for noticing."
"i don’t usually do subtle, jack," you mutter, a sheepish smile breaking across your face as you fiddle with one of your rings. "if you want my attention, you’re gonna have to be as straightforward as possible."
"good to know," jack says, his smile widening into something incredibly charming. he reaches across the small table, his large, warm hand covering yours, his thumb gently tracing the edge of one of your rings. the contrast of his clean, unblemished skin against your inked hand is striking, and it sends a shiver straight down your spine. "then let me be completely direct. i want to take you out. on a real date. you pick the loud, non-traditional place you want to take me to."
you look down at his hand on yours, then up into his steady, hopeful eyes. the realization that this incredibly handsome, structured man is genuinely captivated by your chaotic, alt self sends a rush of pure excitement through you.
"a real date, huh?" you tease, your usual bold confidence returning as you flip your hand over to interlock your fingers with his, your silver rings clicking against his skin. "you think you can handle a loud art teacher, doc? i don't exactly do quiet dinners."
"i think," jack says, his grip tightening around yours with a fierce certainty, "that i can handle exactly whatever you want to throw at me."
you grin and lean in, already planning the most delightfully chaotic, vibrant date he has ever experienced.
Hello, i loooovveeeeee your work. you write so wonderfull. (sorry english isnt my first language) i just wondered if you can mby write something about jack abbot and reader have been married for a long time and have two or three kids togehter and something happens, idk what you can choose, and he finds his kids up with dana and the other doctors and interns find out he has kids?
hey!! thank you so much for your nice comments and sorry it took me this long to get to your request. i hope you like what i did with it!
based on this request
wc: 1.2k
pairing: jack abbot x wife!reader
summary: jack has always liked privacy, but one of his biggest secrets is revealed one random afternoon.
c.warning: established relationship (married); mentions of minor injury and minor car accident; reader is a mother; no other warnings i think but if i missed something let me know!
a/n: gooooood it's been so long since i last wrote for jack. i missed him so much! i hope you liked this!
masterlist | requests
for years, jack’s personal life has been locked inside a vault. of course he’d mention you, his wife, from time to time. but always in passing and never waiting too long for his coworkers to asks any personal questions. and it’s not because he doesn’t love you, god knows he’s obsessed with you. but a small, overprotective part of him thinks that by distancing himself from you and your kids when he’s at work he manages to keep you away from the hospital.
he has spent a decade building a wall between his grueling work and the life he cherishes waiting for him back home.
but tonight, the universe has different plans for him.
you sit on the edge of the crinkling paper of the examination table in exam room 4, a dull, throbbing ache radiating down the left side of your neck. every time you try to tilt your head, a sharp reminder of the sudden impact flashes through your muscles. a minor fender-bender on the way home from your daughter's hockey practice left you with a stiff, aching neck, but thankfully, nothing more. next to you, your twelve-year-old daughter is swinging her legs off a plastic chair, her hockey gear bag resting by her feet. she’s still wearing her team jersey and, next to her, your five-year-old son is entirely unbothered by the clinical surroundings, happily coloring on a piece of scrap paper. the minor accident had sent your heart into your throat, but as you look at your children, the overwhelming wave of maternal relief keeps you grounded.
"it seems to be nothing more than a little muscle strain," dr shen says softly, his gloved hands expertly palpating the base of your skull, his expression a soothing balm to the lingering adrenaline in your veins. shen steps back, charting something on his tablet with a soft, reassuring smile. "the kids are completely clear, not a single mark or tender spot on either of them. i’m going to order a mild anti-inflammatory for you and then you are free to go home and rest."
"thank goodness," you sigh, reaching down to ruffle your son's hair. "i just wanted to be absolutely sure they were okay."
outside the glass doors of the exam room, jack is walking fast, clipboard in hand, listening to an intern rattle off a patient's vitals.
“send for dr. fitz, he’ll know what to do. and call me when you get the results. what’s the state of the girl in bay one?”
jack turns then towards the intern as she starts listing the latest lab results on the young patient that just arrived a few minutes ago. he is in full doctor mode. focused, distant, and professional.
that is, until he passes the curtain of your bay, a sudden movement catching his eye. it’s a high, dark auburn ponytail swinging back and forth. a very specific, familiar ponytail.
the same one he usually fights with on his days off as he helps his daughter get ready for practice, earnestly trying to avoid any bumps or stay hairs hanging from the ponytail. jack stops dead in his tracks, causing the intern to almost crash into his back.
jack looks through the pale curtain, eyes widening. the clipboard in his hand feels suddenly too heavy. and it only gets worse once he notices a second head poking though the curtain, this time his baby boy. his entire world is sitting right now in exam room 4.
he abandons the intern mid-sentence, pulling the curtain aside, his usual collected demeanor completely evaporating.
"jack?" shen looks up, surprised by his sudden entrance.
but jack isn't looking at him. he rushes straight to the side of the table, his eyes scanning you from head to toe, wide with a rare, raw panic. "what happened? are you okay? are the kids okay?"
"hey, breathe," you say instantly, reaching out to catch his hand. your fingers lace into his, and the grounding touch immediately lowers his shoulders, though his chest is still heaving. "we're okay. i promise. just a stupid little bumper-to-bumper on the way home from the rink. someone short-braked ahead of us."
your daughter rolls her eyes playfully. "mom took the hit like a champ, dad. you should be proud."
"daddy!" your five-year-old chirps, abandoning his coloring page to scramble off the chair and throw his arms around jack’s leg.
jack immediately drops to one knee, wrapping his strong arms around your son, burying his face in the boy's hair for a brief, fiercely protective second. he looks up at your daughter, reaching out to squeeze her knee. "you're sure you're both okay? nothing hurts?"
"we're totally fine, dad," she reassures him, giving him a warm smile.
only then does jack stand back up, turning his attention fully to you, eyes glowing with adoration and relief. his hand cups your cheek, his thumb gently brushing across your cheekbone. "and you? your neck?"
"just a little stiff," you murmur, leaning into his touch, completely accustomed to how deeply he cares for his family, even if he keeps it hidden from the rest of the world. "dr. shen was just checking me out. he says we’re good to go."
speaking of which… the room is entirely silent as four sets of eyes turn to the doctor.
you look past jack’s shoulder and notice that dr shen is standing there, his jaw slightly slack. on the other side of the curtain, the intern who had been following jack is staring open-mouthed, and a bunch of other nurses, including lena, have paused in the hallway, completely transfixed by the scene.
the great private dr. abbot is currently looking at you with a softness none of them knew he possessed, his hand resting tenderly on your waist while a local little league hockey player calls him dad.
jack blinks, finally realizing the audience he has gathered. he straightens up, but he doesn't let go of your hand, the other one resting on top of your son’s head. he clears his throat, the faint trace of a rare, boyish smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he looks at his stunned colleague.
"john," jack says, his voice regaining its usual steady cadence, though it's much warmer now. "i believe you've met my wife. and these are our kids."
shen blinks, a massive grin suddenly breaking across her face. "your kids? jack, you have a whole family!”
“i do,” he says, smiling softly.
“and you didn’t think of sharing that information with the group.”
"i like my privacy," jack defends himself. he looks down at his kids, then back to you, the sheer relief of knowing you are all safe overtaking any awkwardness about his secret being out. he leans down, pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to your lips right in front of the entire observation window. " i'm glad you're all safe."
"we are," you whisper, smiling against his lips. "now, can you sign our discharge papers, dr. abbot? we want to go home."
"consider it done," jack says softly. he turns to the staring interns outside with a mock-stern raise of his eyebrows, and they instantly scramble back to work, whispering excitedly among themselves.
as jack helps you down from the table and gathers your son into his arms, you know his quiet, mysterious reputation at the hospital is officially over, but seeing the proud, contented smile on his face as he walks his family out, it’s clear he doesn't mind one bit.
Marie and Emma hyping up reader for their first date, I know I would love to have them as friends.
hi! i hope you don't mind that i mixed this request with one that i got earlier but they just matched perfectly!! thanks for your request and i hope you like it <3
Hi, first of all, I love your writing. ❤️ I really like how you create a world outside of your characters. I was wondering if you could write fluff about Jordan Li asking their crush out and being all confident about it but getting increasingly more nervous and being a bit off their game during the date, but still charming.
XOXO
it took me way too long to get to this, and i'm so sorry. but i hope you enjoy it!!
based on this request + this request
wc: 2.1k
pairing: jordan li x gn!reader
summary: jordan and you share a long-awaited first date after years of pining and denying your feelings.
c.warning: all pronouns for jordan; no gendered pronouns for reader; reader wears makeup and earrings; friends to lovers; pretty much fluff and jordan being clumsy cause they're in love.
a.n.: there's something about great-big-confident jordan li being a complete loser because they're sooo in love that just makes me so happy.
masterlist | requests
jordan li has never been anxious about a date.
well, that’s mainly because jordan li doesn’t date. sure, they hang out before hooking up; going for a drink, maybe hanging out at a party before taking someone to their dorm.
but date? like a real date with flowers, a good restaurant, and a stroll at the park? yeah, no. not jordan’s style.
but from what they’d gathered from their talks with emma and marie that is very much your style.
you and jordan go back way before the competitive pressure of godolkin university. you were friends back when your powers were just starting to manifest. back when jordan was still navigating the complexities of their shifting forms without a campus full of cameras watching. you’ve seen the side of them that isn’t a top-ten ranking; you know the jordan who likes shitty reality tv and gets grumpy if they they get killed off too early in a game.
you’ve had a crush on them for as long as you can remember. but you never said a word, mostly because you saw how jordan moved through the world—effortless, non-committal, and seemingly uninterested in anything permanent. and jordan? jordan was secretly terrified. to the rest of the world, they are a powerhouse. to you, they are just jordan, and the thought of losing your friendship to a rejected confession was the only thing that actually made them feel weak.
but the resolution catches up to them on a random tuesday. they don’t really know where it comes from —it may have something to do with the fact that they heard fucking greg bragging to his friends about wanting to take you out on a date—, but they finally decide it’s time to invite you to dinner after years of pretending they don’t dream about you more often than not.
it happens on a tuesday afternoon. jordan finds you in the quad, sitting under an oak tree, book in hand and a soft, calm expression on your face. they approach you in their masculine form; perfect posture and a warm, genuine smile on their face as they sit beside you, back against the tree.
“do you have any plans for this friday?” he asks, resting their head against the rough bark.
“not really. why?”
they grin, looking every bit the confident guy you know. "i’m taking you out.”
you frown, although you can feel the corners of your lips tilting up. “like… a date? a real one?”
“yeah. just you and me. dinner. i know a really good place that i’ve been wanting to try for a while now.”
“are you…” you chuckle. “jordan, are you joking right now?”
now it’s his turn to frown.
“no. of course not. why?”
“you don’t do dates. everyone knows that.”
jordan huffs. “maybe i’ve changed my mind.”
when you turn back to them you find jordan in her feminine form, smiling at you.
“maybe i’ve decided it’s time i ask the question we’ve both been expecting for way too long.”
when you look into their eyes you don't find the confident arrogance they arrived with minutes ago, but a faint determination, something softer in their dark eyes.
“so… will you go on a date with me?”
your smile has now turned into a full grin as you nod eagerly. “i thought you’d never ask.”
two days later, your dorm room is a cyclone of clothes sprawled all over the floor and on every surface, bits and pieces of different outfits, shoes and boots and so many different options of everything.
emma is currently sitting on your desk chair, clawing through your accessories in search of the perfect earrings and necklace combo. meanwhile, marie is sitting on your bed, critically eyeing your shoe options.
"i’m thinking the silver hoops," emma squeaks. "or maybe the pearls with the golden details."
she keeps mumbling to herself, picking earrings and lifting them to try them on you. you try to remain still, but your palms are itchy because of the anxiety that this whole date situation is causing.
“relax,” emma says, looking at you. “you’re sweating so much. you’re going to ruin the makeup i spent almost an hour on.”
“sorry. i can’t help it. this whole thing… it seems surreal.”
"if it’s any help, jordan’s just as nervous. i've never seen them like this," marie adds, leaning back on her elbows. "they were pacing the hall earlier. like, actually pacing. and i think they’ve checked the weather forecast for tonight sixteen times."
"they're just being jordan," you say, trying to calm the tremor in your hands as you reapply a thick coat of lip gloss. "they're probably just worried the restaurant won't be up to their standards."
"no," marie shakes her head. “you’re made for one another, and they just realized it. finally.”
emma nods in agreement. “they’re obsessed with you, babe. tonight is kind of a big deal for them. everyone knows jordan’s not the dating type, but they broke their rule for you.”
“no pressure” you mutter, rubbing your hands against your things to dry the sweat.
marie grabs your shoulders, squeezing them slightly. “you just have to be yourself.”
“i mean, they obviously like you because you're, well, you, it’s not like you have to pretend to be something you’re not.”
marie nods along. smoothing out your outfit with a proud smile, she says, "you look stunning, babe. seriously. jordan is going to walk into a wall when they see you."
"go get 'em, tiger" emma cheers, slapping your ass as you head out the door.
by the time you arrive at the place jordan and you had agreed to meet at, you find them waiting outside in his masculine form. he’s wearing a tailored charcoal jacket that highlights his build, looking like he belongs on a magazine cover. but as you approach, you see the confidence is a bit of a performance. he’s adjusting his cuffs every five seconds, his eyes darting to the door.
when he sees you, he stops dead. the smoldering look he probably practiced in the mirror for an hour before heading out of their dorm vanishes completely, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated awe.
"you're here," he says, their voice a little higher than usual. "wow. you... you look..."
"incredible?" you tease, trying to break the tension.
"that’s an understatement," he breathes. they reach out to take your hand, but he’s so focused on your face that he nearly trips over the curb. jordan recovers with a quick step, face flushing a deep red. "stupid curb. vought really needs to fund better infrastructure."
inside, the bistro is all candlelight and soft jazz. jordan has clearly gone all out with this high-end establishment. even the deep rouge wallpaper screams expensive. as you two follow the lady to your reserved table, jordan’s eyes keep straying to you, scanning your figure from head to toe in a not-so-subtle way.
when they pull out your chair, he’s so eager to do it right that they accidentally tuck it in a little too far, bumping your knees.
"sorry! oh my god, so sorry, did i—are you okay?" they whisper, eyes wide.
"jordan, i'm fine," you laugh, reaching across the table.
he sits down, shifting into his feminine form as if the change might help her regain her composure. she leans forward, resting her chin on her hand, trying to reclaim that smooth, confident vibe you’ve known for years.
"i really thought i’d be better at this," she admits, her voice low. "i had a whole plan. i was going to be charming, i was going to tell you exactly why i’ve been an idiot for waiting this long, and i was going to order the perfect wine and the best dish on the menu. hell, i’ve been reading reviews all day to know exactly what not to order."
that makes you huff a laugh. reaching for their hand over the table, you play with her fingers, twirling her rings as you smile softly at them.
"you are charming," you say. "even when you're attacking my knees with a chair."
she smiles, a real, shy smile that makes your chest ache. "i've wanted to do this for so long. but i think i’m just terrified that if i don’t make it perfect you’ll realize this is not worth it or that maybe this is why i’ve never dated anyone before.”
there’s a rawness, a sense of vulnerability in their tone that has you taking her hands in yours and squeezing them.
“it’s just me, jordan. and i just want you to be you, okay?” you recall marie’s words in your dorm. “no pretenses, no need to act like something we’re not.”
jordan’s lips pull into a soft smile as she nods.
“i think i’d like that.”
still, the dinner is a series of small, endearing disasters.
first, jordan tries to pour the wine and misses the glass by a fraction, splashing a few drops on the white linen. he stares at the damp spot like it’s a life-changing failure. you try to reassure them that it’s okay, pushing your glass forward to invite him try again. then, while trying to use his most confident and sexiest voice to recommend an entree, his voice cracks slightly on the word "risotto."
“don’t laugh at me,” he murmurs, ears beat red.
“i’m not. i promise i’m not.” still, you’re biting your lip to keep your from cackling.
jordan looks at you sideways, still trying to hide the very obvious flush on his cheeks. still, he smiles as they say, “liar.”
by the time dessert arrives, the cool jordan li is nowhere to be found. an in their place is the person you fell in love with years ago: someone who cares deeply, who tries too hard, and who is currently looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters.
"this is a disaster. i'm a disaster," jordan sighs, leaning back and looking at the crumpled napkin she’s been nervously shredding. "i'm officially off my game. i don't think i've ever been this uncoordinated in my life."
"honestly, i think it's the best date i've ever been on," you admit.
a part of them hates the fact that, unlike her, you’ve been on multiple dates before. something inside jordan growls at the thought of someone else getting to enjoy your intimate laughs, to hold your hand over the table like she’s doing right now.
another part, much bigger and more proud one, in so damn happy that you decided to give them the chance to prove they could do this.
her grip is firm and warm as she says, "i was so scared you'd say no. but i was even more scared of you not enjoying this.”
you frown. “why?”
“i don’t know… a part of me was scared that if this didn’t work out i’d lose you. and i can’t afford that. you… our friendship. that goes first, you know? because i don’t know who i’d be if i couldn’t be your friend.”
"you're never going to lose me, jordan," you whisper. “i promise.”
the walk back to the dorms is quiet and comfortable. the night air is cool, and jordan is walking close to you, their masculine form shielding you from the light breeze as you wear his jackets over your shoulders. they aren’t strutting anymore, the false sense of overconfidence gone. now he just walks calmly next to you, his hand occasionally brushing yours until they finally find the courage to interlace his fingers with yours.
when you reach your dorm door, he stops, turning to face you. they look nervous again, that soft vulnerability returning.
"so…" they say, rubbing the back of their neck. you can see the question etched in the slight frown on their forehead.
"it was perfect," you say, stepping into his space.
she looks at you with a confidence that has nothing to do with their ego, but with the fact that they can now proudly say they’re yours.
"i'’ll try to be smoother next time," she whispers, leaning in. "and i promise i’ll learn how to pour a glass of wine. although, i think i prefer being a mess if it means i get to be with you."
they kiss you then. it’s soft, sweet, and it tastes like years of unspoken i love yous. when she pulls back, she’s blushing, but she doesn't look away.
"same time next friday?" she asks, grinning.
"it's a date," you smile, kissing her one more time. as you watch her walk away to her dorm you notice there’s a little extra pep in her step, finally the most confident person on campus for all the right reasons.
lost the request this is based on but i hope it gets to the person who requested i anyway
wc: 3.2k
pairing: jordan li x afab!reader
summary: jordan can't stand the idea of you touching anyone else like you touch them, so you have to remind them why it’s different when it comes to them.
c.warning: mdni (+18) nsfw at the end (mind the keep reading mark); they/them pronouns for jordan; jealous jordan; possesive jordan; jordan going feral; fingering (jordan receiving); unprotected sex; afab reader; sub!fem!jordan x reader x dom!masc!jordan; biting and bruising; reader and jordan fighting for dominance (if i forgot something lmk).
a.n.: this wasn't meant to turn into some of the nastiest smut i've ever written but one thing led to another and well, here we are now. if you're not comfortable with nsfw you can still read the first half, that's completely clean. hope you enjoy <3
masterlist | requests
the first time jordan realized they didn’t like the idea of you touching anyone else like you touch them was in the middle of your lunch break in the cafeteria.
you were laughing at something marie had whispered, and you leaned into her personal space, your hand came to rest on her forearm with a casual grace, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
before pulling away, you gave her shoulder a soft, affectionate squeeze—an easy, unassuming gesture. to marie, it was a familiar comfort; to you, it was a meaningless touch.
but to jordan, watching from a distance, that simple contact felt like a punch to their gut. they remained silent, of course, picking at their lunch with a sudden, feigned interest in the food, though their eyes couldn't help but flicker in your direction every few seconds to witness the easy way you eventually rested your head against your friend’s shoulder.
you’ve been dating for over six months now. they are familiar with your affectionate nature. hell, it was one of the things that called their attention in the first place. but now they can’t help but wonder that maybe, if that’s how you’re with everyone, that means what you two share isn’t as special and intimate as they thought.
the irritation turned into something more substantial two days later during a frantic break between afternoon lectures. this time, the subject of your affection was emma. you had approached her from behind, your arms winding around her waist in a fluid motion as you pressed your cheek against her shoulder in a friendly embrace. emma let out a playful squeal, leaning back into the contact with the practiced ease of someone who had long since grown used to your affectionate nature.
nearby, jordan sat at a table, their jaw tightening until the muscles ached. their gaze remained fixated on the exact point of contact—where emma’s collar had slipped to reveal a sliver of skin that now brushed against your cheek. jordan didn't even realize the lethal intensity of their grip until they heard a sharp, plastic crack. they looked down to find their ballpoint pen snapped in two.
to jordan’s dismay, this pattern quickly becomes a repetitive annoyance. it’s a constant parade of casual intimacy: andre receiving a playful shove; cate enjoying the sensation of your fingers brushing her wrist mid-sentence to emphasize a point. you are a creature of constant, effortless touch. light, casual, and entirely innocent.
but jordan’s mind is incapable of understanding how; how do you manage to share such closeness, your warmth and gentle touches, with almost anyone. they won’t admit it out loud, but it bothers them so much that you’ve decided to share those moments they thought you reserved for just them.
by friday, the simmering tension begins to affect jordan’s performance during training. they’re sparring with andre, but their focus is entirely somewhere else, on the other side of the gym where you are now practicing with marie.
you’re breathing heavy and grinning, looking prettier than ever as your fingers linger on your friend’s wrist for a heartbeat too long as you correct the angle of her stance.
“focus,” andre mumbles, effortlessly parrying a half-hearted strike that lacks jordan's usual precision.
“i am focused,” jordan retorts, the lie immediately exposed when andre sweeps their leg and send them stumbling back.
andre raises a brow, clearly amused, as he steps back.
“right. totally. you’re doing a great job of focusing on everything except the person trying to hit you.”
jordan exhales a sharp, jagged breath, raking a hand through their damp hair, but their eyes keep drifting back to you. as always.
and it’s there and then they decide they’ve had enough. as they watch you circle your arms around marie’s neck, hugging her, head tilted back laughing.
later that evening, you’re walking down an empty hallway, muscles tired after training and stomach growling, begging for some food, when you notice jordan leaning against the cool tile next to your dorm door. arms crossed tightly over their chest, expression an unreadable mask.
a genuine smile lights up your face as you skip towards them. “hey-”, you begin.
but jordan cuts you. “do you do that with everyone?”
their voice echoes with a cold edge. the question catches you completely off guard, and you slow your pace, tilting your head in confusion.
“…do what, exactly?”
jordan pushes off the wall with a sudden, jerky energy, closing the distance between you.
“that,” they bite, gesturing vaguely towards the training room where you’d been training for almost three hours with marie. “the constant touching. the hands, the hugging... is that just how you treat everyone?”
you blink, truly surprised by the accusation.
“i mean… yeah? they’re my friends, jordan. it’s just how i am,” you reason softly.
jordan lets out a short, hollow laugh. “right. your friends. the entire student body is apparently your inner circle.”
the hint of bitterness in their tone makes your chest constrict with a sudden, sharp realization.
“jordan—” you start, reaching out, but they step back, their voice dropping to a low, tight hiss.
“i saw you with marie. and emma. and everyone else. you’re always all over them, like you can’t stand to be an inch away from another human being.”
you feel a flare of incredulity.
“all over them?” you repeat. “jordan, i give my friends hugs. it’s not exactly a scandal.”
“yeah, i noticed,” they counter, the words dripping with a vulnerability they were clearly trying to hide.
in the heavy silence that follows, the puzzle pieces finally click into place, and the air between you suddenly feels thick.
“oh,” you breathe softly, the sound barely a whisper. “i see what’s going on.”
jordan frowns. “what are you talking about?”
“jordan, you’re jealous.”
their head snaps up, eyes flashing with a mix of defiance and embarrassment.
“i’m not-”
“you are,” you interrupt, stepping closer this time, refusing to let them get away from you this time.
“i’m not jealous,” jordan insists, though the bite has vanished from their voice, replaced by a raw, jagged frustration. “i just…” they stop, jaw flexing as they struggled to find the words. “i don't understand it.”
you move into their personal space, forcing them to look at you with a hand on their cheek.
“understand what?” you ask gently.
“how you can touch people like that and have it mean absolutely nothing,” jordan confesses finally, their voice dropping to a whisper. “because when you touch me…”
jordan cuts themselves off, the sentence hanging unfinished in the air, but the damage is already done. you heard the tremor of longing, the confession hidden in the silence. you step even closer, until there is barely a breath of space left between you, the heat radiating from jordan’s body grounding you.
“when i touch you…?” you venture in a low, encouraging murmur.
jordan exhales, a shaky, shuddering sound that betrays their composure.
“it doesn’t feel like nothing,” they admit and your heart softens at the admission, realizing the torture your casual nature has caused, even if it wasn’t your intention. “to me… it’s everything.”
you reach out slowly, giving them every opportunity to pull away, but jordan remains anchored to the spot, watching you with an intensity that makes your own breath hitch.
your fingers brush their wrist first, a light, familiar contact that mimicks the touch they have seen you give everyone else. jordan doesn’t react, though their eyes remain locked on yours, searching for a sign. then, your hand slides upward over the curve of their arm to rest upon their shoulder, soft and gentle.
“see?” you murmur, your voice a soothing lilt. “this is how i act with everyone. this is the version they get.”
and then, you step closer still, bridging the final gap until your chest brushes theirs. your hand shifts, sliding from their shoulder to the sensitive nape of their neck, your fingers threading firmly into the hair at the base of their skull with a sense of familiarity. it’s intentional and grounding. jordan inhales sharply, their entire body going rigid at the sudden shift in energy.
“but this?” you hush, tilting your head until your nose brushes against theirs. “this is only for you.”
jordan’s entire world seems to go still as your other hand comes to rest against their waist, not a loose or fleeting touch, but a firm, anchored grip that pulls them just a fraction closer. no one else got to enjoy this version of you; no one else was allowed to feel the way your thumb traced slow, deliberate circles against the small of their back or the way your breath mingled with theirs in the quiet hallway. jordan’s hands hover uncertainly at your sides, paralyzed by the sudden shift from observer to participant. sensing their hesitation, you guide one of their hands gently, placing it firmly against your hip. they exhale as if the air was forcibly knocked from their lungs.
“i don’t touch them like this,” you whisper.
“no,” they reply softly. “no, you don’t.”
your lips ghost just at the corner of their mouth, like a tantalizing promise.
“but you could,” jordan sighs, a final flicker of vulnerability slipping through the cracks of their defense. “you treat everyone with the same warmth.”
you shake your head, your forehead pressing against theirs as you close your eyes.
“i don't,” you clarify, your fingers tightening slightly at the back of their neck. “i’m comfortable with them, jordan. that’s all it is. it’s easy, it’s light.” you lift your gaze to meet theirs, your thumb brushing against their lower lip in a slow, deliberate motion that made jordan’s breath stutters. “but with you it's everything but easy, jordan. and that's how i like it.”
that admission is the final thread to snap, breaking through the last of jordan's reservations. their hand tightens at your waist, surging forward to pull you the rest of the way in as they reclaim the space between you. the kiss isn’t a rushed but deep, and it carries a gravity that makes the rest of the world fade into nothing.
jordan melts into the contact as if they had been starving for it for weeks, their other hand coming up to cup your jaw with a possessive tenderness. when you finally pull back, just enough to breathe, their forehead drops against yours.
“still think i treat everyone else the same?” you tease in a breathless whisper against their mouth.
jordan lets out a quiet, relieved laugh.
“no,” they admit. “not even close.”
you smile, brushing your lips against theirs once more, soft and slow. “good. because you're special, jordan. you're it for me.”
your smile lingers against jordan’s lips, a soft, satisfied curve that they can feel more than see. your hand, still curled possessively at the nape of their neck, doesn’t pull them back for another kiss. instead, it guides. your fingers slide down, tracing the sensitive line of their spine until your palm rests flat against their lower back, pressing them even closer. you can feel the rapid heartbeat thrumming against your own chest.
jordan’s hands explore every inch of your body. one stays anchored at your hip, fingers digging in slightly, like a claim. the other rises to your cheek.
you break the kiss only to begin another, slower this time. your lips part, and you taste them. a slow, wet exploration that makes jordan’s breath hitch into a soft, desperate sound. you swallow that sound, your tongue sliding against theirs, and you feel their body go pliant, melting into your touch.
you steer the kiss, controlling its pace. when jordan’s mouth opens wider, seeking more, you give it, but only for a moment. then you pull back, leaving them gasping, and drop a softer, closed-mouth kiss to their jawline. then another to their throat. your lips are damp, leaving a faint, cool trail on their heated skin.
“see?” you murmur against their pulse point, your voice a husky vibration. “you think i do this to everyone?”
jordan shakes their head, a jerky motion. their head tilts, offering more of their neck to you. you accept, kissing a slow path downwards, over the collar of their shirt. your hand at their waist slips under the fabric, your fingers finding bare skin. it’s warm. smooth. you trace the dip of their waistband with your thumb, a teasing promise.
they arch into your touch, a silent plea.
you smile against their skin. you return to their mouth, kissing them with a new intensity. your tongue delves deep, and jordan moans, the sound swallowed by your kiss. their hands fist in your shirt, pulling you impossibly closer.
they reach for the knob of your dorm door, fumbling, not wanting to break the kiss. when they finally find it, they open the door in a swift movement and walk back into it, pulling you with them and immediately pushing you against the back of the door.
the room is silent except for the wet sounds of your mouths moving together and the ragged symphony of your breathing.
you guide them backwards, one slow step at a time, until the edge of your bed presses against jordan’s thighs. you don’t break the kiss. you just bend them slightly, your body leaning over them, caging them against the mattress. your hand under their shirt moves, sliding up over the flat plane of their stomach. your fingers brush the lower edge of their rib cage, then drift lower again, dancing over their hipbone.
jordan is trembling now. every gentle touch is an electric shock. their own hands are roaming your back, clutching, desperate, but they’re letting you lead. they’re surrendering. and you intend on taking this opportunity.
your kisses become shorter, wetter, more punctuated. you nip their lower lip gently, then soothe it with your tongue. you kiss the corner of their mouth, their cheek, their temple. all while your hand continues its slow, deliberate journey under their shirt, lower now, dipping past the waistband of their jeans.
jordan’s breath stops.
your fingers find the soft, damp heat of their underwear. you don’t push in. you trace over the fabric, along the seam, feeling the shape of them. your touch is maddeningly light. jordan’s hips jerk, a tiny, involuntary spasm.
“oh god,” they whisper, the word fractured against your lips. “you’re too good for me.”
you kiss them again, deeply, as your fingers finally slip beneath the fabric. the skin there is hotter. silkier. you trace the outer folds slowly, learning them. jordan’s head falls back against your supporting arm, their eyes closed, their mouth open in a silent gasp.
you find their entrance, wet and welcoming. you circle it with your fingertip, applying the slightest pressure. jordan’s whole body tightens. a choked sob escapes them.
you push in.
just one finger.
slow.
oh, so slow.
you feel them stretch around you, a tight, hot embrace. jordan cries out, a sharp, beautiful sound that you kiss from their lips. you move inside them, a gentle, curling motion. your thumb rests on their clit, applying a soft, rhythmic pressure that matches the slow thrust of your finger.
“this…” you pant. “this is just for you, jordan.”
their hips start to move, riding your hand in tiny, desperate rolls. their hands are clawing at your shoulders now, nails digging in. the softness is evaporating, burned away by a rising, frantic need. their moans become louder, less controlled. they’re bucking against your hand, seeking more depth, more speed.
you give it to them.
you add a second finger.
they gasp, their body bowing off the bed. the wetness around your fingers increases, a slick flood. you curl your fingers inside them, searching, and when you find that perfect, firm spot, you press.
jordan screams.
it’s raw. unfiltered. their control finally snaps.
the body under your hands shifts, grows, becomes more solid. the muscles in their back tighten and broaden. the grip on your shoulders becomes stronger. the scent in the air changes, deepening. jordan lets out a ragged, masculine groan.
their hands, now larger and rougher, seize your hips. in one swift, powerful motion, they spin you, reverses your positions. now you are against the edge of the bed, your face pressed to the mattress, ass up and exposed to them. jorda's body looms over you, a silhouette of sudden, desperate dominance.
jordan’s eyes follow the shape of your body, from your profile to the roundness of your ass. there’s no apology, only hunger as their hand comes down on your ass. a spank. sharp. stinging. the sound cracks through the room. you gasp, the pain blossoming into a sharp, bright heat.
“you won’t let them do this to you, will you?” they ask, voice coarse.
“no… only you, jordan.” you moan.
jordan does it again. on the other side.
then their hands are on your jeans, yanking them down with a frantic urgency. your underwear follows suit. the cold air hits your skin, then is replaced by the scorching heat of jordan’s body. they don’t enter you gently. they drive into you.
one hard, deep, desperate thrust.
you cry out, your body arching, forced open by him. they don’t pause. they set a brutal, pounding rhythm immediately, each thrust slamming you against the bed. jordan’s hands grip your hips, holding you in place, making you take every inch of them.
the soft, wet kisses from before are a gone. this is raw possession. as they thrust into you they can’t help but picture every timid touch you shared with every one of your friends. the hugs. the gentle cheeks kisses. they way you touched emma’s shoulder. or how you gripped marie’s hips during training.
jordan’s grunts are rough, animalistic even, as their body slams into yours, over and over, the bed rattling against the wall. one of their hands leaves your hip and comes down again on your ass, marking you with another sharp slap. then another. you can feel the welts forming, a burning counterpoint to the deep, internal stretch of them filling you.
they lean over you, breath hot on your neck.
“mine,” jordan grunts between thrusts. their teeth find your shoulder, leaving a bruising claim. “no one gets to touch you like this. no one.”
their pace becomes even more frantic, a wild, losing rhythm. jordan’s control is gone, burned away by the desperation you ignited.
you can feel them pulsing inside you, reaching their peak. with a final, ragged roar, they pull out of you abruptly. their hot release splashes across your lower back, painting your skin in stripes of wet cum. they collapse over you, their body shuddering, breath a broken wreck against your ear.
the silence that follows is heavy, charged.
slowly, their body softens against you. the rigid tension melts. their hands, now gentle again, slide over the marks they made, the spanked skin, the bruised shoulder. he kisses them, then your temple, softly.
their voice, returned to that quieter, familiar register, whispers into your skin. “you’re mine,” they say, the words a tender truth. “just as much as i’m yours. never forget that.”
“what the actual fuck, andrew?” you shriek, jumping back.
“his hands were all over you,” he simply states, shrugging as if it was nothing. as if there wasn’t a man laying completely unconscious at your feet right now.
you let out an exasperated sigh, stepping over the guy and walking away from andrew.
“i can’t keep doing this,” you mutter more to yourself than to him.
andrew doesn’t respond. of course he doesn’t. but before you can cross the threshold and disappear, he grabs your wrist.
“don’t,” he mutters.
and perhaps any other day his sad tone would’ve moved you, but tonight… tonight it only manages to ignite a sort of anger you haven’t felt in a very long time.
turning to him, you look up at andrew, nothing but burning ice in your eyes.
“you have no right, you hear me? no fucking right, andrew. i don’t belong to you. i can fuck whoever i want, whenever i want. and you can’t say shit about it.”
andrew’s eyes sharpen and you know he wants to bite right back at you but, as always, he’s holding back. you shake your head, huffing out a humorless laugh.
“you have no claim over me, cody. you missed your chance.”
with a hard shake, you free your arm and take a final step away from andrew. this time he stays put, watching you leave without looking back.
you missed your chance.
you’re right. and god knows andrew hates himself for what he did to you all those months ago.
guys quick i need you to tell me some specific tropes you want me to write about (like enemies/friends to lovers, second chance romance...). it's for super secret project that i will tell you about... eventually.
part 2
wc: 8.9k (oof)
pairing: jack abbot x wife!reader
summary: when the doors of the pitt swing open to reveal you on the gurney, dr. jack abbot’s world shatters, forcing him to fight for two lives he didn't know were at stake.
c.warning: angst with happy ending; established relationship (married); major medical trauma; graphic depictions of injury; mentions and discussions of abortions in the past; mentions of pregnancy/pregnancy loss scare; jack abbot crashing out; mentions of car accident; near-death experience; never mind the medical accuracy or lack thereof (i tried my best but i’m still not a doctor)
a/n: this got out of control. it was supposed to be a usual 3k one-shot but then i kept writing and well here we are now. also shout out to my friend paula that helped me do all the medical research for this one so i didn’t embarrass myself with all the inaccurate doctor talk. love u girl <3
masterlist | requests
the fluorescent lights of the hospital always seem to hum a little louder when the er is quiet. it’s a sterile, buzzing vibration that grates on jack’s nerves more than the usual cacophony of sirens and shouting.
he leans against the nurse’s station, a lukewarm cup of bitter black coffee forgotten in his hand. he checks his watch. 2:14 pm. the numbers blurring slightly from sheer exhaustion. his shift was supposed to have ended hours ago, but the universe had other plans.
first, a multi-car pileup at dawn bled into a series of critical post-ops. then, every time he had tired to reach for his coat, another “one last thing” tethered him back to the floor. now, nearly ten hours into a forced double, the walls feel like they’re closing in. all he wants right now is to be through his front door, to shed the smell of antiseptic and the weight of the hospital, and to finally disappear into the quiet comfort of his home, where you were probably already waiting for him.
“it’s too quiet,” dana mutters as she organizes a stack of charts.
jack offers a ghost of a tired smile. “don’t say the ‘q’ word. you’ll jinx us.”
his mind drifts, as it often does during these rare lulls, back to you. he thinks about the way you looked when he left. half-asleep, tangled in the duvet in your hared bed, grumbling about the warmth leaving you as jack got out of the bed. he’d kissed your forehead, whispered that he’d be home by eight, in time to share breakfast with you, and headed into the belly of the beast. as he walked into the hospital, he felt a rare pang of guilt; he’d been working so many double shifts lately that your shared home felt more like a hotel.
i’ll make it up to her, he thinks. maybe he can take you out to that new sushi bar you showed him on your phone the other day. no, you’ll probably prefer thai. you’ve always loved-
the thought is cut short by the sharp, rhythmic chirp of the trauma radio. the sound like a physical blow to the silence.
“dispatch to mercy trauma, we have a level 1 activation. multiple vehicle collision, pileup on the i-579. initial reports suggest a jackknifed semi and at least six passenger vehicles. multiple red-tags. first eta is four minutes. lead bus is carrying a female, blunt force chest trauma, unstable vitals, gcs of 6.”
the er transforms in a heartbeat. the “slump” dies instantly, replaced by the practiced, frantic choreography of a trauma team who’s been through this million times.
robby, that was contrasting the lab results from one of his patients jumps into action.
“abbot, i need you in trauma. we need to get bays 1 and 2 ready. i want respiratory on standby. grab the o-neg. if this is a pileup, we’re going to be drowning in ten minutes.”
“let’s go!” jack barks, his voice dropping into that authoritative, calm register that defined him as he signals some of the residents to follow him,
the coffee is now discarded and forgotten on dana’s desk as jack pulls on a pair of gloves, the snap of latex echoing against the white, bright walls of room. here, in the chaos of trauma 1, he’s in his element. he’s dr. abbot, the man who’s used to holding the line between life and death. he feels the familiar rush of adrenaline, the narrowing of his world until only the patients matter.
“eta one minute!” someone shouts.
robby stands at the ambulance bay doors, peering through the glass. a faint rain has started. a cold, miserable drizzle that blurs the red and blue lights of the approaching sirens.
the first ambulance screeches to a halt and the back doors swing open. immediately, a paramedic jumps out, already pumping a manual respirator. “female, trapped in the driver’s side for twenty minutes. we had to use the jaws. bp is 80 over 40 and dropping. she’s trending toward traumatic arrest!”
robby’s breath catches for a fraction of a second. his eyes scan the familiar face, noticing all the blood, the cuts and bruises.
no, he thinks. please, let it not be true.
“get her to bay 1!” he orders, returning to reality as he steps forward to catch the side of the gurney as it flies past.
as robby pushes the gurney, he refuses to look at the patient’s face. but when he walks past dana’s desk, he looks devastated, and she notices. rounding her desk, she walks next to him, matching his quick step.
“i need abbot out of that room,” he says. “now.”
frowning, dana walks next to him.
“what? why?”
robby just shakes his head. “i need you to take him to trauma 2. anywhere, really. just… away from…”
but it’s already too late.
jack’s eyes are locked on the gurney, tracking the way the patient’s body jolts with every bump of the wheels, noticing the blood-soaked bandages on her chest.
“on three! one, two, three!”
the paramedics help slide the patient onto the trauma table. and it’s only then, as one of the them pulls away the oxygen mask to swap it for the hospital’s ventilator, that the world truly stops spinning.
the air leaves jack’s lungs as if he’d been punched.
“jack…” robby tries, but he doesn’t look at him. he can’t react at all.
the female with blunt force chest trauma and unstable vitals isn’t a stranger.
it’s you.
your face is ghostly pale under the smears of blood and road grime. your hair, which he’d smoothed back just hours ago in the quiet of your bedroom, is matted with glass shards. you lay limp, your chest barely moving, a hollow shell of the person he loves.
“jack?” dana’s voice comes from a distance, sharp and concerned. “jack, what are you doing? we need to intubate!”
jack abbot, the man who never flinches, who doesn’t shake under stress, no matter how hard or critical the case, now stands frozen. his hands, usually as steady as stone, are shaking so violently they seem to rattle against the metal railing of the bed.
robby glances at dana over his friend’s shoulder, shaking his head.
“no,” jack whispers, the word catching in his throat. “no, no, no…”
“okay, “robby mutters to himself. “abbot, i need you to get out. now.”
but jack still can’t react, he doesn’t even flinch when dana closes her hand around his forearm, trying to pull him out of the room.
robby pushes past him. “she’s crashing! i need a central line now! jack, get out of the way!”
robby grabs a scalpel, his movements clinical and fast. he doesn’t stop to consider who is on the table. to him, right now you are just a ‘red tag.’ he can’t allow himself to think of anything else.
right now, you can’t be the woman who has quickly become one of his closest friends, one of the main supports on his hardest days. the woman he proudly considers family, the same one he shared secrets and past anecdotes with when he came by to yours and jack’s house for dinner every month.
dana is still trying to get jack out of the room, threatening to call security on him when the attending’s weak whisper makes her stop in her tracks.
“stop,” jack rasps, his voice cracking. he lunges forward, shaking dana’s hand off, too desperate. “stop. that’s… that’s my wife.”
the room goes dead silent for a heartbeat, save for the screaming of the heart monitor. robby looks up, nothing but pity for his friend boring in them.
“jack… you can’t be in here, brother. you know the protocol.”
“i am not leaving her!” jack roars, his voice echoing off the trauma bay walls, raw and heartbroken. “my wife is dying. i am not leaving her!”
“you’re making it worse!” robby hisses back. “you’re compromised! you’re going to kill her if you don’t let us work!”
jack looks down at you. he sees the blood. he sees the way your heart rate is flickering on the screen like a dying candle. a cold, terrifying clarity suddenly washes over him. the panic doesn’t disappear, of course it doesn’t, but he forces it down into a small, dark box in the back of his mind.
he steps back slightly, chest heaving. but his hands stop shaking, the roaring in his ears slows to low hum, enough for him to hear his own thoughts again.
“fuck the protocol. i’m staying,” jack said, his voice now terrifyingly low and steady. “robby, get the chest tube. and i need 10 of epi. now!”
he doesn’t look at his colleagues as he works. he looks only at you.
“stay with me,” he whispers, so low only you could have heard it if you were awake. “don’t you dare leave me, do you hear me? stay with me.”
and so the chaos begins in the trauma bay. robby and jack, along with a couple of residents and some extra hands work together, in synchronicity.
“i need a fast exam, now!” jack’s voice cuts through the noise, steady but edged with desperation, focused on the monitors, on the jagged green lines of your heart rate, the terrifyingly low oxygen saturation. he tries not to look at you, knowing that if he did he’d see your eyes, closed and bruised, and he would shatter.
“jack, i’ve got the ultrasound,” rabby says, his voice softer now, cautious.
he moves the probe over your abdomen, eyes flicking between the small screen and your still form.
you’re so still. the woman who loves dancing in the kitchen to grainy jazz records is now buried under layers of medical plastic and blood-stained gauze.
“we’ve got internal bleeding,” robby mutters, his brow furrowing. “she’s bleeding out into her peritoneum. jack, we need to get her to or immediately.”
“wait,” jack says, eyes falling to the darkening bruise on your lower belly. “check the pelvis. i want a full sweep. if there’s a pelvic fracture we didn’t see—”
“i’m on it,” robby replies. he moves the probe lower, his movements clinical.
the room seems to go silent, though the machines are still screaming. jack watches the ultrasound screen, his mind already three steps ahead, calculating surgical approaches, estimating blood loss, praying to a god he hasn’t spoken to in years.
then, the image shifts.
robby freezes. the probe stops moving.
on the grainy, black-and-white screen, nestled deep within the shadows of your body, is a small, unmistakable flicker. a pulsing light.
jack’s breath hitched. his world, already tilted on its axis, began to spin violently.
“jack…” robby’s voice was barely a whisper. “is that…?”
“no,” jack breathes, the word a plea. “no, it can’t be.”
he grabs the probe from robby’s hand, his fingers slick with ultrasound gel. he presses it down again, his eyes wide and frantic as he searches the screen. and there it is. a gestational sac. maybe ten weeks. perhaps older. a tiny, fragile life tucked away inside the chaos of your broken body.
a life he didn’t know about. a life you hadn’t told him about.
“she’s pregnant,” robby breathes from the bedside, his hand flying to his mouth.
the realization hits jack like a physical blow to the chest. this isn’t about just you anymore. it’s about both of you. every choice he makes in the next ten minutes will not just decide the fate of his wife; it would decide the fate of their child, too.
“we can’t use the standard protocol, jack,” robby says, his voice rising in panic. “the meds we were going to use for the induction, the ct scan, the radiation…”
“i know!” jack roars, the sound raw and guttural. he drops the probe and it hits the floor with a dull thud.
the “doctor mode” he has spent years perfecting, the emotional armor he wears like a second skin, cracks wide open. the image of that tiny, flickering heartbeat burned into his retinas. he sees you then; not as a patient, not as a ‘red tag,’ but as the mother of his child, dying on a cold metal table because of a patch of ice and a moment of bad luck.
the room begins to tilt. the bright fluorescent lights turned into blinding white spots. the sound of the ventilator—hiss-click, hiss-click—is like a ticking time bomb.
“jack, look at me,” robby says, stepping into his line of sight, grabbing jack’s shoulders. “jack, you’re hyperventilating. you need to step back.”
“i… i didn’t know,” jack stammers, his legs suddenly turning to lead. “she didn’t… we couldn’t…”
he looks back at you. your face is a mask of trauma, but in his mind, he sees you the way you were hours ago when he left you cold on your shared bed. the way you smiled at him. did you know then? maybe you were waiting for dinner to tell him.
the grief and the shock collide in his chest, stealing the air from his lungs. jack’s knees buckle.
“he’s going down!” robby cries, catching him under his arms before he hits the floor.
jack doesn’t fight him. he can’t. his strength is gone, evaporated. he slumps against the wall, his head in his hands, the bloodied plastic of his blue gown crinkling as he collapses.
“get him out of here,” robby orders, his voice firm as he takes over the lead position at the bed. “now! someone, please, get him to the breakroom. i’ll take her up. i promise you, jack, i will do everything. just go!”
jack feels hands on him, a strong grip pulling him up, guiding him away from the bed. he tries to resist, tries to reach out for you, but his body simply won’t obey.
as he’s led through the swinging doors, the last thing he sees is the team swarming around you, the red light of the blood bags hanging over your head, and the ultrasound screen, displaying that tiny, flickering heart once more.
the doors click shut, leaving him in the hallway, the rapid beat of his heart a deafening roar in his ears.
he’s a doctor. he’s a husband. and now, he’s a father.
and he might lose everything before the sun went down.
jesse lets go of his arm when they arrive at the breakroom, and with a quiet “i’m sorry” and a gentle nod he leaves jack behind and returns to the room where the rest of the team is still fighting to save you.
you and the baby.
god, the mere thought raises tears to jack’s eyes.
a baby.
his baby.
biting the inside of his cheek, jack thinks of the previous times when he heard these news. of the sound of your excited, cheerful voice the first time you came up to him with a positive test.
unfortunately he also remembers your heartbroken wails as he hold you tight to his chest, both of you sitting on the bathroom floor at home. he remembers how he bit his lips, forcing himself to stay strong for you but wanting nothing more but to crumble into pieces right there.
you had stopped trying after the second miscarriage. a decision none of you wanted to made but that you needed in order to protect your own hearts and your sanity.
and now… now you’re laying on a cold, metal exam table, closer to death than you’ve ever been and jack has everything to lose.
the breakroom smells of stale coffee and industrial-strength floor cleaner. it’s a room designed for brief reprieves, for five-minute naps and hurried meals, but right now, for jack, it feel like a cage.
he seats on the edge of a vinyl chair, his elbows on his knees, staring at his hands, at dark, shiny band on his left hand.
you are pregnant. the thought keeps looping in his mind, a frantic, broken record. how could he miss it? he’s a doctor, for god’s sake. he is trained to notice the smallest shifts in physiology, the subtle cues of the human body.
he thinks back to the last few weeks; your sudden preference for tea over coffee, the way you’d been falling asleep on the couch before the 11 o’clock news. he’d chalked it up to stress, to the gray pittsburgh winter, to his own grueling schedule and the fact that he didn’t seem to have time to spare, time for you.
he closes his eyes and sees you in the kitchen three days ago, laughing at the ridiculous apron he usually wears when he cooks. you looked so vibrant, so incredibly alive. now, you have been reduced to a series of vitals on a monitor, a problem to be solved by people who don’t know the sound of your laugh or your favorite movie from your childhood.
“god, please,” he whispers into the empty room. now, jack abbot is hardly a religious man, but the silence of the hospital is demanding a sacrifice. “take me. just… don’t take them. please.”
the door creaks open and jack bolts upright, his heart hammering against his ribs. dr. robby, his best friend, his brother, stands there. he’s stripped off his bloody gown, but his scrubs are darkened with sweat. somehow, he looks older than he did twenty minutes ago.
“jack,” robby says, his voice level, cautious.
“tell me,” jack demands, his voice cracking. “please, tell me. is she… are they-”
“she’s still on the table,” robby says, stepping into the room and letting the door swing shut behind him. “we’ve stabilized the splenic bleed, and the chest tube is draining well. but jack…” robby let’s out a long, heavy sigh. “ the situation is complicated. you know the physiology as well as i do.”
jack slumps back into the chair, the “doctor” part of his brain forcing its way through the grief. he does know.
in a trauma patient, pregnancy changes everything. the blood volume increases by 50%, which means a woman can lose a massive amount of blood before her blood pressure even begins to drop. by the time you see the “crash,” it’s often too late.
“her vitals are brittle,” robby continues, leaning his back against the vending machine. “because of the pregnancy, her heart is already working overtime. and we’re struggling to keep her map high enough to perfuse the placenta without blowing out the repairs we just made.”
“and the baby?” jack asks, the word feeling foreign and heavy on his tongue.
“the fetus is roughly twelve weeks,” robby says. “at this stage, there’s no ‘saving’ the baby independently. the only way to save the pregnancy is to save the mother. but the vasopressors we’re using to keep her pressure up… they cause vasoconstriction in the uterus. we’re effectively starving the baby of oxygen to keep her brain and heart alive.”
it’s the ultimate medical catch-22. to save you, they had to risk the baby. to save the baby, they might lose you.
“the ultrasound showed some subchorionic hemorrhaging,” robby adds softly. “with the impact of the steering wheel, the placenta might be starting to detach. if that happens, she’ll bleed out from the inside faster than we can pump blood into her.”
jack buries his face in his hands. he knows the statistics. he knows that in maternal trauma, fetal demise is as high as 40-50% depending on the severity of the crash.
“i should have been there,” jack groans. “i should have driven her. she told me the brakes felt ‘soft’ last week and i told her i’d look at them on my day off. i didn’t… i didn’t look at them, robby.”
“jack, stop,” robby says firmly, walking the few steps separating him from his friend and crouching in front of him. “the police report said a semi hydroplaned across the median. it wouldn’t have mattered if she was driving a tank. don’t do this to yourself.”
jack looks up, his eyes bloodshot and raw. “how can i not?i’m the one who’s supposed to fix people. i spend twelve hours a day stitching strangers back together, and the one person who matters,” his voice breaks. “i didn’t even know she was carrying our child.”
robby sighs, his expression softening. “she’s a fighter, jack. we both know that. she’s held on this long. but i need you to stay here. if you go back in there…. i can’t worry about you too. i need to focus on them.”
“i can’t just sit here, man,” jack says, his voice rising. “i’m going crazy in this room.”
“then go to the chapel. go for a walk. or go home. but do not come back to that room,” robby warns. “i’ll send dana or jesse out when we have another update.”
as robby turns to leave, jack calls out, “wait.”
robby pauses at the door.
“the heartbeat,” jack whispers. “was it… was it still there when you left?”
robby hesitates for a fraction of a second, a beat that feels like an eternity to jack.
“it was,” robby says. “faint. but it was still there.”
and with that, the door clicks shut, leaving jack alone again.
the breakroom remains too quiet for far too long. jack paces the narrow strip of linoleum between the coffee machine and the round table, his mind a minefield of memories. he keeps seeing you in the passenger seat of his car, laughing at some stupid joke he told, the sun reflecting the stars in your eyes. he keeps thinking about the baby, whose existence had already rewritten the map of his future, even if they haven’t met yet.
then, the overhead speaker crackles. it’s a sound jack hears a dozen times a shift, a sound he usually meets with professional focus.
“code blue, trauma 1. code blue, trauma 1.”
the world doesn’t just tilt; it shatters.
trauma 1. your room.
jack is moving before his brain can even process the command. he throws open the breakroom door, the heavy wood slamming against the wall with a bang that echoes down the corridor. he doesn’t care about protocol. he doesn’t care about robby’s orders. he doesn’t care about his own career.
he runs.
the hallway feels miles long, the floor slick under his clogs. he passes a group of residents who scramble out of his way, eyes wide as they see night shift attending sprinting with a look of pure, unadulterated terror on his face.
he bursts through the double doors of the trauma bay, his lungs burning.
“jack, wait!” a nurse shouts, trying to grab his arm as he reaches the scrub sinks.
he doesn’t even look at her. he pushes the doors open with his shoulder, crashing into the room like a storm.
the scene inside is a nightmare rendered in high-definition. the rhythmic, mechanical hiss-click of the ventilator has been replaced by the frantic, high-pitched scream of the heart monitor. a flat, unwavering ekg line that slices through the air like a blade.
robby’s standing on a step-stool over your body, his hands locked, his weight throwing everything into the rhythmic compressions of your chest. crunch. crunch. the sound of ribs giving way under the pressure—a sound jack has heard a thousand times—feels like it’s his own bones that are snapping.
“jack, get out!” robby yells, not breaking his rhythm. his face is drenched in sweat, his eyes fixed on the monitor.
“what happened?” jack screams, stumbling toward the foot of the bed. “what the fuck happened?!”
“she went into v-fib, then pea,” dr. santos shouts over the noise. she was at your side, her hands pressed firmly against the left side of your abdomen, pushing your pregnant belly toward the left.
jack’s medical brain registered it instantly. in a pregnant woman in cardiac arrest, the heavy uterus compresses the inferior vena cava, blocking blood from returning to the heart. if they don’t push the baby aside, the compression robby is doing will be useless. there’s no blood to pump.
“charging to 200!” the tech shouts. “clear!”
robby jumps back. your body jolts off the table as the electricity surges through you. jack watches your hands, the same hands he loved to hold while you both were cuddling on the couch on a slow saturday, flop lifelessly back onto the sterile drape.
the line stays flat.
“again!” jack roars, stepping up to the bed, his voice raw. “increase to 300! charge it again!”
“jack, she’s lost too much blood,” robby pants, resuming compressions. “the acid-base balance is gone. her heart is too tired.”
“don’t you say that! don’t you dare say that!” jack lunges forward, grabbing the paddles from the tech’s hands. his eyes are wild, his breathing ragged. “move, robby! move!”
robby hesitates for a second, then steps aside, hands raised in surrender, letting jack take over.
jack looks down at you. this close, he can see the gray tint creeping into your skin. he can see the way the light in the room seems to be fading out of you.
“you do not leave me,” he hisses, the words a jagged prayer. “you hear me? you stay. you stay for me, and you stay for this baby. do not do this to us.”
“charged!”
“clear!” jack slams the paddles against your chest.
thump. your body arches. the monitors wail.
silence.
one second. two. three.
then, a tiny, erratic blip on the screen. then another.
“i have a rhythm!” dr. santos cries, her fingers pressed to your carotid artery. “i have a pulse! it’s weak, but it’s there!”
the room seems to exhale all at once, but the tension doesn’t break. it just shifts.
“we need to get the bleeding under control now,” robby says, his voice shaking. “jack… she can’t take another arrest. if she codes again, we won’t get her back. the fetal heart rate is in the 60s.”
robby doesn’t finish the sentence, but jack hears is loud and clear.
you’re both dying.
jack stands there, the paddles still in his hands, staring at the flickering green line of your heart. he’s covered in your blood, his gown torn, his soul laid bare in front of his entire team.
he looks at robby, and for the first time in his career, michael sees the “great jack abbot” looking utterly broken.
“save them,” jack whispers, his voice barely audible over the hum of the machines. “whatever it takes, i don’t care. just… don’t let them… save them. please.”
robby nods slowly. “we’re going to try a high-risk embolization to stop the deep pelvic bleed. it’s the only way to avoid more surgery, but the radiation… it’s dangerous for the pregnancy.”
jack looks at your stomach, then back at your face. the choice is impossible.
life or life.
“do it,” jack says, his voice hardening into a cold, desperate resolve. “save her. save my wife. we’ll deal with the rest when she wakes up.”
as they begin to prep the specialized equipment, jack doesn’t leave. he backs into the corner of the room, his back against the cold tile. he watches them work, his eyes never leaving the monitor, counting every single beat of your heart as if he could keep it moving through sheer force of will.
the icu is a different kind of purgatory than the er. in the er, death is a screaming, bloody predator you could fight with a scalpel and a shout, something loud and violent. in the icu, death is a shadow. something silent, patient, and impossible to pin down.
it’s 11:45 p.m. hours have passed since you were moved up from the er.
now you lie in the center of a web of plastic tubing and wires, the steady, rhythmic hiss-click of the ventilator the only thing keeping the room from falling into a grave-like silence. a cooling blanket draped over your legs to keep your temperature regulated, and a specialized fetal monitor strapped across your bruised abdomen, its screen showing a jagged, persistent little line
142 bpm.
jack is sitting in the hard plastic chair pulled flush against your bedside. he hasn’t changed out of his scrub bottoms, though someone forced him to put on a clean gray hoodie to cover the bloodstains on his undershirt. he looks older, tired. devastated. the harsh overhead led lights catch the new lines of exhaustion etched around his eyes.
he’s holding your hand, the only part of you that isn’t covered in bandages or sensors. your skin feels paper-thin and cold.
“i’m here,” he whispers, his voice a dry rasp. “i’m not going anywhere.”
he checks the fetal monitor. that sound, the rapid thump-thump, thump-thump of the baby’s heart, is the most beautiful and terrifying thing he has ever heard. it’s a ticking clock. every beat a miracle, but also a reminder of how much he stands to lose.
“why didn’t you tell me?” he asks softly, his thumb tracing the line of your knuckles, the stone crowning you ring finger cold and harsh against his skin.
were you scared? were you waiting for the ‘right’ moment? god, he would have given anything for that moment to have been over dinner, or in bed, or literally anywhere but on a trauma table.
he leans his forehead against the metal railing of the bed, his eyes closing.
“i went through our messages while i was waiting for you to come out of the or,” he admits, a ghost of a self-deprecating laugh escaping him. “i looked for clues. i looked for a hint. and all i found were grocery lists and you telling me to come home early because you missed me. but i didn’t come home, did i? i stayed for that extra shift. i stayed to fix people i didn’t even know while you were… you were growing a life.”
his guilt is a physical weight, a cold stone in his stomach. he’s dr. jack abbot. he’s supposed to be the one with all the answers, the one who sees the things no one else notices. but he has been blind to the most important thing in his own world.
a nurse slips into the room, her movements practiced and quiet. she checks the bags hanging from the iv pole, her eyes lingering on jack with a mixture of pity and professional concern.
“the baby’s heart rate is holding steady, dr. abbot,” she says softly, nodding toward the fetal monitor. “and her map is at 70. she’s stable for now.”
“for now,” jack repeats, the words feeling like ash. “stable is just another word for ‘waiting for the next crisis’ in this building, and you know it, claire.”
“from what i’ve heard, she’s a fighter, jack,” the nurse replies, mirroring robby’s words from earlier. “and so is the little one. i’ve seen people come back from worse.”
“not many,” jack mutters, but he squeezes your hand a little tighter.
when the nurse leaves, the silence rushes back in. jack stands up, his joints popping, and leans over you. he carefully places his hand on your stomach, right over the sensor. closing his eyes, he tries to feel through the layers of skin and muscle, trying to connect with the tiny being inside you that he had only just met through a grainy ultrasound screen.
“hey,” he whispers to your belly. “i’m your dad. i’m… i’m a bit of a mess right now, but i’m here. and i need you to do me a favor. i need you to keep fighting. i need you to give your mom a reason to wake up. because i don’t think i can do this without her. i know i can’t do this without her.”
before he can realize what’s happening, a tear escapes, tracing a hot path down his cheek and landing on the sterile white sheet.
“i’ll be better,” he promises, his voice cracking. “i’ll be home. i’ll fix the brakes. i’ll learn how to be whatever you both need me to be. just… don’t let go. please, don’t let go.”
outside, the rain continues, now heavier, fiercer. but inside the room, time remains frozen. jack abbot, the man who usually held the city’s lives in his hands, now seats back down and waits for the only life that truly matters to come back to him.
from time to time, doctors filter into the room, checking vitals, checking on jack. robby comes up from the er a couple of times to share a sympathetic smile with him, to promise that everything will be fine.
jack sighs, “i’m a doctor too, robby. you can’t lie to me.”
“and i’m your friend and i know that a bit of hope is what you need right now.”
he stays for a while, keeping jack company until his pager calls him back to action.
“shouldn’t you be home already?” jack asks. “your shift was over hours ago.”
robby only shrugs. “people need me around here.”
at that, jack’s eyes regain that teary shine. nodding, he promises robby to call him if anything changes and waves his fiend goodbye before leaning back again on the chair, his eyes fixed on the slow rise and fall of your chest.
the world doesn’t come back all at once. it returns in fragments. first, the rhythmic hiss of a machine, the smell of antiseptic, and a heavy, weighted warmth on your left hand. your eyelids feel like they had been leaded shut, but the persistent, low hum of the icu finally pulls you toward the surface of consciousness.
you groan, the sound catching in the back of your throat, dry and scratchy from the tube that has only recently been removed.
then there’s the faint scratch of a chair scraping against the floor.
“hey… hey, look at me. open your eyes, sweetheart.”
that voice. you know that voice better than your own heartbeat. it’s the same voice that whispers sweet nothings into your ear at night, the same one that you hear in your warmest dreams. except now it sounds rough, exhausted, and trembling with a hope so fragile it feels like it might shatter any moment.
you force your eyes open. the light blinding at first, a sterile white haze, but then it focuses. jack. he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. his hair is a mess and his eyes, usually so sharp and clinical, are now swimming with tears.
“jack?” you rasp, your voice coming out as barely a breath.
“i’m here. i’m right here.” he leans over, his hand cupping your cheek with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. he kisses your forehead, his lips lingering there for a long moment as he takes a shuddering breath. “you scared the hell out of me, love.”
you try to move, but a sharp pang in your abdomen makes you wince. memories start to bleed back in. the rain, the blinding headlights, the screech of metal. you instinctively try to reach for your stomach, but your arm feels like lead.
“the… the accident… jack, i…”
“it’s over,” he whispers, his thumb stroking your temple. “you’re safe. i’ve got you.”
a few minutes pass by until the door pushes open quietly. robby walks in, followed by an ob-gyn specialist you didn’t recognize. robby looks at you, a genuine, relieved smile breaking through his professional mask.
“welcome back,” robby says, checking the monitors. “you’ve had a hell of a day, but your vitals are finally starting to behave.”
the ob-gyn, a woman with kind eyes that introduces herself as dr. pauline , steps forward. “we need to talk about why you’re feeling so much pressure in your abdomen, besides the surgical repairs.”
jack’s grip on your hand tightens. he looks at you, his expression a complicated map of wonder and fear.
“you’re pregnant, dear,” dr. pauline says softly. “about twelve weeks. the accident was severe, and the trauma to your body was significant. we had to perform some emergency procedures that were high-risk for the pregnancy, but as of twenty minutes ago, the fetal heartbeat is steady.”
the world stops right there and then.
you look from the doctor to jack, your mouth falling open. “pregnant? are you sure?”
dr. pauline nods and you have to bite your lip to keep it from trembling. jack’s grip on your hand tightens.
“it’s going to be a long road,” dr. pauline continues, her tone turning serious but encouraging. “you have a lot of healing to do. your ribs and the internal repairs, plus the blood loss. and for the baby, we’re going to have to monitor you both every hour. there’s some bruising near the placenta, so it’s going to take hard work, absolute bed rest, and a lot of time before we can say we’re completely out of the woods. but right now? right now, you’re both winning.”
“thank you, doctor,” you whisper, voice so small it makes jack’s chest squeeze. “and thank you, michael. jack told me you were the one who took care of me when i arrived.”
robby gifts you with a small, soft smile. grabbing your free hand, he gives it a squeeze.
“i’m glad i could help. but i don’t think i could’ve done it without my team. or without dr. abbot’s aid.”
that has you snapping your attention back to jack.
“you were there?” he simply nods, eyes glued to your hand, to the ring on your finger. “i thought you guys had protocols for that kind of thing.”
“we do,” says robby, nodding.
“fuck the protocol,” barks jack at the exact same time. “my wife was dying. what was i supposed to do? go home? i did what i had to.”
when your eyes finally connect with his again you see it, the utter exhaustion, but behind that there’s something more. something raw and vivid.
“i’m so sorry,” you whisper. “i’m sorry you had to see that, jack. i can’t even imagine…”
“shh…” leaning forward, jack offers you the safe space of his shoulder to cry. “what matters is that you’re alive, love. you both are.”
after the doctors finish their checks and leave the room, a heavy, comfortable silence settles over the two of you. jack doesn’t let go of your hand. he seats on the edge of the bed, staring at you as if you were a ghost that might vanish if he blinked.
“jack,” you whispered, your voice a little stronger now. but you still feel the pressure of your tears threatening to spill at any given moment.
the thought of jack having to bring you back to life, your blood covering his gloved hands… knowing that he had to find out about something you had been suspecting for a couple of weeks through a scan in a trauma room in the er…
“twelve weeks,” he says, his voice thick with his own tears. “and you didn’t… you didn’t tell me.”
there’s no accusation in his voice, only a profound, echoing confusion.
you look down at your hands, the plastic hospital bracelet stark against your skin. “i didn’t know, jack. not for sure.”
jack doesn’t speak, he holds on tight to your hand, dropping a feather like kiss on your knuckles.
“i was suspicious,” you admit, a small, tired smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “but i told myself i was just imagining it. that my brain was playing some twisted tricks on me. but then i started feeling so tired. then there was the coffee. god, the smell of it started making me nauseous about two weeks ago. i’ve been drinking tea ever since.”
jack lets out a short, wet laugh, rubbing his face with his free hand. “i’m a doctor, i should have seen it. i should have known.”
“how could you?” you reach out, brushing a stray hair from his forehead. “we stopped looking for the signs a long time ago, jack.”
the air in the room shifts. the “last two times”, two years of hope, two positive tests that ended in heartbreak before the first trimester was even over. they were the shadows that had lived in the corners of your apartment, the reason you both had stopped talking about possible names or color palettes for the nursery. you had both quietly agreed to stop trying, to protect what was left of your hearts.
“i didn’t want to say anything until i was certain,” you whisper, tears pricking your eyes. “i couldn’t handle seeing that look on your face again if it didn’t stay. i was going to buy a test this weekend, i promise. i just… i wanted to be sure before i gave you hope again.”
jack leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. his breath hitches. “hope is all i’ve had for the last few hours, watching you on those monitors. i don’t care about the timing. i’ve got you two now. and that’s all i need.”
he moves his hand, sliding it under the hospital blanket to rest flat against your stomach. his palm is warm, steady, and large enough to cover nearly the entire area where the new life rests tucked away.
“we’re going to do the work,” he vows, his voice low. “whatever the doctors say. whatever it takes. i’m not losing either of you. we’ve fought too hard to get here.”
for the first time since the sirens started screaming hours ago, the tension in jack’s shoulders finally breaks.
you rest your head on his shoulder, the steady thump-thump of his heart syncing with yours. it isn’t the perfect, easy ending. there are months of recovery ahead and a thousand medical hurdles to jump but for now, in the quiet of the icu, the three of you are together.
“i love you,” he whispers into your hair.
“i love you too,” you breath, finally letting your eyes drift shut. “both of us.”
the transition from the icu to the step-down unit was supposed to be a victory. it has been ten days since the crash. your chest tube is out, your color is returning, and jack has finally stopped vibrating with the manic energy of a man haunted by ghosts.
but the “pitt” never let anyone relax for long.
jack is sitting in the armchair, his laptop open as he tries to catch up on charts while staying by your side. you are propped up on pillows, picking at a bowl of fruit, when a sharp, searing cramp radiates across your lower abdomen.
it isn’t like the dull ache of your healing surgical incisions. this is different. cold. deep.
“jack,” you gasp, the plastic fork clattering onto the tray.
he’s at your side before the fork hit the floor. “what is it? where’s the pain?”
“cramping. hard.” you grip his forearm, your knuckles turning white. “it feels… it feels like the last times, jack.”
the color drains from his face, but the doctor in him takes the lead before he can panic. he throws back the blankets. and there it is. a small, terrifying smear of crimson on the white sheets.
“pauline! anyone! i need a fetal doppler in here now!” jack shouts toward the hallway, his voice cracking the quiet of the ward.
minutes felt like hours. dr. pauline rushes in, her face set in a grim mask of professional focus. jack stands in the corner, his hands pressed against his mouth. unfortunately, he knows too much. he knows all the signs, just like he knows that post-traumatic subchorionic bleeds could trigger labor or a final, fatal abruption.
the room is filled with the static sound of the doppler searching.
whoosh. whoosh.
the sound of your own pulse, too fast, too frantic.
then, a silence that feels like a death sentence.
“come on,” pauline whispers, moving the probe. “come on, little one.”
thump-thump-thump-thump.
the sound burst into the room. fast, rhythmic, and stubborn.
“heart rate is 150,” pauline exhales, a visible wave of relief washing over her. “the cervix is closed. it’s a ‘threatened’ event, likely just the hematoma from the accident draining. but we are increasing your progesterone and you are on strict, absolute bed rest. no sitting up, no laptop, nothing but breathing.”
jack doesn’t move for a long time after she leaves. he just leans his head against the wall, his chest heaving. the setback lasted only ten minutes, but it had aged him a decade.
“jack,” you call his name softly, patting the free space next to you on the bed.
he walks over and sat on the edge, taking both of your hands in his. “we almost lost the light,” he whisper. “i can’t… i don’t know that i could take it if it happened again, sweetheart.”
“we didn’t lose it,” you said, pulling his hand to your cheek. “they’re still here. we’re still here.”
jack sighs with relief, nodding. he leas down to press a soft, careful kiss to your lips.
three weeks later, the air in pittsburgh finally shifts from the bitter bite of winter to the hesitant warmth of early spring.
you’re not wearing a hospital gown anymore. instead, you wear one of jack’s oversized soft hoodies and a pair of leggings, sitting in a wheelchair by the large windows of the garden pavilion. you are still weak, and your gait is a slow, painful shuffle, but today is the day the doctors, your husband included, have circled in red on the calendar.
week 14. the beginning of the second trimester. the safe zone.
jack walks into the pavilion carrying two cups of herbal tea and a small, rectangular envelope. he looks different today. he’s actually shaved, and for the first time since the night of the pileup, the haunted look in his eyes has been replaced by a quiet, steady glow.
“happy second trimester,” he says, leaning down to kiss the top of your head.
“we made it,” you breathe, looking out at the budding trees. “i honestly didn’t think we would.”
“i have something for you,” he says, sitting on the bench beside your chair. he hands you the envelope with a bright smile.
you open it with trembling fingers. inside isn’t a medical chart or a bill. it is a high-resolution 3d ultrasound from that morning’s check-up.
the image is vividly clear. you can see the curve of a tiny nose, the miniature perfection of ten fingers tucked near a chin, and the long legs that robby joked would make the kid a track star.
“look at that nose,” jack whispers, his finger tracing the print. “that’s your nose.”
“yeah. that’s your chin, though,” you laugh softly, a tear of pure, uncomplicated joy sliding down your face. “the abbot stubbornness is already visible.”
while you are still contemplating the small piece of warmth and joy that was still growing inside of you, jack reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, velvet box. you look at him, confused.
“jack? we’re already married.”
“i know,” he says, opening the box to reveal a delicate band with a tiny, shimmering stone on top. the birthstone for the month the baby was due. “but the night of the crash, i realized i’d spent so much time being a doctor and a provider that i forgot to be a good husband. i forgot to celebrate the life we were building.”
he takes your hand, sliding the ring onto your finger next to your wedding band.
“this is a promise,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “no more double shifts when i don’t have to. no more missed dinners. from here on out, it’s the three of us.”
you lean your head back against the headrest of the wheelchair, looking from the ring to the ultrasound, and then to the man who quite literally pulled you back from the edge of the grave.
the trauma is still there, the scars on your body and the stiffness in your limbs would be reminders for a long time, but as the sun warms your skin, the angst of the past month finally begins to dissolve.
“jack?”
“yeah?”
“i think i want thai food tonight.”
jack laughs. and it’s a real, booming abbot laugh that echoes through the garden. “you heard the boss,” he whispers to your stomach. “thai it is.”
bonus
the spare bedroom at the end of the hall had spent years as a storage space for jack’s medical journals and your half-finished art projects. it had been a room of “maybe someday,” a door you both tended to keep closed, preferring to keep the bad memories on the other side.
now, six months after the rain-slicked pavement nearly took everything, the door stands wide open and the scent of paint lingers in the air. a soft, muted sage green that jack spent three weekends perfecting because he refused to let anyone else touch the walls.
you seat in the newly assembled rocking chair, your hand resting atop the prominent, solid curve of your stomach. the baby is active today, a rhythmic tapping against your ribs that feels like a secret code. you are thirty-four weeks along, a milestone that, for a long time, felt like a destination on a map you weren’t allowed to reach.
“i think the crib is slightly crooked,” jack mutters, kneeling on the floor.
he was wearing an old pittsburgh steelers t-shirt, his hair disheveled, looking less like the formidable dr. abbot of the er and more like… like you husband, who was utterly determined to defeat a piece of furniture.
“jack, it’s perfect,” you laugh softly. “the level said it’s straight. you’ve checked it four times.”
“five,” he corrects, standing up and wiping his hands on his jeans. he walks over to the crib, shaking the railing with enough force to test a bridge. “i just… i need it to be steady. everything has to be steady.”
you reach out, taking his hand and pulling him towards you. immediately, he sinks onto the ottoman at your feet, resting his head against your knees. the fierce, protective energy he carries is a byproduct of the trauma; a lingering shadow of the man who collapsed back in that trauma room. but it was softening, replaced by a deep, quiet anticipation.
“oh. i just remembered. we haven’t opened michael’s gift yet,” you say, pointing to the changing table.
sitting atop a stack of colorful onesies is a beautifully wrapped box with a heavy silver bow. next to it is a card embossed with the university of pittsburgh medical center logo.
according to jack, robby dropped it off at the nurse’s station for him to bring home.
“he said if he had to hear me talk about ‘fetal heart rate variability’ during a trauma shift one more time, he was going to quit, so he bought this to shut me up,” he said as he lay the box on the changing table the other night.
you open the card first. in robby’s cramped, hurried physician’s handwriting, it read:
to my dear friends (and my future favorite abbot),
i’ve known you two for a long time and i truly can’t think of anyone better to take care of each other. i also know that kid will be so lucky to get to call you two mom and dad. i can’t wait to meet the little one.
congratulations on the final stretch!
— robby
inside the box is a high-tech, medical-grade infant vitals monitor, the kind that synced to a smartphone. it’s exactly the kind of gift dr. robby would give: a way to keep watch even when the lights were out. underneath the monitor was a tiny, hand-knitted sweater with a small stethoscope embroidered on the pocket.
“he’s a softie,” you whisper, running your hand over the wool.
“don’t tell him i said so, but he’s the reason we’re sitting in this room,” jack said, his voice drops into that low, honest tone he saved only for you. he looks up at you, his eyes reflecting the soft nursery light. “when i saw you on that table… i forgot how to be a doctor. i forgot how to breathe. he held the line until i could find my way back.”
jack stands up and leans over you, pressing a long, lingering kiss to your forehead before moving down to press his ear against your belly. he waits, silent and still, until the baby delivers a sharp kick right against his cheek.
“hey there,” jack whispers to the bump, a grin breaking across his face. “i hear you. we’re ready for you. everything is ready.”
he stands back, surveying the room; the crib, the sage-green walls, the gift from his brother, the man who helped save your lives, and the woman who was his entire world. the angst of the pitt, the screams of the monitors, and the cold terror of the icu feel like a lifetime ago. they are just scars now. like faded, silver lines that proved they survived the storm.
“do you think the baby will like the room?” you ask.
jack wraps his arms around you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder as you both look out at the quiet pittsburgh street below.
“she’ll love it,” jack promises.
the sun begins to set outside the window, casting a warm, golden glow over the nursery, turning the sage walls into the color of a new spring. you’re a survivor, jack is a father, and in just a few short weeks, the pitt would be nothing more than a place where jack went to work, while his real life, his whole life, waited for him right here, at home.
