summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, fluff, sexual tension, angst
word count: 6.2k
a/n: sorry for taking ages!! and don't hate me too much :DD i hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series anymore. follow the diagnosis: married? masterlist and turn on notifications instead <33
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
Main | Masterlist
Previous part | Next part
Even after the unimaginable has happened, life doesn't stop. It just keeps moving like it always has. Death is just another part of the cycle of life—inevitable and natural, no matter how cruel it seems.
The tear in your heart doesn't close all at once, but it slowly mends itself together, thread by thread—day by day. The faces of those you'd lost aren't forgotten—will never be—, but they find rest in your mind. They stop haunting you when you close your eyes, their expressions softening, no longer filled with accusation.
Jack helps more than you ever thought possible. He makes the process smoother, less jagged than it used to be. He makes it easier to carry.
That night, coming home after the shift, you tried to be strong. One breakdown should be enough—you were tougher than that. So you showered, changed and then climbed into your own bed. Listened to Jack shower through the cracked door, stared at the ceiling, counted your breaths and willed sleep to come. Eventually, the shower stopped. The house grew silent, but sleep didn't come.
After a while, you gave in. Crept out of bed, padded silently down the hallway that felt longer than usual, knocked on the door quieter than you'd meant to. Jack was sitting against the headboard, lights still on, with that distant look in his eyes that mirrored yours. It was like he'd been waiting for you to come back. You didn't even have to say anything before he lifted the covers in a silent invitation, and that was that. And when a few tears slipped from your eyes unwittingly, he didn't say anything about it; he just pulled you closer.
Since then, you repeat that routine after every shift. Pretend to go to bed, wait in your room, and then drift down the hall to his room. The wait grows shorter over time—thirty minutes becomes ten, ten becomes five. Jack never comments on it, just lifts the covers and waits to turn off the light until you're beside him.
He's there when you wake up crying. You're there when he does.
The days blur together as you bury yourself in studying and working, waiting for time to dull the hurt. You know it'll never disappear—not fully—but past experiences have taught you that the sharp edges eventually soften. That the weight becomes bearable.
One day, you realise you'd stopped waking up in tears. Still, you cross the hallway every night. And every night, he makes room for you without a word.
"Fuck, it's already disgusting outside," Trinity complains as she steps up the board. She swipes at the light sheen of sweat on her forehead and tugs at her collar. "I walked here, and I regret every life choice that led me to that decision." She leans against the counter, looking miserable.
"First heatwave of the year," Lena says as she gathers her things. "It hit us early this year, and it's only gonna get hotter. Good luck today!" She says, patting your shoulder on her way out.
"Yay us!" Trinity grumbles, resting her head on her arms. She lifts her gaze to you. "It's like people get dumber when it's hot."
You huff quietly from the other side as you sign off on your last patient. "You say that about the patients, no matter the season."
"Because every season it’s true! But when it's hot, it's even worse," she shoots back, cracking open her water bottle. "And, you—" she gestures lazily in your direction, "—get to sleep through the worst of it."
"Night shift perks,” you shrug in response.
She takes a sip. "Still no chance of you coming back to days?"
You make a face. "Sorry."
"Boo," she says.
"Where's your other half?" you ask as you log off the computer.
"Off being a farmer boy or whatever it is that he does on his days off."
"Huh?" you murmur, brows furrowed, but you're too tired to ask what that even means. "Okay, well, I'll see you later."
You're only a few steps away from her when she calls out again. "Oh! I sent you the photos from the other day. There are some really cute ones."
"Thank you," you blow her a kiss, before you turn around, walking towards the ambulance bay where Jack's waiting for you. "Have fun melting," you call over your shoulder.
You vaguely hear her grumble before the doors shut behind you.
It's blisteringly hot inside the house when you come home. Thick, heavy heat clinging to your skin. It's even worse than outside, with all that warmth trapped and unmoving.
You'd expected it, what with the power outage that struck the area during the night. Because while PTMC had backup generators, Jack's house needs to be reset manually, and so the house is unbearable.
Jack disappears almost immediately to deal with it, tugging at his shirt, muttering something under his breath about breakers.
You don’t wait around. You take a quick cold shower, and then you plant yourself outside on a recliner. In less clothing than you usually wear, you stretch out, letting the faint breeze dry the last of the water on your skin.
Trinity's sent you thirty photos. There's the usual chaos: Trinity and Lily up on the bar, Shen mid-shot, clearly destroying that frat guy at pool, a couple blurry ones of all of you dancing, the lights smeared into vibrant streaks.
Then one of you and Jack. You pause. It’s not even a particularly interesting photo—just the two of you standing close, both smiling hazily at each other. Still, the butterflies in your belly flutter at the sight.
Another image pops up, this time of you facing the camera, grinning wide, with Jack’s arm wrapped around your waist.
Then—
An image of Jack and Lily. Lily’s flashing a peace sign at the camera while Jack smiles at her. You zoom in on his face. He looks happy.
There’s something about it. Something that sits wrong. Not sharp, not painful—just… off. A small, quiet drop in your stomach. You stare at it longer than you should.
"Do you want an ice cream?" Jack calls out through the open terrace door.
"Yes, please," you answer, scrolling past the photo and shaking off the odd feeling. Setting your phone down beside you, you lean back, letting the sun hit your skin. By the time Jack steps outside again, you’ve already decided to forget it.
He looks like sin, sweat dripping down his forehead, and the collar of his shirt soaked. "AC's up and running again. The house should be cool in about—" His voice trails off as he walks around the back of the recliner.
"What?" you say, one hand lifting to shield your eyes from the sun. You tilt your head slightly, following his gaze. Oh. You don’t shift to cover up. If anything, you stretch a little more into the recliner, one leg bending lazily, your pink bikini glowing against your skin.
Jack clears his throat, glancing deliberately away. "Uh," he stammers, still avoiding eye contact as he steps closer, ice cream in hand. "Soon. The house will cool off soon."
"Great," you sigh, shifting in your seat. He nods, still not looking. You watch him for a second, then let a small smile curl at the corner of your mouth. "Wanna join me?"
He hesitates; you can see it in the way his shoulders tense, and his jaw tightens just a little. He sneaks a glance at you despite himself, and this time his gaze doesn’t snap away just as fast.
"I—uh... I have to check—" he begins, stepping back toward the door. He doesn't even finish his sentence before he vanishes inside again. Your eyes flick down, catching the way his hand shifts, conveniently covering his crotch.
You bite back a grin.
Jack can't remember the last time he put on a suit, much less a tie. He's faced down trauma bays and multiple mass casualties—but a strip of silk has him beat. He loosens it again, trying to remember the steps. Over, under, pull—no, that isn't right. It still sits crooked against his collar, mocking him. He exhales sharply through his nose and drags it loose, starting over.
The hospital is hosting a fundraiser tonight, and with Robby currently stuck dealing with some administrative problem, he'd all but forced Jack to take his place. It was a good chance to sweet-talk a few higher-ups into directing some of the proceeds their way—and while Jack despised these events, he felt obliged, given Robby was keeping a secret that could ruin all of your careers.
"Jack?" you call out, heels clacking as you step out into the living room. "Will you zip me up?"
At least he wasn't going alone.
He steps back from the hallway mirror, leaving his tie be. He turns toward you—and forgets entirely what he was doing. The late afternoon light catches you just right, emerald green glinting richly. The fabric skims your body like it was made for you, every line, every curve. For a moment, all he can do is look.
Say something, he tells himself. Anything.
"Yeah," he manages, his voice rougher than he means for it to be.
You don't notice, though, already turning around. The bare line of your spine is exposed, the zipper dipping lower than he'd expected. His hands hover for a second before he brushes the soft skin of your back as he reaches for the zipper. He swallows, dragging it up slowly—slower than necessary. When it reaches the top, his hand lingers for just a second longer than it should have before he forces himself to step back.
"There," he says, clearing his throat.
You turn, offering him an easy smile. "Thank you."
You glance over his outfit, your attention drawn to his tie. "You clean up well," you say as your fingers reach out, loosening his tie. He catches the faint warmth of your perfume as you step in. You knot it deftly, smoothing it into place. "There you go."
"Thank you, sweetheart," he gruffs out. "You don't look too bad yourself."
It is the understatement of the year, but Jack's speechless, dizzy with the scent of your perfume swirling around him.
You grin, stepping back and giving him a small spin. "I don't think I've worn a gown since prom."
Jack huffs out something that might be a laugh, one hand coming up to adjust his cuff—anything to keep his hands busy. "Yeah?" he asks. His eyes flick over you again. "Well," he adds, "if you looked the way you look now, whoever went with you was a lucky guy."
You smile shyly and puff his shoulder softly. "We should go," you say, reaching for your bag.
"Yeah," he answers—but he doesn’t move right away.
You’re halfway to the door before you notice, turning back. "Jack? You coming?"
He blinks. "Yes," he mutters, clearing his throat. His gaze drags over you one more time before his feet move.
The fundraiser is being held in the grand ballroom of one of the upscale hotels near the hospital—one of those places with crystal chandeliers dripping from impossibly high ceilings and polished marble floors so glossy they reflect the candlelight.
Gold-trimmed tables are arranged beneath soft amber lighting, each one dressed with ivory linens, delicate floral centrepieces, and place cards embossed in elegant script. Waiters weave through the room with silver trays balanced effortlessly in one hand, offering champagne in slender crystal flutes and bite-sized hors d'oeuvres that almost look too pretty to eat.
It’s lavish in a way that makes your stomach twist.
Because while the hospital pleads budget constraints every time staffing shortages come up, apparently, there’s plenty of money for imported roses, a live string quartet, and whatever this venue costs per hour. You can only hope tonight raises enough money to justify it.
Your hand tightens around Jack’s arm as he guides you farther into the ballroom, heels clacking gently on the floor. "I've got major imposter syndrome," you murmur, leaning in close so only he can hear. All around you, there are women in gorgeous gowns and glimmering jewellery, while you're in a rented one, your necklace borrowed from Samira, and your most expensive earrings (they cost $50 and you got them at half price).
Jack glances down at you. "Everyone's pretending they belong," he says. "With their fancy dresses and fancy words. It's why I don't like coming to these events."
You huff out a quiet laugh at the discontent in his voice.
He steers the two of you toward your table near the centre of the room—close enough to the stage that someone clearly thought he was important enough to be seen. You stay standing behind your chair, smoothing down your dress while guests continue to pour in around you.
The room fills with the hum of conversation—light laughter, clinking glasses, and friendly greetings. Here and there, guests approach Jack to shake his hand, and by extension, yours, exchanging a few words before moving on. In just five minutes, you’ve encountered more influential figures than you ever have at work.
In between, the two of you lean into whispered commentary, trading observations about the guests filtering in. Jack knows far more than you expect—department heads, donors, board members, surgeons with inflated egos and hospital administrators with reputations for scandal. Every time someone passes, he has some dry little piece of gossip ready, and it’s entertaining enough that you almost forget how out of place you feel.
A loud gasp breaks the moment.
"Is that you, Jack?"
Jack turns, revealing a woman approaching him who seems to belong here in a way you never will. With her blonde hair elegantly pinned up, champagne-colored silk hugging her figure, and diamonds glimmering at her ears, she exudes confidence as she reaches for his shoulder, leaning in for a hug with an air of familiarity.
"Dr. Warren," Jack says politely, his smile brief and courteous. You notice how he steps back as soon as he can, subtly reclaiming the space between them without drawing attention to it.
She laughs softly. “Oh, come on! I thought we were past all that doctor formality. Call me Anna.”
Jack nods but makes no attempt to mirror her familiarity. Instead, he gently places his hand at the small of your back, guiding you forward and into the conversation.
"This is Dr. Anna Warren," he says, looking your way. "She’s one of the attendings in the ER at Presby."
Anna’s eyes shift to you, her smile unwavering. "Oh," she says lightly, as though mildly surprised. Her eyes glide over your body in a slow and unhurried way, ready to judge but finding your outfit satisfactory—all Jack's doing since he was the one who paid for it. "I didn’t realise you had company."
The words are perfectly pleasant and somehow still feel pointed.
You smile and offer your hand, introducing yourself. "It’s nice to meet you."
She shakes your hand firmly. "I didn't know nurses were allowed here," she ponders with a slight smile, looking over at Jack.
"She’s finishing her R4 this month," Jack says, ignoring the clear jab, then turns to you with a warm smile. "Joining us as an attending afterwards."
"Oh?" Anna says, bringing his attention back to her. "What’s her speciality?"
"Emergency medicine," you respond with a bright smile, reentering the conversation.
Her brows rise slightly. "Really?" she says, looking you over. "You look very young."
"She’s one of the best residents we have," Jack says.
Anna smiles, though it's noticeably sharper. "Well, that’s impressive."
"She’s already outperforming half the attendings," Jack adds with a smile. "Best procedural numbers in the department."
Warmth blooms in your chest from the praise. You have to fight back a beam.
Anna lets out a soft laugh. "Well, it's good to know who our competitors are." The comment is framed as a joke, but the underlying implication is unmistakable.
Her focus shifts back to Jack instantly. "You know, I never thought I’d see you at one of these events again."
"Robby couldn’t make it," Jack replies with a shrug.
Anna’s expression softens. "A shame." Then, she says with a small laugh, "Though, I can’t pretend I’m not glad he forced you to come instead."
"Oh, Robby didn't make me. My wife did," he nods towards you. It's said casually, but the effect is immediate.
Anna’s smile falters for the briefest moment. "Oh," she says.
You have to fight back a smile at her face and at the fact that he just lied to her. You didn't make him come; if anything, he convinced you to come.
"We got married a few months ago," Jack says easily.
Anna recovers fast, her smile settling back into place. "Congratulations," she says.
You smile sweetly, leaning further into Jack. "Thank you."
She nods, but there’s the faintest stiffness to it now. Jack’s body remains angled toward you, his hand steady at your waist, attention on you even while she’s standing there.
Anna glances between the two of you. "Well," she says smoothly, "it sounds like things are going very well for you."
Jack nods, smiling at you. His fingers squeeze your waist briefly. "They are."
She offers one last smile. Her hand lifts to squeeze his arm in goodbye, but falls down when you place your hand on his chest. "It was nice to see you again."
"You too, Dr. Warren," Jack says. Not Anna.
Her smile flickers for half a second before she turns away.
The second she’s gone, you let out the breath you were holding, a laugh escaping with it.
Jack glances down at you. "What?" He pretends to be confused, but his mouth curls slightly.
"Nothing," you say, shaking your head. There's a light whine as the mic gets turned on and the host begins presenting the evening. Jack pulls out your chair, his arm settling on the back. He keeps it there for most of the evening.
By the time the evening begins winding down, the whole ballroom has softened around the edges. The speeches are over, the auction items have all been claimed, and the rigid polish of the fundraiser has finally started to melt into something looser and more relaxing. Jackets have been abandoned over the backs of chairs, heels have been kicked off under tables, and the low hum of conversation has grown louder beneath the music.
The dance floor has opened near the front of the room, where the tables give way to a polished stretch of marble lit gold beneath the chandeliers. A few couples sway lazily beneath the lights while the band plays something slow and smooth.
You stand beside Jack near the bar, cradling the last of your wine, watching the dancers. The nerves from earlier are gone, replaced by the warm buzz of wine and the even warmer satisfaction of having Jack at your side through all of it—his hand at your waist when people stopped to talk, the way his eyes always found yours, the quiet certainty of his attention even with more accomplished women vying for it.
“Wanna dance?”
You turn to him, startled just enough to laugh.
Jack is holding out his hand. There’s a crooked smile on his face, one brow raised slightly.
You stare at him for a second before taking his hand. "I thought you didn’t dance."
His fingers close around yours, warm and firm, and he starts guiding you toward the floor. "I don’t."
You laugh softly as you follow him.
He glances back over his shoulder, smiling. "But I’ll make an exception for you."
He leads you onto the dance floor and turns to face you beneath the chandelier light. For a moment, neither of you moves. Then his hands settle on your waist—slowly, like he’s giving you every chance to step away, even though you both know you won’t.
You slide your arms around his shoulders, and soon the two of you find a natural rhythm, swaying gently to the music.
Jack was telling the truth. He doesn’t really dance. There’s no elegance to it, no polished rhythm—just the simple shifting of his weight with yours, his hands warm where they hold you, his body close enough that the rest of the room starts to blur. Somehow that makes it better. There’s nothing performative about this; no pretence.
It’s just the two of you.
"You know," you say, "for someone who doesn’t dance, you’re doing alright."
Jack lets out a quiet huff, glancing down at his feet. "I’m just swaying."
You lift one shoulder, grinning. "That still counts."
He looks a bit sceptical, so you smile and inch a little closer. His hands shift naturally, resting more securely on your waist.
The room moves around you in a blur of candlelight and dark suits and glittering dresses, but standing there with him feels oddly private, like the two of you are alone.
Jack glances down at you again. There’s something in his expression that makes it hard to hold his gaze for too long—not because it’s intense, exactly, but because it’s warm.
"You alright?" he asks. It’s a simple question, but the way he asks it conveys something deeper.
You nod. "Yeah."
He studies your face for a second, then gives a small nod of his own, satisfied. "Good. Thanks for coming with me."
You hum. "Of course, I am your wife after all. Couldn't let you fend off the wolves all by yourself," you tease with a grin.
"Ha," he grumbles, his hand adjusting at your waist as you both turn in a slow half-circle to pass another couple. "What would I do without you?"
"Better not to wonder," you say.
Your hands shift a bit higher on his shoulders, fingers grazing the back of his neck. He exhales softly, letting his gaze drift to your mouth for a heartbeat before returning to your eyes.
He hums.
You should probably tease him again, say something light, break whatever this is before it feels too real. But you don’t want to.
Because wanting him doesn’t feel sharp anymore. Jack’s mouth tilts faintly at one corner, and you can't help but smile back.
Feeling lighter than you have in days, you clock in for yet another night shift. Patient after patient, everything runs smoothly as it can in the Pitt.
Just as you step out of an exam room, rubbing sanitiser between your hands, you catch a flicker of movement in your periphery. A spike of movement. Too fast. Too sharp. You turn, and your stomach drops.
A patient has Lily in a tight headlock.
"Shit," you mutter, taking off at once. You barely hear your own voice calling out 'Code Hula Hoop' through the rush of blood in your ears. The door swings open under your hand as you rush in, too caught up in the moment to wait for security.
"Let go!" You reach for the patient’s arm, twisting it to break his grip.
Within seconds, Bridget arrives, trying to control the patient's other arm, her voice firm yet strained. "Sir—let go—"
The patient jerks, his grip loosening just enough for Lily to gasp, but before you can fully process, he swings toward you instead. The blow comes out of nowhere. But someone else sees it. A hand catches your arm—hard—and yanks you sideways. You hit something solid.
Jack.
You barely dodge the punch that flies through the air where your face just was, close enough to feel the whoosh of it. All at once, the room floods with security, staff, and bodies. Voices overlap, hands take over where yours were.
You step back, breathing heavily, adrenaline coursing through you.
"What the hell happened?" Jack asks, spinning you around. His tone is sharp. "Are you—"
He doesn’t finish the sentence. Lily gasps, and just like that, his focus shifts. You catch a glimpse of him, swallowed instantly by the frenzy in the room. Fragments come at you—a shift in his shoulders, someone shouting, the clear command of his voice cutting through the chaos.
You stand still for a moment, trying to breathe through your chest tightening. You follow as Lily is moved over to the wall.
"Are you okay?" you ask, your hands steady despite the adrenaline still rushing through your veins, holding her upright.
She coughs, fingers brushing over the angry red marks forming around her throat. "I’m fine." Her voice is rough, affected by the pressure that was put on her vocal cords.
You gently tilt her chin up, examining the bruising and the way her voice catches. "You’re not fine."
Before you can say more, Jack is there, his hands replacing yours before you’ve stepped back. "Look at me," he instructs Lily, his voice a different tone now—softer. "Any dizziness? Trouble swallowing?"
She shakes her head slightly, still trying to catch her breath.
"We’re getting a CT scan," he says, steady and firm, leaving no room for argument. His thumb brushes lightly along her jaw as he checks for tenderness. "Just to be safe."
She nods.
For a brief moment, all you can see is the tightness in his shoulders, the underlying tension beneath his calm exterior. His attention lingers just a moment longer before he steps back.
That weird feeling from the other day returns, but you push it away. This isn’t the right time.
"Ellis, do a neuro assessment and order a CT," he instructs before turning to you, his voice strained. "A word." Without waiting for a response, he turns and strides out.
You hesitate just long enough for Lily to catch your hand and give it a quick squeeze. You return the gesture softly before following him.
He stops abruptly in the hallway, turning so suddenly you nearly run into him. He crosses his arms and stares at you in silence, weighing his words. "Do you have anything to say?" he finally asks.
You cross your arms, mirroring him. "No?"
His exhale is sharp, and he runs a hand over his face, as if trying to gather his thoughts. "You cannot—" he stops, his jaw tightening. "You can’t just run into a violent situation without backup."
You let out a disbelieving breath. "Are you serious right now?"
"I’m dead serious," he replies. "You put yourself in direct danger—"
"Did you not see what I did?" you shoot back.
"I did," he counters firmly. "It was irresponsible. You made that situation worse. You don’t think. You just jump in without thinking about the consequences."
"Oh, fuck off," you retort, your words coming out more sharply than you intended—but you don’t take them back. "You would’ve done the same."
He blinks, thrown for half a second. "I've had training. You haven't."
"So I’m just supposed to stand by while she’s being choked?" you respond, disbelief creeping into your voice. "You saw the whole thing," you continue, your anger flaring up, fueled by adrenaline—and something else you don't want to place. You don't even care that you're having this conversation in front of everyone. "And you’re lecturing me about following protocol?"
"Yes," he replies, his tone unwavering as he steps closer. "Because protocol exists to keep you safe."
You let out a dry laugh, but there’s no humour in it. "That’s ridiculous."
"You call a code, maintain a distance, and wait for security," he insists, his voice still even while yours has risen in volume.
"And what if something goes wrong in that time?"
"You could have been grabbed, hit—" he continues, dodging your question.
"I wasn’t," you interrupt sharply.
"That’s not the point."
"It kind of is," you reply, shaking your head. "This is bullshit, and you know it."
His frustration begins to bubble to the surface, breaking through his usual control. "You don’t get to decide what's right."
"And you do?" you shoot back.
"I’m still your attending," he retorts instantly. "So yes—" He exhales sharply, rubbing a hand across his face before letting it drop. In a low murmur, he adds, "You just can’t help but cause trouble."
The weight of the word hangs between you, heavy and charged.
Your expression hardens instantly. "Right. I'm trouble because I won't let our patients assault our nurses."
"That’s not what I meant," he says, though the tension still lingers in his voice. "You don’t think things through in these situations—"
"Abbot. MVC incoming," Lena calls from down the hall, cutting him off.
Jack briefly closes his eyes, exhaling through his nose. "We’re not finished with this," he says as he grabs a pair of gloves.
Then, he’s off again—jumping back into the chaos as if nothing just happened. As if he hadn't just prodded at a deep and painful bruise. You grab your own gloves and turn away, the weight of his words still sitting spikily under your skin as you head toward your next patient.
Each step sends the spines in deeper.
"I'll be back with your results soon," you say as you close the door behind you. A slow breath escapes your lips as you make your way to the hub. The argument from earlier still weighs heavily on your mind, but you haven't had a chance to talk about it yet. You'd barely even had time to check on Lily, who, despite all your protests, has decided to keep working.
You should probably find Jack, apologise for being headstrong, but also let him know that you'd do it again. That potentially getting hit is worth it if you can save someone else.
You only make it three steps before a sight stops you cold, anchoring you to the spot. Jack and Lily stand at the hub, shoulder to shoulder.
He's leaning over her to look at what she's pointing to on the screen. There's nothing inappropriate about it—nothing that would raise any suspicions—but for you, it’s enough to send a chill down your spine.
Because combined with everything else, it all suddenly makes sense.
Embarrassment flares as realisation hits you like a punch to the gut. Your stomach drops so sharply it feels like your body forgot how to hold itself upright. You try to breathe in, but nothing fully comes through. Your lungs feel too small to contain this sudden truth.
Oh.
That thought comes first, followed closely by:
Right.
It settles fast. Because it fits.
The way he watches her when he’s focused. The softness in his voice when he speaks to her. Earlier, when he replaced your hands without a second thought. Everything aligns with a sickening clarity.
Jack doesn't like you.
The realisation isn’t sharp. It’s heavy. Final, in a way you don’t argue with, because there’s nothing to argue against. Just… evidence you’re suddenly noticing all at once.
You weren’t the one he was scared for. Wasn't the one he was smiling at like that in the photos. He hadn't been affected by you on the recliner earlier; he probably left because he felt awkward that you couldn’t take a hint. He definitely hadn't wanted to kiss you at the fundraiser.
And worst of all. He had never asked you to stay every night, yet you kept showing up. An intruder who didn't realise how she'd overstepped.
Your throat tightens involuntarily.
Lily makes sense in a way you don’t. She's kind, warm, and gentle—everything that you’re not. You're combative and impulsive—you're trouble.
That reality echoes in your head now, twisted and strange—not as irritation, not as a warning, but as something else entirely.
A conclusion.
And it's not that you think that Lily is trying to steal him, but she'd be good for him. At least when this ends, she can be there for him. Wake him when he's having nightmares, rub his leg when it hurts, and make him breakfast on days when he can't do anything but lie. You'll give her your blessing even if it's with a bleeding heart.
Swallowing hard, you muster the strength to slip past them, pushing through the ambulance bay doors. You miss the way his gaze shifts toward you as you pass. Once outside, you lean against the cool wall, blinking back the sudden sting in your eyes as the warmth of the night wraps around you.
Get it together.
Your chest still feels wrong, so you press your nails into your palms until the sensation shifts to that. A more manageable pain.
A few minutes later, the doors swing open again.
You hear him before he says anything. The familiar sound of his footsteps signals his approach. "Hey," Jack says quietly. "You okay?" His voice carries a hint of concern.
You swallow, stifling the weight of everything pressing down inside you—a skill you’ve perfected over the years. A wry smile tugs at your lips, masking the turmoil beneath. "Yeah," you reply, your voice steady, even though your heart is crumbling beneath the surface. He doesn’t believe you; you can feel it, but he doesn’t press. Not when the argument from earlier still lingers in the air.
"I'm sorry about what I said earlier," he begins. "I was just—" he runs a hand through his hair. "I was scared. That could’ve gone really bad. Still, I shouldn’t have said it like that."
You nod. "I understand. I'm sorry, too." Sorry for being a distraction when he was worried about Lily. Sorry for getting in the way.
Jack's mouth opens to speak again, but an ambulance pulls in before he can say more. You give his arm a gentle pat as you move forward. You don't linger like you normally would. "No harm done. We’re good."
He hesitates, as if he wants to say something else, but ultimately lets it go. "You sure?"
"Yeah, it was just the heat of the moment."
He frowns at you, still slightly unsure, but you turn your attention forward again. "What have we got?"
"Michelle Waters, 36 years old—"
The shift drags on, but somehow you manage to keep going. You have to; there’s no other choice. But every time Jack appears, a tightness seizes your lungs, as though they’ve forgotten how to expand—only remembering a second too late.
You’re surviving on stolen breaths when the clock finally strikes seven.
Robby catches you just as you’re logging out of the computer, looking like he’s already dealing with five different problems despite only being here for ten minutes. "Hey, do you have a second?"
"Sure," you reply with a sigh, standing up. "But let me just say, I did it to protect Lily, and I didn’t even get hit, so I don’t get why it’s such a big deal."
"What?" Robby asks, bewildered. He rubs his face harshly. "I'm gonna pretend I didn't hear that."
"Oh. Great," you say. "What’s on your mind then?"
"Okay, just hear me out," he starts, shifting his weight. "Heather wants to switch to night shift for a few weeks before she leaves, and you already know how day shift works—"
"So, you want me to cover for her," you conclude flatly.
"Yes," he admits, wincing. "It’s only temporary—just a few weeks. You’ll still have your days off before boards. It would really help us if you—"
"I’ll do it." Before this shift, you would have hesitated. Now, it's an almost instant answer that leaves your mouth.
Robby's still trying to plead, "Just think about—" he stops. "What?"
You shrug once. "I’ll do it."
He blinks at you like he’s waiting for the second part of the sentence that doesn’t come. "You don’t want to think about it? Or discuss it with Jack?"
You glance past him without meaning to. Jack stands across the hub, tablet in hand, deep in conversation. He’s nowhere near finished, tied up helping the day shift. The tightness in your chest returns.
You turn back to Robby. "No," you shake your head. "Why should I? It’s not like we’re really—" you shrug, voice lowering, but Robby understands what isn't said. You're not really married. Jack doesn't have a say in what you do. Just like you don't have a say in what he does.
You don’t need to be the thing that makes his job harder. Switching to the day shift for a few weeks might be good. It might give him the space you've been denying him.
Robby hesitates, opening and closing his mouth a few times. "Because—" he starts, then catches himself. With a sigh, he gives up. "You know what, never mind."
He studies you for a second longer, then gives a slow nod like he’s decided not to touch whatever this is. "Alright," he says. "I’ll let Heather know."
"Good." You turn away before he can say anything else. Your shoulders stay rigid as you place a soft kiss on Jack's cheek, lighter than usual, whispering that you'll see him at home. Doing your best to act normal—like nothing has changed, even while everything has.
"Hey—I'm still sorry about earlier," he says, catching your hand.
"Don't worry about it," you smile at him, the best you can, squeezing his hand. He believes it this time.
"Okay. Text me when you get home," he says, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head. You nod, then slip out the doors before the tears you’ve been holding back all shift can spill over in front of everyone.
op when I tell you I genuinely had to sit and stare at the wall for a bit. I binged the first 13 chapters when I found it a few weeks ago and then got a friend hooked and we were so hyped when we saw the update.both of us in the gc getting so excited and then DISTRAUGHT (affectionate)
first of all - LOVE your reaction pictures!! they're so accurate hahahha
also love that you guys are reading this together!!🥺 makes me feel all mushy that you're sharing my little fic with each other <333
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, fluff, sexual tension, angst
word count: 6.2k
a/n: sorry for taking ages!! and don't hate me too much :DD i hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series anymore. follow the diagnosis: married? masterlist and turn on notifications instead <33
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
Main | Masterlist
Previous part | Next part
Even after the unimaginable has happened, life doesn't stop. It just keeps moving like it always has. Death is just another part of the cycle of life—inevitable and natural, no matter how cruel it seems.
The tear in your heart doesn't close all at once, but it slowly mends itself together, thread by thread—day by day. The faces of those you'd lost aren't forgotten—will never be—, but they find rest in your mind. They stop haunting you when you close your eyes, their expressions softening, no longer filled with accusation.
Jack helps more than you ever thought possible. He makes the process smoother, less jagged than it used to be. He makes it easier to carry.
That night, coming home after the shift, you tried to be strong. One breakdown should be enough—you were tougher than that. So you showered, changed and then climbed into your own bed. Listened to Jack shower through the cracked door, stared at the ceiling, counted your breaths and willed sleep to come. Eventually, the shower stopped. The house grew silent, but sleep didn't come.
After a while, you gave in. Crept out of bed, padded silently down the hallway that felt longer than usual, knocked on the door quieter than you'd meant to. Jack was sitting against the headboard, lights still on, with that distant look in his eyes that mirrored yours. It was like he'd been waiting for you to come back. You didn't even have to say anything before he lifted the covers in a silent invitation, and that was that. And when a few tears slipped from your eyes unwittingly, he didn't say anything about it; he just pulled you closer.
Since then, you repeat that routine after every shift. Pretend to go to bed, wait in your room, and then drift down the hall to his room. The wait grows shorter over time—thirty minutes becomes ten, ten becomes five. Jack never comments on it, just lifts the covers and waits to turn off the light until you're beside him.
He's there when you wake up crying. You're there when he does.
The days blur together as you bury yourself in studying and working, waiting for time to dull the hurt. You know it'll never disappear—not fully—but past experiences have taught you that the sharp edges eventually soften. That the weight becomes bearable.
One day, you realise you'd stopped waking up in tears. Still, you cross the hallway every night. And every night, he makes room for you without a word.
"Fuck, it's already disgusting outside," Trinity complains as she steps up the board. She swipes at the light sheen of sweat on her forehead and tugs at her collar. "I walked here, and I regret every life choice that led me to that decision." She leans against the counter, looking miserable.
"First heatwave of the year," Lena says as she gathers her things. "It hit us early this year, and it's only gonna get hotter. Good luck today!" She says, patting your shoulder on her way out.
"Yay us!" Trinity grumbles, resting her head on her arms. She lifts her gaze to you. "It's like people get dumber when it's hot."
You huff quietly from the other side as you sign off on your last patient. "You say that about the patients, no matter the season."
"Because every season it’s true! But when it's hot, it's even worse," she shoots back, cracking open her water bottle. "And, you—" she gestures lazily in your direction, "—get to sleep through the worst of it."
"Night shift perks,” you shrug in response.
She takes a sip. "Still no chance of you coming back to days?"
You make a face. "Sorry."
"Boo," she says.
"Where's your other half?" you ask as you log off the computer.
"Off being a farmer boy or whatever it is that he does on his days off."
"Huh?" you murmur, brows furrowed, but you're too tired to ask what that even means. "Okay, well, I'll see you later."
You're only a few steps away from her when she calls out again. "Oh! I sent you the photos from the other day. There are some really cute ones."
"Thank you," you blow her a kiss, before you turn around, walking towards the ambulance bay where Jack's waiting for you. "Have fun melting," you call over your shoulder.
You vaguely hear her grumble before the doors shut behind you.
It's blisteringly hot inside the house when you come home. Thick, heavy heat clinging to your skin. It's even worse than outside, with all that warmth trapped and unmoving.
You'd expected it, what with the power outage that struck the area during the night. Because while PTMC had backup generators, Jack's house needs to be reset manually, and so the house is unbearable.
Jack disappears almost immediately to deal with it, tugging at his shirt, muttering something under his breath about breakers.
You don’t wait around. You take a quick cold shower, and then you plant yourself outside on a recliner. In less clothing than you usually wear, you stretch out, letting the faint breeze dry the last of the water on your skin.
Trinity's sent you thirty photos. There's the usual chaos: Trinity and Lily up on the bar, Shen mid-shot, clearly destroying that frat guy at pool, a couple blurry ones of all of you dancing, the lights smeared into vibrant streaks.
Then one of you and Jack. You pause. It’s not even a particularly interesting photo—just the two of you standing close, both smiling hazily at each other. Still, the butterflies in your belly flutter at the sight.
Another image pops up, this time of you facing the camera, grinning wide, with Jack’s arm wrapped around your waist.
Then—
An image of Jack and Lily. Lily’s flashing a peace sign at the camera while Jack smiles at her. You zoom in on his face. He looks happy.
There’s something about it. Something that sits wrong. Not sharp, not painful—just… off. A small, quiet drop in your stomach. You stare at it longer than you should.
"Do you want an ice cream?" Jack calls out through the open terrace door.
"Yes, please," you answer, scrolling past the photo and shaking off the odd feeling. Setting your phone down beside you, you lean back, letting the sun hit your skin. By the time Jack steps outside again, you’ve already decided to forget it.
He looks like sin, sweat dripping down his forehead, and the collar of his shirt soaked. "AC's up and running again. The house should be cool in about—" His voice trails off as he walks around the back of the recliner.
"What?" you say, one hand lifting to shield your eyes from the sun. You tilt your head slightly, following his gaze. Oh. You don’t shift to cover up. If anything, you stretch a little more into the recliner, one leg bending lazily, your pink bikini glowing against your skin.
Jack clears his throat, glancing deliberately away. "Uh," he stammers, still avoiding eye contact as he steps closer, ice cream in hand. "Soon. The house will cool off soon."
"Great," you sigh, shifting in your seat. He nods, still not looking. You watch him for a second, then let a small smile curl at the corner of your mouth. "Wanna join me?"
He hesitates; you can see it in the way his shoulders tense, and his jaw tightens just a little. He sneaks a glance at you despite himself, and this time his gaze doesn’t snap away just as fast.
"I—uh... I have to check—" he begins, stepping back toward the door. He doesn't even finish his sentence before he vanishes inside again. Your eyes flick down, catching the way his hand shifts, conveniently covering his crotch.
You bite back a grin.
Jack can't remember the last time he put on a suit, much less a tie. He's faced down trauma bays and multiple mass casualties—but a strip of silk has him beat. He loosens it again, trying to remember the steps. Over, under, pull—no, that isn't right. It still sits crooked against his collar, mocking him. He exhales sharply through his nose and drags it loose, starting over.
The hospital is hosting a fundraiser tonight, and with Robby currently stuck dealing with some administrative problem, he'd all but forced Jack to take his place. It was a good chance to sweet-talk a few higher-ups into directing some of the proceeds their way—and while Jack despised these events, he felt obliged, given Robby was keeping a secret that could ruin all of your careers.
"Jack?" you call out, heels clacking as you step out into the living room. "Will you zip me up?"
At least he wasn't going alone.
He steps back from the hallway mirror, leaving his tie be. He turns toward you—and forgets entirely what he was doing. The late afternoon light catches you just right, emerald green glinting richly. The fabric skims your body like it was made for you, every line, every curve. For a moment, all he can do is look.
Say something, he tells himself. Anything.
"Yeah," he manages, his voice rougher than he means for it to be.
You don't notice, though, already turning around. The bare line of your spine is exposed, the zipper dipping lower than he'd expected. His hands hover for a second before he brushes the soft skin of your back as he reaches for the zipper. He swallows, dragging it up slowly—slower than necessary. When it reaches the top, his hand lingers for just a second longer than it should have before he forces himself to step back.
"There," he says, clearing his throat.
You turn, offering him an easy smile. "Thank you."
You glance over his outfit, your attention drawn to his tie. "You clean up well," you say as your fingers reach out, loosening his tie. He catches the faint warmth of your perfume as you step in. You knot it deftly, smoothing it into place. "There you go."
"Thank you, sweetheart," he gruffs out. "You don't look too bad yourself."
It is the understatement of the year, but Jack's speechless, dizzy with the scent of your perfume swirling around him.
You grin, stepping back and giving him a small spin. "I don't think I've worn a gown since prom."
Jack huffs out something that might be a laugh, one hand coming up to adjust his cuff—anything to keep his hands busy. "Yeah?" he asks. His eyes flick over you again. "Well," he adds, "if you looked the way you look now, whoever went with you was a lucky guy."
You smile shyly and puff his shoulder softly. "We should go," you say, reaching for your bag.
"Yeah," he answers—but he doesn’t move right away.
You’re halfway to the door before you notice, turning back. "Jack? You coming?"
He blinks. "Yes," he mutters, clearing his throat. His gaze drags over you one more time before his feet move.
The fundraiser is being held in the grand ballroom of one of the upscale hotels near the hospital—one of those places with crystal chandeliers dripping from impossibly high ceilings and polished marble floors so glossy they reflect the candlelight.
Gold-trimmed tables are arranged beneath soft amber lighting, each one dressed with ivory linens, delicate floral centrepieces, and place cards embossed in elegant script. Waiters weave through the room with silver trays balanced effortlessly in one hand, offering champagne in slender crystal flutes and bite-sized hors d'oeuvres that almost look too pretty to eat.
It’s lavish in a way that makes your stomach twist.
Because while the hospital pleads budget constraints every time staffing shortages come up, apparently, there’s plenty of money for imported roses, a live string quartet, and whatever this venue costs per hour. You can only hope tonight raises enough money to justify it.
Your hand tightens around Jack’s arm as he guides you farther into the ballroom, heels clacking gently on the floor. "I've got major imposter syndrome," you murmur, leaning in close so only he can hear. All around you, there are women in gorgeous gowns and glimmering jewellery, while you're in a rented one, your necklace borrowed from Samira, and your most expensive earrings (they cost $50 and you got them at half price).
Jack glances down at you. "Everyone's pretending they belong," he says. "With their fancy dresses and fancy words. It's why I don't like coming to these events."
You huff out a quiet laugh at the discontent in his voice.
He steers the two of you toward your table near the centre of the room—close enough to the stage that someone clearly thought he was important enough to be seen. You stay standing behind your chair, smoothing down your dress while guests continue to pour in around you.
The room fills with the hum of conversation—light laughter, clinking glasses, and friendly greetings. Here and there, guests approach Jack to shake his hand, and by extension, yours, exchanging a few words before moving on. In just five minutes, you’ve encountered more influential figures than you ever have at work.
In between, the two of you lean into whispered commentary, trading observations about the guests filtering in. Jack knows far more than you expect—department heads, donors, board members, surgeons with inflated egos and hospital administrators with reputations for scandal. Every time someone passes, he has some dry little piece of gossip ready, and it’s entertaining enough that you almost forget how out of place you feel.
A loud gasp breaks the moment.
"Is that you, Jack?"
Jack turns, revealing a woman approaching him who seems to belong here in a way you never will. With her blonde hair elegantly pinned up, champagne-colored silk hugging her figure, and diamonds glimmering at her ears, she exudes confidence as she reaches for his shoulder, leaning in for a hug with an air of familiarity.
"Dr. Warren," Jack says politely, his smile brief and courteous. You notice how he steps back as soon as he can, subtly reclaiming the space between them without drawing attention to it.
She laughs softly. “Oh, come on! I thought we were past all that doctor formality. Call me Anna.”
Jack nods but makes no attempt to mirror her familiarity. Instead, he gently places his hand at the small of your back, guiding you forward and into the conversation.
"This is Dr. Anna Warren," he says, looking your way. "She’s one of the attendings in the ER at Presby."
Anna’s eyes shift to you, her smile unwavering. "Oh," she says lightly, as though mildly surprised. Her eyes glide over your body in a slow and unhurried way, ready to judge but finding your outfit satisfactory—all Jack's doing since he was the one who paid for it. "I didn’t realise you had company."
The words are perfectly pleasant and somehow still feel pointed.
You smile and offer your hand, introducing yourself. "It’s nice to meet you."
She shakes your hand firmly. "I didn't know nurses were allowed here," she ponders with a slight smile, looking over at Jack.
"She’s finishing her R4 this month," Jack says, ignoring the clear jab, then turns to you with a warm smile. "Joining us as an attending afterwards."
"Oh?" Anna says, bringing his attention back to her. "What’s her speciality?"
"Emergency medicine," you respond with a bright smile, reentering the conversation.
Her brows rise slightly. "Really?" she says, looking you over. "You look very young."
"She’s one of the best residents we have," Jack says.
Anna smiles, though it's noticeably sharper. "Well, that’s impressive."
"She’s already outperforming half the attendings," Jack adds with a smile. "Best procedural numbers in the department."
Warmth blooms in your chest from the praise. You have to fight back a beam.
Anna lets out a soft laugh. "Well, it's good to know who our competitors are." The comment is framed as a joke, but the underlying implication is unmistakable.
Her focus shifts back to Jack instantly. "You know, I never thought I’d see you at one of these events again."
"Robby couldn’t make it," Jack replies with a shrug.
Anna’s expression softens. "A shame." Then, she says with a small laugh, "Though, I can’t pretend I’m not glad he forced you to come instead."
"Oh, Robby didn't make me. My wife did," he nods towards you. It's said casually, but the effect is immediate.
Anna’s smile falters for the briefest moment. "Oh," she says.
You have to fight back a smile at her face and at the fact that he just lied to her. You didn't make him come; if anything, he convinced you to come.
"We got married a few months ago," Jack says easily.
Anna recovers fast, her smile settling back into place. "Congratulations," she says.
You smile sweetly, leaning further into Jack. "Thank you."
She nods, but there’s the faintest stiffness to it now. Jack’s body remains angled toward you, his hand steady at your waist, attention on you even while she’s standing there.
Anna glances between the two of you. "Well," she says smoothly, "it sounds like things are going very well for you."
Jack nods, smiling at you. His fingers squeeze your waist briefly. "They are."
She offers one last smile. Her hand lifts to squeeze his arm in goodbye, but falls down when you place your hand on his chest. "It was nice to see you again."
"You too, Dr. Warren," Jack says. Not Anna.
Her smile flickers for half a second before she turns away.
The second she’s gone, you let out the breath you were holding, a laugh escaping with it.
Jack glances down at you. "What?" He pretends to be confused, but his mouth curls slightly.
"Nothing," you say, shaking your head. There's a light whine as the mic gets turned on and the host begins presenting the evening. Jack pulls out your chair, his arm settling on the back. He keeps it there for most of the evening.
By the time the evening begins winding down, the whole ballroom has softened around the edges. The speeches are over, the auction items have all been claimed, and the rigid polish of the fundraiser has finally started to melt into something looser and more relaxing. Jackets have been abandoned over the backs of chairs, heels have been kicked off under tables, and the low hum of conversation has grown louder beneath the music.
The dance floor has opened near the front of the room, where the tables give way to a polished stretch of marble lit gold beneath the chandeliers. A few couples sway lazily beneath the lights while the band plays something slow and smooth.
You stand beside Jack near the bar, cradling the last of your wine, watching the dancers. The nerves from earlier are gone, replaced by the warm buzz of wine and the even warmer satisfaction of having Jack at your side through all of it—his hand at your waist when people stopped to talk, the way his eyes always found yours, the quiet certainty of his attention even with more accomplished women vying for it.
“Wanna dance?”
You turn to him, startled just enough to laugh.
Jack is holding out his hand. There’s a crooked smile on his face, one brow raised slightly.
You stare at him for a second before taking his hand. "I thought you didn’t dance."
His fingers close around yours, warm and firm, and he starts guiding you toward the floor. "I don’t."
You laugh softly as you follow him.
He glances back over his shoulder, smiling. "But I’ll make an exception for you."
He leads you onto the dance floor and turns to face you beneath the chandelier light. For a moment, neither of you moves. Then his hands settle on your waist—slowly, like he’s giving you every chance to step away, even though you both know you won’t.
You slide your arms around his shoulders, and soon the two of you find a natural rhythm, swaying gently to the music.
Jack was telling the truth. He doesn’t really dance. There’s no elegance to it, no polished rhythm—just the simple shifting of his weight with yours, his hands warm where they hold you, his body close enough that the rest of the room starts to blur. Somehow that makes it better. There’s nothing performative about this; no pretence.
It’s just the two of you.
"You know," you say, "for someone who doesn’t dance, you’re doing alright."
Jack lets out a quiet huff, glancing down at his feet. "I’m just swaying."
You lift one shoulder, grinning. "That still counts."
He looks a bit sceptical, so you smile and inch a little closer. His hands shift naturally, resting more securely on your waist.
The room moves around you in a blur of candlelight and dark suits and glittering dresses, but standing there with him feels oddly private, like the two of you are alone.
Jack glances down at you again. There’s something in his expression that makes it hard to hold his gaze for too long—not because it’s intense, exactly, but because it’s warm.
"You alright?" he asks. It’s a simple question, but the way he asks it conveys something deeper.
You nod. "Yeah."
He studies your face for a second, then gives a small nod of his own, satisfied. "Good. Thanks for coming with me."
You hum. "Of course, I am your wife after all. Couldn't let you fend off the wolves all by yourself," you tease with a grin.
"Ha," he grumbles, his hand adjusting at your waist as you both turn in a slow half-circle to pass another couple. "What would I do without you?"
"Better not to wonder," you say.
Your hands shift a bit higher on his shoulders, fingers grazing the back of his neck. He exhales softly, letting his gaze drift to your mouth for a heartbeat before returning to your eyes.
He hums.
You should probably tease him again, say something light, break whatever this is before it feels too real. But you don’t want to.
Because wanting him doesn’t feel sharp anymore. Jack’s mouth tilts faintly at one corner, and you can't help but smile back.
Feeling lighter than you have in days, you clock in for yet another night shift. Patient after patient, everything runs smoothly as it can in the Pitt.
Just as you step out of an exam room, rubbing sanitiser between your hands, you catch a flicker of movement in your periphery. A spike of movement. Too fast. Too sharp. You turn, and your stomach drops.
A patient has Lily in a tight headlock.
"Shit," you mutter, taking off at once. You barely hear your own voice calling out 'Code Hula Hoop' through the rush of blood in your ears. The door swings open under your hand as you rush in, too caught up in the moment to wait for security.
"Let go!" You reach for the patient’s arm, twisting it to break his grip.
Within seconds, Bridget arrives, trying to control the patient's other arm, her voice firm yet strained. "Sir—let go—"
The patient jerks, his grip loosening just enough for Lily to gasp, but before you can fully process, he swings toward you instead. The blow comes out of nowhere. But someone else sees it. A hand catches your arm—hard—and yanks you sideways. You hit something solid.
Jack.
You barely dodge the punch that flies through the air where your face just was, close enough to feel the whoosh of it. All at once, the room floods with security, staff, and bodies. Voices overlap, hands take over where yours were.
You step back, breathing heavily, adrenaline coursing through you.
"What the hell happened?" Jack asks, spinning you around. His tone is sharp. "Are you—"
He doesn’t finish the sentence. Lily gasps, and just like that, his focus shifts. You catch a glimpse of him, swallowed instantly by the frenzy in the room. Fragments come at you—a shift in his shoulders, someone shouting, the clear command of his voice cutting through the chaos.
You stand still for a moment, trying to breathe through your chest tightening. You follow as Lily is moved over to the wall.
"Are you okay?" you ask, your hands steady despite the adrenaline still rushing through your veins, holding her upright.
She coughs, fingers brushing over the angry red marks forming around her throat. "I’m fine." Her voice is rough, affected by the pressure that was put on her vocal cords.
You gently tilt her chin up, examining the bruising and the way her voice catches. "You’re not fine."
Before you can say more, Jack is there, his hands replacing yours before you’ve stepped back. "Look at me," he instructs Lily, his voice a different tone now—softer. "Any dizziness? Trouble swallowing?"
She shakes her head slightly, still trying to catch her breath.
"We’re getting a CT scan," he says, steady and firm, leaving no room for argument. His thumb brushes lightly along her jaw as he checks for tenderness. "Just to be safe."
She nods.
For a brief moment, all you can see is the tightness in his shoulders, the underlying tension beneath his calm exterior. His attention lingers just a moment longer before he steps back.
That weird feeling from the other day returns, but you push it away. This isn’t the right time.
"Ellis, do a neuro assessment and order a CT," he instructs before turning to you, his voice strained. "A word." Without waiting for a response, he turns and strides out.
You hesitate just long enough for Lily to catch your hand and give it a quick squeeze. You return the gesture softly before following him.
He stops abruptly in the hallway, turning so suddenly you nearly run into him. He crosses his arms and stares at you in silence, weighing his words. "Do you have anything to say?" he finally asks.
You cross your arms, mirroring him. "No?"
His exhale is sharp, and he runs a hand over his face, as if trying to gather his thoughts. "You cannot—" he stops, his jaw tightening. "You can’t just run into a violent situation without backup."
You let out a disbelieving breath. "Are you serious right now?"
"I’m dead serious," he replies. "You put yourself in direct danger—"
"Did you not see what I did?" you shoot back.
"I did," he counters firmly. "It was irresponsible. You made that situation worse. You don’t think. You just jump in without thinking about the consequences."
"Oh, fuck off," you retort, your words coming out more sharply than you intended—but you don’t take them back. "You would’ve done the same."
He blinks, thrown for half a second. "I've had training. You haven't."
"So I’m just supposed to stand by while she’s being choked?" you respond, disbelief creeping into your voice. "You saw the whole thing," you continue, your anger flaring up, fueled by adrenaline—and something else you don't want to place. You don't even care that you're having this conversation in front of everyone. "And you’re lecturing me about following protocol?"
"Yes," he replies, his tone unwavering as he steps closer. "Because protocol exists to keep you safe."
You let out a dry laugh, but there’s no humour in it. "That’s ridiculous."
"You call a code, maintain a distance, and wait for security," he insists, his voice still even while yours has risen in volume.
"And what if something goes wrong in that time?"
"You could have been grabbed, hit—" he continues, dodging your question.
"I wasn’t," you interrupt sharply.
"That’s not the point."
"It kind of is," you reply, shaking your head. "This is bullshit, and you know it."
His frustration begins to bubble to the surface, breaking through his usual control. "You don’t get to decide what's right."
"And you do?" you shoot back.
"I’m still your attending," he retorts instantly. "So yes—" He exhales sharply, rubbing a hand across his face before letting it drop. In a low murmur, he adds, "You just can’t help but cause trouble."
The weight of the word hangs between you, heavy and charged.
Your expression hardens instantly. "Right. I'm trouble because I won't let our patients assault our nurses."
"That’s not what I meant," he says, though the tension still lingers in his voice. "You don’t think things through in these situations—"
"Abbot. MVC incoming," Lena calls from down the hall, cutting him off.
Jack briefly closes his eyes, exhaling through his nose. "We’re not finished with this," he says as he grabs a pair of gloves.
Then, he’s off again—jumping back into the chaos as if nothing just happened. As if he hadn't just prodded at a deep and painful bruise. You grab your own gloves and turn away, the weight of his words still sitting spikily under your skin as you head toward your next patient.
Each step sends the spines in deeper.
"I'll be back with your results soon," you say as you close the door behind you. A slow breath escapes your lips as you make your way to the hub. The argument from earlier still weighs heavily on your mind, but you haven't had a chance to talk about it yet. You'd barely even had time to check on Lily, who, despite all your protests, has decided to keep working.
You should probably find Jack, apologise for being headstrong, but also let him know that you'd do it again. That potentially getting hit is worth it if you can save someone else.
You only make it three steps before a sight stops you cold, anchoring you to the spot. Jack and Lily stand at the hub, shoulder to shoulder.
He's leaning over her to look at what she's pointing to on the screen. There's nothing inappropriate about it—nothing that would raise any suspicions—but for you, it’s enough to send a chill down your spine.
Because combined with everything else, it all suddenly makes sense.
Embarrassment flares as realisation hits you like a punch to the gut. Your stomach drops so sharply it feels like your body forgot how to hold itself upright. You try to breathe in, but nothing fully comes through. Your lungs feel too small to contain this sudden truth.
Oh.
That thought comes first, followed closely by:
Right.
It settles fast. Because it fits.
The way he watches her when he’s focused. The softness in his voice when he speaks to her. Earlier, when he replaced your hands without a second thought. Everything aligns with a sickening clarity.
Jack doesn't like you.
The realisation isn’t sharp. It’s heavy. Final, in a way you don’t argue with, because there’s nothing to argue against. Just… evidence you’re suddenly noticing all at once.
You weren’t the one he was scared for. Wasn't the one he was smiling at like that in the photos. He hadn't been affected by you on the recliner earlier; he probably left because he felt awkward that you couldn’t take a hint. He definitely hadn't wanted to kiss you at the fundraiser.
And worst of all. He had never asked you to stay every night, yet you kept showing up. An intruder who didn't realise how she'd overstepped.
Your throat tightens involuntarily.
Lily makes sense in a way you don’t. She's kind, warm, and gentle—everything that you’re not. You're combative and impulsive—you're trouble.
That reality echoes in your head now, twisted and strange—not as irritation, not as a warning, but as something else entirely.
A conclusion.
And it's not that you think that Lily is trying to steal him, but she'd be good for him. At least when this ends, she can be there for him. Wake him when he's having nightmares, rub his leg when it hurts, and make him breakfast on days when he can't do anything but lie. You'll give her your blessing even if it's with a bleeding heart.
Swallowing hard, you muster the strength to slip past them, pushing through the ambulance bay doors. You miss the way his gaze shifts toward you as you pass. Once outside, you lean against the cool wall, blinking back the sudden sting in your eyes as the warmth of the night wraps around you.
Get it together.
Your chest still feels wrong, so you press your nails into your palms until the sensation shifts to that. A more manageable pain.
A few minutes later, the doors swing open again.
You hear him before he says anything. The familiar sound of his footsteps signals his approach. "Hey," Jack says quietly. "You okay?" His voice carries a hint of concern.
You swallow, stifling the weight of everything pressing down inside you—a skill you’ve perfected over the years. A wry smile tugs at your lips, masking the turmoil beneath. "Yeah," you reply, your voice steady, even though your heart is crumbling beneath the surface. He doesn’t believe you; you can feel it, but he doesn’t press. Not when the argument from earlier still lingers in the air.
"I'm sorry about what I said earlier," he begins. "I was just—" he runs a hand through his hair. "I was scared. That could’ve gone really bad. Still, I shouldn’t have said it like that."
You nod. "I understand. I'm sorry, too." Sorry for being a distraction when he was worried about Lily. Sorry for getting in the way.
Jack's mouth opens to speak again, but an ambulance pulls in before he can say more. You give his arm a gentle pat as you move forward. You don't linger like you normally would. "No harm done. We’re good."
He hesitates, as if he wants to say something else, but ultimately lets it go. "You sure?"
"Yeah, it was just the heat of the moment."
He frowns at you, still slightly unsure, but you turn your attention forward again. "What have we got?"
"Michelle Waters, 36 years old—"
The shift drags on, but somehow you manage to keep going. You have to; there’s no other choice. But every time Jack appears, a tightness seizes your lungs, as though they’ve forgotten how to expand—only remembering a second too late.
You’re surviving on stolen breaths when the clock finally strikes seven.
Robby catches you just as you’re logging out of the computer, looking like he’s already dealing with five different problems despite only being here for ten minutes. "Hey, do you have a second?"
"Sure," you reply with a sigh, standing up. "But let me just say, I did it to protect Lily, and I didn’t even get hit, so I don’t get why it’s such a big deal."
"What?" Robby asks, bewildered. He rubs his face harshly. "I'm gonna pretend I didn't hear that."
"Oh. Great," you say. "What’s on your mind then?"
"Okay, just hear me out," he starts, shifting his weight. "Heather wants to switch to night shift for a few weeks before she leaves, and you already know how day shift works—"
"So, you want me to cover for her," you conclude flatly.
"Yes," he admits, wincing. "It’s only temporary—just a few weeks. You’ll still have your days off before boards. It would really help us if you—"
"I’ll do it." Before this shift, you would have hesitated. Now, it's an almost instant answer that leaves your mouth.
Robby's still trying to plead, "Just think about—" he stops. "What?"
You shrug once. "I’ll do it."
He blinks at you like he’s waiting for the second part of the sentence that doesn’t come. "You don’t want to think about it? Or discuss it with Jack?"
You glance past him without meaning to. Jack stands across the hub, tablet in hand, deep in conversation. He’s nowhere near finished, tied up helping the day shift. The tightness in your chest returns.
You turn back to Robby. "No," you shake your head. "Why should I? It’s not like we’re really—" you shrug, voice lowering, but Robby understands what isn't said. You're not really married. Jack doesn't have a say in what you do. Just like you don't have a say in what he does.
You don’t need to be the thing that makes his job harder. Switching to the day shift for a few weeks might be good. It might give him the space you've been denying him.
Robby hesitates, opening and closing his mouth a few times. "Because—" he starts, then catches himself. With a sigh, he gives up. "You know what, never mind."
He studies you for a second longer, then gives a slow nod like he’s decided not to touch whatever this is. "Alright," he says. "I’ll let Heather know."
"Good." You turn away before he can say anything else. Your shoulders stay rigid as you place a soft kiss on Jack's cheek, lighter than usual, whispering that you'll see him at home. Doing your best to act normal—like nothing has changed, even while everything has.
"Hey—I'm still sorry about earlier," he says, catching your hand.
"Don't worry about it," you smile at him, the best you can, squeezing his hand. He believes it this time.
"Okay. Text me when you get home," he says, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head. You nod, then slip out the doors before the tears you’ve been holding back all shift can spill over in front of everyone.
op when I tell you I genuinely had to sit and stare at the wall for a bit. I binged the first 13 chapters when I found it a few weeks ago and then got a friend hooked and we were so hyped when we saw the update.both of us in the gc getting so excited and then DISTRAUGHT (affectionate)
first of all - LOVE your reaction pictures!! they're so accurate hahahha
also love that you guys are reading this together!!🥺 makes me feel all mushy that you're sharing my little fic with each other <333
andrew garfield saying, “i hope this grief stays with me because it’s all the unexpressed love that i didn’t get to tell her” about his mothers passing is so gut wrenchingly beautiful because we rarely talk about the love we want to express but can’t, not because you’re not brave enough to say it out loud but because they’re not here to listen to it anymore. calling grief the love you never had the chance to share makes it less of a burden and more of something you want to keep and not something terrible you want to move on from. i love love how everything about grief always comes down to “what is grief if not love persevering?”
I know some of you thought that would be like trying to solve a crossword and realizing there’s no right answer BUT…you played it good & right. Congrats pals, you guessed the correct titles and feature artists on Red (my version). The vault tracks will feature Chris Stapleton, Phoebe Bridgers, Mark Foster and the first song Ed Sheeran and I ever wrote together the first time we met in 2012❗️I can’t express my gratitude enough to these artists for helping me bring these songs to life. I can’t wait til we can dust off our highest hopes and relive these memories together. We’ll also be making a bunch of new ones too, since Red (Taylor’s Version) includes so many songs you haven’t heard yet. Til then, I’ll be counting down and picturing it all in my head. In burning red.
Red (Taylor’s Version) out November 19. Pre-order now: http://Taylor.lnk.to/redtaylorsversion
gamechangershow
izzy806
discoholicmusic
romaincrisis
snowghoul
areudirty
pixelskylines
tangentwithtanner
