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𝐃𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬: 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝? 𝐗𝐕𝐈 ⚕ 𝐉.𝐀.

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, angst, two people being dumbasses

word count: 9.8k

a/n: surprise—you get it one day earlier!! thank you all for still keeping up with this series and interacting!! your comments are the best part of my day <33 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

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It takes a good half hour before you're able to catch your breath enough to speak. By the time you finally reach for your phone, your lungs are aching from sobbing, your eyes are swollen, and your whole face feels hot and tight. The t-shirt you had under your scrubs is drenched from the number of times you've lifted it to dry your eyes.

Your hands shake so badly that it takes two attempts to tap Olivia's name. As the phone rings, your fingers twist into the duvet, trying to steady yourself.

"Hey, what's up?" Olivia answers, her voice warm but laced with concern. It's not like you to call without warning, and especially not at this hour. "What's wrong?"

You open your mouth, but no words come out. Instead, a shaky breath escapes you, followed by another. Olivia waits patiently through the silence.

"What happened?" she asks gently after a moment.

You press your lips together, trying to compose yourself, but your voice still cracks when you finally speak. "I'm so stupid."

"What?" she says immediately. "No, you’re not."

A sharp laugh escapes you. You wipe roughly at your face, trying to force the tears in again. "You don’t even know what I’m talking about."

"I don't need to," Olivia insists. "You're not stupid."

"I'm not too sure about that." You shake your head even though she can't see it, then stare blankly at the wall. "I was wrong. He doesn't—he doesn't love me, Liv."

The words tumble out, broken and raw, now that you've begun.

"He doesn't even want me. He was just—" Your voice catches. "He was just being nice, and I turned into something more. Something it wasn't."

"Okay, hold on. Why do you think that?"

"Because I saw it."

"Saw what?"

"The way he looks at her," you shrug. "The way he talks to her. He’s so gentle with her, Liv." Your breath shudders as you remember how Jack looked at Lily. The fear in his eyes. The anger when it had been directed at you. "And here I was, thinking he looked at me like that when he doesn't. Hasn't ever." You rub your eyes harshly. "God, I'm such a fool."

Olivia is quiet for a second, trying to keep up. "Okay, who are we talking about?"

You let out a bitter laugh. "Lily—she's one of the nurses."

"So... You think Jack is in love with Lily?" Olivia doesn't have to speak her disbelief aloud; it saturates her every word. But she hasn't seen what you have.

"I know it."

"You do not know that," she counters firmly.

"Yes, I do!" you snap, sitting up as if anger might help hold you together. "I saw how he was with her."

"What did you actually see?" she presses.

"Why? So you can explain why I’m overreacting? I'm not overreacting!"

Olivia sighs softly on the other end. "I'm trying to understand what happened," she says gently.

"Lily got hurt, and he looked terrified. He was just—he was so careful with her. And so angry with me because he thought I made it worse."

"And that means he’s in love with her?"

"Yes!" The word bursts out too quickly, too loudly. You pull your knees to your chest, trying to hold yourself together.

"Okay," she says. "But people look scared when someone gets hurt. That doesn’t mean they’re in love."

You let out a hollow laugh that breaks into a half-sob. "You don’t understand. It's not just that."

"Then help me understand," she says. "Because the last time I saw him, he was completely smitten with you."

"Well, you were wrong about that. Because it was never me." Your voice breaks on the last word. "I thought all those little moments meant something, but they really didn’t. I thought..." you swallow. "Never mind what I thought. He asks about her. He laughs with her. He likes her. "

You can hear Olivia shift her position, thinking her words through before she speaks again. "Did Jack ever tell you he has feelings for her?"

"...No."

"Did he tell you he doesn’t want you?"

"...No."

"Then why are you acting like this is a fact?"

"Because she’s everything I’m not," you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. "She’s calm, and kind, and easy to be around. She isn’t trouble, she isn’t messy—she doesn’t complicate everything."

"Honey—"

"And I do," you continue, your voice cracking more with each word. "I make everything harder."

"No, you don't—"

"God, I’m so embarrassed." Your breathing comes out in uneven bursts. "I was crawling into his bed every night, Liv. Every night. And he never even asked me to. I thought he wanted me there, but he was probably just too nice to tell me to stop."

"That is not what this sounds like," Olivia says.

Your voice sharpens. "Then what does it sound like?"

She sighs. "It sounds like you’re hurt and jumping to conclusions. People don't share that kind of space with someone they don't want."

You let out a scoff. "Of course you’d say that."

"Because I know you," Olivia says gently. "And because nothing you’re telling me proves that he doesn’t care about you."

Your eyes fill with tears again, your anger deflating. "He doesn’t care the way I care."

"You don't know that."

"Yes," you reply. "I do."

"Hey, listen to me," Olivia says, her voice growing firmer. "You’re scared, so you’re turning your worst fear into the truth."

Deep down, you know she might be right. But the other part—the louder part—keeps replaying Jack’s face and the panic in his eyes and the tenderness in his hands as he cradled Lily's face.

"I can’t do this," you whisper. "I can’t stay there and pretend I’m okay while he falls in love with someone else."

"Honey—"

Your lips quiver. "And the worst part is, I still want him to be happy, even if it’s not with me. I just don't know if I'm strong enough to pretend that I don't care."

Olivia shifts on the other end, but you continue before she can speak.

"Robby asked me to move to the day shift temporarily, but maybe I'll see if I can stay there permanently."

"He did what?" Olivia's voice sharpens instantly. "Are you serious?" She lets out an irritated breath. "Never mind. Let's hold off on any big decisions right now. You need some sleep, and then we can revisit this tomorrow, okay?"

You bit the inside of your cheek instead of answering. "I wish you were here," you whisper.

"Me too," Olivia replies. "But I’m just a phone call away. Everything will be alright, and I need you to promise me you won’t make any decisions today."

You let out a shaky breath. "I’m not sure."

"Promise me."

You squeeze your eyes shut, taking in a deep breath. "…Okay."

"Good," she says softly. "I promise it’ll be fine," she adds. "And I never break my promises. You know that. I still can’t look at pictures from my first year in college—pink hair really didn’t suit me."

You laugh, even though it’s a shaky sound. But it’s a laugh, nonetheless. "Yeah, yeah. I’ll talk to you soon." You sniffle, wiping your eyes. "Love you."

"Love you more," she says.

The call ends, and the room feels unbearably quiet. You curl tighter around yourself beneath the blankets, staring into the dark. No matter what Olivia says, you know what you saw. You know what it meant.

You're still not asleep when footsteps sound outside the door, but you don't rise from the bed. You won't disturb him anymore because Jack doesn't belong to you any more now than he did when this all started.

Jack walks through the front door nearly three hours later than he was supposed to. Day shift had been short a resident, and when the replacement called to say they were running late, Jack stayed behind to help. A thing he never should have said yes to, because half an hour in, they were slammed with multiple traumas.

And as he moved through them, fully present as he answered questions and guided residents, in the breaks in between, his mind was somewhere else entirely.

Home. With you.

Because the whole shift, one recurring thought had weighed heavily on his chest, a weight that made it harder to breathe: he had hurt you.

You'd assured him it was fine. Had looked him in the eye and said it was over, that it had just been the heat of the moment. But Jack knew better. He knew the difference between your real smile and the thin, careful one you’d given him outside the ambulance bay. He hated that he was the reason for it.

He'd replayed that scene over and over again; you throwing yourself at danger without any fear, how that patient had lunged at you, the violent rush of panic that shot through him when he realised just how close that first had come to your face, and the subsequent relief when you were okay.

A relief so sharp it had made him feel sick. Because the ugly truth was that for that split second, all he could think was: thank god it wasn’t you in that headlock. Lily had been hurt—she had bruises forming around her throat, was coughing and shaken, and needed care—and all Jack could feel was sheer, overwhelming relief that it wasn’t you.

The guilt of that still sat bitter in his stomach.

Then that fear—that sick, helpless fear—had spiralled into anger before he could rein it in. Anger was easier. Easier than admitting his hands had been trembling. Easier than saying: I thought I was about to watch you get hurt, and it would have shattered me.

So instead of telling you how proud he was—how fearless you had been, how quickly you had moved, how you had stepped in without hesitation to protect someone—he snapped at you. Scolded you in front of everyone. He had made you feel reckless. He had made you feel small. And worst of all, he had called you trouble.

The word still echoes in his mind as he drives home, hands tight on the wheel. He'd usually say it in a soft tone to tease you, but it was always fond, never cruel. But tonight, he had thrown it at you like an accusation.

And he hates that. Because you are trouble. But never in the way he’d made it sound. You were trouble because you had somehow made his world rearrange itself around you. Because his pulse spiked when you were close. Because his whole body knew the difference between you and everyone else. Because the idea of losing you hollowed him out.

That was what he’d meant. Not that you were a burden or difficult to deal with. Not that you were something to endure. But the moment the word left his mouth, all that tenderness had turned into something sharp enough to wound you.

Now all he could think about was getting home to you and making things right. He would apologise again. Hell, he’d even beg if that’s what it took. He’d sit on the edge of his bed and tell you exactly what he should’ve expressed in the hallway—that he’d been terrified, that none of it was your fault, that seeing you throw yourself into danger scared him to his core.

He’d tell you he was so sorry. He’d tell you he never intended to make you feel anything less than extraordinary.

But by the time he gets home, the house is dark and quiet. He glances automatically down the hallway. Your door is shut, not cracked open the way it usually is. Jack pauses for half a second, staring at it. Then he tells himself not to read into it. You could still be waiting for him like usual.

He makes a point of stepping down as he walks past your room, letting his feet hit the floor harder than necessary. He waits a second, ears straining, but he hears nothing. Not yet. So he heads to the shower, washing the hospital smell off as fast as he can. Afterwards, he climbs into bed and leaves the bedside lamp on. And then he waits.

Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. Jack glances at the clock. Still nothing. He tells himself you're probably coming soon. Twenty minutes slip by. He reaches for his phone, checks it, then sets it back down. Thirty minutes pass. For one reckless second, he thinks about going to your door—knocking softly, apologising half asleep if he has to. But the thought of waking you, of asking for comfort after being the one who hurt you, keeps him rooted where he is.

He stares at the doorway, the bedside lamp still casting warm light across the empty room, but the sheets beside him stay untouched. There's no soft knock at the door, no sleepy smile, no weight dipping the mattress beside him. Slowly, the awful reality settles over him. You’re not coming tonight.

He sits there for another few minutes anyway, staring at the doorway like he can will you to appear. Maybe you’re asleep already. Maybe you were too tired after the shift to wait for him.

No matter how much he tries to explain it, he just can't shake that awful feeling. And for the first time in weeks, Jack falls asleep alone. Or he tries to.

Jack wakes with an ache in his limbs that he hasn't felt in a long time. But he doesn't have to wonder why, not when he's spent most of the day thinking rather than sleeping. The few hours of broken sleep that he had got weren't enough to dull the pain.

He stares at the ceiling for another minute and then pushes himself upright. He can still fix this. So he dresses and slips out of the house quietly.

The flowers are impulsive. He sees them outside the grocery store—soft pink and white tulips wrapped in brown paper—and buys them without thinking about it too long. Because they feel like something, something that says I'm sorry better than words might.

He's never been good at words.

Then he grabs breakfast. Coffee for both of you. Pancakes and eggs—the kind of breakfast you love on lazy mornings.

He balances everything awkwardly as he lets himself back into the house, feeling insanely nervous. He tells himself not to be. It was just an argument. People have arguments all the time. He’s just apologising. And yet his pulse picks up when he walks down the hallway toward your room.

He knocks softly, waiting for you to answer before he pushes the door open with his shoulder. You're sitting up in bed, wrapped in the blankets, the room dim except for the afternoon light leaking through the slightly opened curtains.

You turn your head to look at him, and for a moment, relief eases the tightness in his chest—until he sees your face and how puffy your eyes look. A rush of guilt overtakes it so fast it almost hurts and makes the knot even tighter than it was before.

"Hey," he says quietly, watching you carefully.

You glance at the flowers, then at the food, and a small smile graces your lips, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. "Wow," you say. "What’s all this?"

Jack steps inside, carefully setting everything on the bedside table. "Peace offering," he tries to smile at you, but it falls flat.

"You didn’t have to do that," you say.

He shrugs, holding out the flowers to you instead of answering.

You take them after a brief hesitation. "They’re beautiful."

Jack lingers at the edge of your bed for a second before sitting down cautiously. "I’m really sorry about last night."

You shake your head immediately. "It’s okay."

The words hit him wrong immediately—too quick, too flat, like you're trying to smooth over something that still hurts.

"No," he says firmly. "It’s not. I was out of line."

You look down at the flowers in your lap. "Jack—"

"I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that."

You nod once, still avoiding his gaze. "Okay."

The word makes something twist painfully in his chest because that’s not like you. Usually, you’d argue with him. Tell him he was being a dick or tease him for spiralling. But now you’re just... accepting it.

For one brief second, he wonders if this is about more than last night—if something else is wrong—but guilt crushes the thought almost as soon as it appears. Of course, this is because of him. He did this.

He leans forward slightly, desperate for you to know, to see just how sorry he is. "I was scared," he admits.

That finally gets you to look up, but your expression remains unreadable. "I know."

"No, I mean it." His hands instinctively clasp together as he searches for the right words. He wants to hold yours instead, but he isn't sure you'd let him. "When that guy swung at you, I thought—" He exhales shakily. "I just lost it. That doesn’t excuse what I said, but I need you to know where it came from. Still, I’m really sorry."

You nod again. "I understand." Your voice is calm, and there's no anger or hurt on your face.

Jack studies you more intently now. "Did I make you cry?" he asks quietly. He already knows the answer to that. Can see it in your face. In how tears seem to bead at your waterline again. His hand twitches at his side, the urge to reach for you almost unbearable, but he stops himself.

Your shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly. "No."

"Sweetheart—"

Before he can say more, you reach for the book on the bedside table, settling back against the pillows. "It’s fine, Jack," you say with your eyes fixed on the book rather than on him. "Really." You lift the book slightly. "I need to study."

The sound of paper rustling fills the silence between you.

Jack sits there for a moment, staring at the side of your face. He swallows. "I don’t want this to sit between us."

You shrug slightly, still not looking at him. "It’s not."

But it is. He can feel it—how your body is angled away from him, how you avoid his gaze, how the food sits untouched beside you. He wants to keep pushing—to ask what’s wrong, to make you talk to him, to somehow force the warmth back into the room—but the tension in your shoulders tells him that pressing further would only make things worse.

So instead, he nods once. "Okay."

You don’t answer.

He stands slowly. "Eat before it gets cold."

"I will."

You still don't look up at him. Jack hesitates by the door. Waiting, maybe, for you to call him back. For you to soften. For something. But your gaze stays fixed on the book.

So he leaves, closing the door quietly behind him. It's only once he’s in the hallway that he lets out the breath he’s been holding. This feels worse than if you’d yelled at him, because at least anger would mean you were still letting him in.

But this carefulness, this distance—it’s unbearable, and he doesn't know how to fix it.

Later that evening, there's a warm and rich smell of garlic and spices drifting out from the kitchen, filling the house in a way that makes everything feel normal again.

Jack sits on the couch, watching you move around in the kitchen, the TV on low in the background. He'd offered his help, but you'd refused, pointing him towards the couch, telling him to relax before work. You'd pointed out that he was the one in scrubs and not you before he had a chance to argue otherwise. Even though you had rejected him, it had been said lightly with a shake of your head and a gentle 'I've got it', and it hadn't felt like you didn't want him there. The soft pat on his bicep had been the selling point that things might not be as bad as he thought earlier. Maybe you'd just needed a few hours alone for things to be good again.

He sinks deeper into the cushions, breathing out slowly as he listens to the familiar sounds of you in the kitchen—cabinets opening, a pan clinking against the stove, the low hum he doesn't think you even notice you make. It feels so normal that it almost makes him forget how tense everything had felt earlier.

You were okay now. You had to be. You’d even laughed at him. It was just a small thing he said—something he can’t even remember the exact words of now—but you'd laughed. That had to be good.

When you finally step back into the living room, it’s with two bowls in your hands. "Here," you say lightly, placing them on the coffee table.

Jack smiles. "Thank you."

You give him a quick, easy glance, and that simplicity settles him even more. It’s nothing like this morning—the book, the silence, the way you avoided meeting his eyes. This is good. This is you.

You disappear back into the kitchen before he can say anything else, and he watches you go for a moment longer than he means to.

You place a container on the kitchen island. "For later," you call out to him. "You’ll forget to eat otherwise."

"I don’t always forget," he retorts with a smirk.

"You do," you reply immediately, a slight smile tugging at your lips.

Jack grins more genuinely this time. "Okay, fair enough."

Leaning against the counter, arms loosely folded, you watch him now. There’s still something subtly different about you if he looks too closely—the way your smile fades the second he looks away, the way your arms stay folded like you’re holding something in. A softness that feels… a bit guarded. But it isn’t sharp. It isn’t pulling away. So he doesn’t question it, afraid to ruin it. Instead, he just nods toward the food. "You didn’t have to do all this."

"I know," you shrug, sliding onto the couch next to him. Your leg nearly brushes his. "Did you talk to Robby yesterday?"

"I did," he says, shovelling a bite into his mouth. "This is good," he points down at his bowl.

You don't answer that but shift in your seat instead, fixing him with a scrutinising gaze. "And?"

"And—nothing?"

"Nothing?"

"Yeah. Things were okay when I left," he says.

"Oh. Okay. Well... That's—that's good."

Your face falls slightly, but he isn't sure why. Maybe you were just reminded of yesterday again.

He hesitates, thumb tracing the edge of the bowl before he finally says, "Hey… about earlier—"

You cut in before he can finish. "It’s fine, Jack. Honestly." You're not dismissive, but you say it with a tone final enough to stop him from pushing.

You look at him, your voice softens, "You don’t need to keep apologising."

He studies your face longer than he should. You still look tired, a little too composed, but there’s no distance, nothing to suggest he should be concerned. So he nods. "Okay," he says quietly. "If you’re sure."

"I’m sure."

And when you smile at him after that—small but normal again—he lets himself believe it. Perhaps he had blown it out of proportion in his mind.

By the time he heads out the door, he lets himself believe the worst of it is over. That whatever had shifted this morning was already settling back into place.

"Hey brother," Robby claps his shoulder as he steps beside Jack at the hub as morning slowly seeps into the Pitt. "I’ve been meaning to catch you."

Jack glances up from the tablet in his hand. "That doesn’t sound promising."

Robby lets out a short breath, but there's clear tension behind it. "I wanted to tell you yesterday, but, you know—" His head tilts as he shrugs. "Yesterday kind of got away from us."

Jack nods as he sets the tablet down, giving him his full attention.

"Just hear me out before you—" Robby starts, hands lifted in the air.

But Jack’s attention catches on movement to his left—you in scrubs.

His entire body goes rigid. You were not supposed to be here until tonight. This ruins his plans to treat you to another breakfast—preferably eaten together this time.

Jack straightens slowly, his eyes fixed on you as he speaks to Robby. "Who called out?"

Robby follows his gaze and mutters, "Shit."

Jack turns back to him, his voice already edged. "Why is she here?"

Robby rubs the back of his neck. "Heather wanted to switch to nights."

Jack stares at him for one long second. "So you traded her."

"It’s temporary—"

"You switched her to days?" Jack cuts in, louder now. He feels like he's been dropped into an ice bath.

Robby glances around at the nurses and residents nearby who are pretending not to listen. "Keep your voice down."

Jack huffs, arms crossing tightly. "No, I don’t think I will. You moved her without even talking to me?"

"It was the easiest fix—"

"The easiest fix?" Jack steps closer, his voice dropping into something sharper. "Out of everyone on this floor, that was your solution?"

Robby lifts a hand. "Jack—"

"No." Jack’s jaw clenches. "Absolutely not. Put someone else on days."

Robby’s expression tightens. "I needed coverage."

"So take Ellis."

Robby shakes his head. "Ellis can't."

"Then Crus."

"Jack—"

"I said no." The words crack out of him hard enough that Dana's eyes flit over, eyebrows raising in shock. She's seen Jack angry before, but never like this.

Robby lowers his voice, trying to contain the situation. "I’m not doing this to piss you off."

"Then what the hell are you doing?" Jack snaps. "Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you decided to screw with the one thing in my life I didn’t ask you to touch."

Robby exhales slowly. "Heather needed nights. I needed someone for days. She made the most sense."

Jack’s laugh is bitter now. "She made sense?" He shakes his head. "You had half the damn residency list to choose from, and you picked her."

"Because she agreed," Robby lets slip, his own irritation flaring.

The words hit like a punch. Jack goes dead still. For a second, the anger leaves his face entirely, replaced by something else—something wounded. "...What?"

Robby hesitates, like he knows too late he’s said the wrong thing. "...She already said yes."

Jack stares at him. The rage comes back all at once, but now it’s different—less explosive, more uneven. "She agreed?" His voice drops low. "You asked her before you told me?"

Robby’s silence says enough.

Jack huffs again, a low and furious sound. "Unbelievable."

"Jack, listen—"

"No, you listen." Jack points at him. "You knew exactly what this would do, and you did it anyway."

"I didn’t think—"

"That’s the problem, Robby, isn’t it?" Jack bites out. "You didn’t think."

Jack can’t stop the thoughts slamming into him. You agreed. You said yes. Without telling him. Without warning him. Without even giving him the chance to ask why.

"I'm sorry, man. But it's only a couple of weeks."

Jack’s mouth twists. "A couple of weeks?" he repeats. "You think that makes this better?"

Jack looks away, dragging a hand over his mouth, trying and failing to get control of himself. Because suddenly all he can think is that maybe this was your way out. Maybe you were tired of the arrangement. Maybe you’d realised what this had started to mean to him and decided distance was easier than saying it.

"She’ll still be here," Robby says.

"That’s not the point." Because this means no more quiet drives home. No more slipping into bed beside you in the dark and pretending none of this was temporary. Just hallway conversations. Passing glances. And the worst part—the part clawing at him—is knowing you chose it.

Well, Robby had offered it, but you hadn't said no. His chest burns, each breath scorching on its way out.

"I thought you talked things out yesterday?" Robby asks carefully.

Jack looks back at him. "We did." That's what he thought, but maybe the argument had been the tipping point for you.

Robby studies him for a second too long, then sighs. "Then maybe this isn't what you think it is. Maybe she's just being nice."

Jack isn't sure. Would you really switch to days without telling him if it didn't mean what he thought it did?

"Take someone else," he tries again.

Robby’s expression softens, but he doesn’t budge. "I can't. She's already been scheduled on days."

He breathes out harshly. "Fine," he says flatly. But there is nothing fine about the way his hands are shaking. Nothing fine about the rage burning behind his ribs. Nothing fine about the fact that beneath all of it—all the anger, all the fury—what he really feels is hurt.

He turns and heads for the lockers before Robby can say another word.

You're purposefully slowing down your movements as you place your jacket and bag in your locker, hoping to delay your entry enough that Jack might have already left.

You're a good actress, have been for years, ever since your parents showed their first signs of disappointment in you. You'd learned how to smile through it, pretend it didn't hurt you while the ache worsened inside. It's a skill that proved incredibly useful in navigating interactions with Jack yesterday, trying to convince him that nothing was wrong.

He wasn't supposed to see your puffy face or be able to discern that you were hit harder by seeing him with Lily than you were supposed to—so you mustered all your strength in pretending to be fine. You cooked him dinner. You laughed with him.

But when he told you he was okay with you switching to days, that pretence had faltered for the briefest second. Because you thought or at least hoped that he might have put up a little bit of a fight, tried to convince you not to go, but instead, he had just accepted it.

It only served as reinforcement of your conclusion from yesterday. And during your next phone call with Olivia, she couldn't convince you of anything else.

Jack liked Lily. That was it.

You're not lucky enough to avoid him, though. You hear him before you see him, his familiar stride, quick and purposeful, sounding heavier before he stops in front of you. His eyebrows are drawn together, lips pressed into a tight line.

"When exactly were you planning to tell me?" he asks.

You pause mid-motion, your locker half-open, and turn to face him. "Tell you what?"

"That you switched shifts." The words come clipped, like he’s forcing them out evenly.

You stare at him, brows furrowing. "What?"

Jack's arms cross. "Did you not think I would find out? Or were you just waiting for me to figure it out on my own when I saw you walking in?"

"I don't understand what's going on," you say, watching him with narrowed eyes.

"No?" His jaw tightens. "Let me spell it out for you then. You agreed to switch your entire schedule, and somehow that wasn’t worth mentioning?"

Irritation spikes through you. "You told me yesterday you talked to Robby," you say sharply. "You said it was all good."

"What?"

"You said you talked. That everything was fine," you snap. "How was I supposed to know you meant everything except this?"

Realisation flashes on his face, but your anger is already mounting.

"Jesus, Jack, if you didn’t know, this makes us look suspicious as hell."

His brows knit together. "What are you talking about?"

"You know what I mean." Your voice drops but sharpens in edge. "If I’m switching shifts and my husband doesn’t know about it, what does that look like to others?"

Jack stares at you for a moment, then his voice lowers as well. "That’s what you think this is about?"

You cross your arms and give him a one-armed shrug. "Then what’s it really about?"

His voice rises before he can rein it in. "It’s about you making a decision that impacts both of us without even telling me."

The force of his words takes you by surprise. You expected relief, not this intensity.

"It’s just a temporary shift change."

"That’s not the point."

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Then what is the point?"

Jack steps closer, frustration spilling over despite his attempts at control. "The point is that you agreed to this without talking it over with me."

"I didn’t realise I needed your permission. Is this my attending talking to me right now?" Like it had been yesterday when he'd yelled at you about protocol.

He rubs his face with a rough hand and mutters, "I knew things weren't fine between us."

"They are, but you're being a dick again."

He places his hands on his hips, exhaling hard through his nose. "I don't understand why this isn't a big deal to you?"

It is. But it shouldn't be to him.

Because if he wanted Lily, then this should make things easier for him. Because you’re trying to give him room to have what he actually wants. But you can’t say any of that. You don't even understand why he feels this heated over it. He's probably just annoyed he didn't know. That this means that how he conducts the night will change.

You're interrupted as a nurse slips into the hallway, glancing furtively at the two of you. You step aside as she hurries to her locker, pushing her bag in and leaving just as fast. The interruption drains the heat from the moment, leaving only the things neither of you can say with someone else in earshot.

Your anger starts to fade into something quieter as you wait for the door to close again.

"It’s only for a few weeks," you murmur. "Night shift will survive."

Jack shakes his head immediately. "No, we won’t."

You give him a tired look. "You managed before I switched to nights."

"No," he insists, more firmly this time. Almost like he's trying to goad you back into arguing with him.

But your frustration has evaporated, and you just feel drained. "It’s temporary," you repeat, your voice calmer. "Heather wanted nights. I know day shift. It makes sense."

Jack stares at you as if your explanation only makes things worse. "Why wouldn’t you tell me?"

You shrug, trying to sound neutral. "I thought you knew." You hesitate for a second. "And... I didn’t think it mattered that much."

His expression shifts, as if your response hit him harder than you intended. You realise you’ve given him the wrong answer, but you have no idea what he wanted to hear.

"It’s only for a couple of weeks," you repeat, moving to step around him.

As you near the door, his voice halts you. "It matters to me."

Your chest tightens. For half a second, you almost turn back. For half a second, hope surges so suddenly it makes your chest ache. Maybe he doesn't want the distance. Maybe he meant—

No.

You shut the thought down before it can fully form. You can’t let yourself hear more—not when you know none of this means what you wish it did. Because this only matters in terms of the schedule and what he needs to do as your attending. Not because he's hurt that you're switching. Not because it means more like it does for you.

So, you keep your back turned to him. "You’ll be fine. Robby already sorted out the schedule. You don’t need to do anything."

He doesn't follow you when you step out.

Day shift welcomes you back like you'd never left. You fall back into the pace easily, picking up charts, checking orders, moving room to room without having to think too hard about where you need to be next. Still, there's a nagging pit in your stomach that won't fade.

Because every time there's a slight lull, a moment where your mind can wander, it circles back to Jack standing in front of your locker this morning. With a clenched jaw, eyes sharp, demanding to know why you hadn't told him.

Demanding like it mattered. Demanding like the decision hurt him.

You hadn't expected it. Not when he, the previous night, had seemed indifferent. That look on his face when you told him it didn't matter lingered in your mind, and if you dwell on it too long, it makes you second-guess everything.

So you don’t.

You focus on your tablet. On your patients. On the familiar pace of day shift. You do not think about Jack.

"So..." Princess appears beside you so suddenly that you nearly jump.

You glance up from the tablet in your hands. "So?"

She leans one hip against the counter, grinning in that way that means she’s about to pry into something that is absolutely none of her business. "Heard you and Abbot got into a fight yesterday."

Your stomach drops. Of course, she heard. Nothing happens quietly in the Pitt, and yesterday had been many things, but subtle was not one of them. Jack had snapped at you in front of half the department, and you’d snapped right back. It had been brief, but the tension afterwards had been impossible to miss. And given your relationship, people were more than curious to know what was going on. Even if they had seen you being 'fine' at the end of shift.

You force your face into a neutral expression and look back at your tablet. "It was nothing."

Princess makes a sceptical noise. "That's not what I heard. Also, you're here."

You tap through a chart, pretending to read. "We disagreed about protocol. Then we moved on."

"Really?" she asks, drawing the word out. "Because from what I've heard, it looked a lot less like 'professional disagreement' and a lot more like 'married couple about to throw hands.'"

You let out a dry breath through your nose. "Princess."

"What?" she says innocently. "People noticed."

You finally look at her. "There is nothing to notice. And I'm here because Heather wanted to switch to nights. It's only temporary."

She studies you for a second, clearly deciding whether to dig deeper. You know that look. Princess thrives on details, a thing you normally don't mind; you just don't like it when it's directed at you.

She leans in a little closer. "So you’re saying you and Abbot are fine?"

"Yes."

She sighs dramatically. "Wow. You are no fun."

"Sorry to disappoint," you murmur.

She tilts her head, still watching you carefully. "You sure you're okay?"

The question is lighter than the last few, but the impact is greater. Because the honest answer would be not really. The honest answer would be that your chest still feels tight from the look on Jack’s face this morning. The honest answer would be that you don’t know whether he was angry because you apparently blindsided him, or because putting distance between you hurt him.

And that second possibility is a treacherous path to wander down.

So you give her the easiest answer. "I’m fine."

Princess squints at you like she doesn’t believe it for a second. With visible reluctance, she decides to let it go. "If you say so."

She glances around before leaning in again, brightening instantly. "Oh! Did you hear about Smith?"

"What about Smith?"

Princess grins, leaning in to murmur. "Robby put her on probation."

Your eyebrows lift. "For what?"

"Apparently, she tried to kiss him in the supply closet."

You stare at her. "What?"

Princess nods, delighted by your reaction. "That’s what I heard."

You let out a startled laugh. "No way."

"I swear."

"Smith tried to kiss Robby?"

Princess shrugs. "Guess she has terrible judgment."

You shake your head, still half laughing in disbelief. "That cannot be true."

"I mean, I didn’t see it happen," Princess says, "but the rumour is she cornered him, and he reported her."

"That's insane."

Princess laughs. "I know."

"Ladies." Robby steps up to the hub, stethoscope in his hands, sliding in beside you like he hasn’t just walked into the middle of a gossip session. "Working hard or hardly working?"

Princess straightens, smiling brightly. "Working hard. Obviously"

Robby raises an eyebrow, but doesn't chastise you. "Is that so?"

"Absolutely," she replies before backing away.

Robby shakes his head, pulling up the nearest computer to log in. For a second, neither of you says anything. You focus on your tablet. He pretends to focus on the screen. Then—

"So..."

You don’t look up. "No."

Robby glances over. "I haven’t even asked anything yet."

"You’re going to."

He huffs a laugh under his breath. "Probably."

You tap through another chart. "Then no."

He still shifts slightly in his chair, giving you his full attention anyway. "Did something happen between you two?"

You keep your eyes glued to the screen. "Me and Princess?" you reply lightly. "No, we're all good."

Robby gives you a look. "You know that’s not what I mean."

You shrug one shoulder. "Then I don’t have anything to tell you."

He studies you for a moment, then lets out a quiet sigh. "I know you two fought yesterday."

You let out a short breath. "We disagreed."

He rubs his beard, looking apologetic. "I didn't know when I asked you."

You shrug again. "Doesn't matter. I would have said yes, anyway."

Robby’s gaze stays on you; he hums unconvinced. "Mm."

You look back down at the tablet.

Robby is quiet for a second, then says in a gentler tone, "Whatever’s going on, it’s getting to him."

The words make your throat tighten. Because that isn't what you need to hear. Because it makes it harder to believe letting go is the right thing. But Robby doesn't know what you know.

You keep your expression blank. "It's just temporary."

Robby’s voice softens further. "Is it?"

That question almost cracks something open. For one dangerous second, you feel the sting behind your eyes. But before you can answer, Victoria appears at the counter, a tablet in her hand and an eager smile on her face. "Hey, can I present my case to one of you?"

You look up, grateful for the interruption. "Sure," you say, already stepping away.

Robby watches you go, and you can feel it. But you don’t turn around. If you do, he might offer some words of kindness, and right now, that would sting worse than judgment.

You know where you stand. You don’t need to hear it from Robby, too.

You follow Victoria toward the room, forcing your mind back to medicine, to facts, to anything that makes sense, away from Jack. You make it through the presentation on autopilot, nodding in the right places, asking the right questions, checking Victoria's conclusions.

The second it's over, you slip into the nearest supply closet. Try to breathe normally and fail. Your hands shake. You press them against the shelves. Try to still them like you do in a trauma.

It doesn't work.

Your breath catches hard enough to hurt, one hand flying to your mouth to smother the sound when the first sob breaks free. You allow it for a second, and then you wipe your face fast. Brushing away the tears and fixing yourself. Then you re-enter the E.D.

"Hey, you good?" Perlah asks as she passes you, concern glinting in her eyes.

"Yeah," you say, forcing a smile. "Just tired."

It's true, so you're not exactly lying to her.

Perlah hesitates like she might say more, but then she nods and keeps walking. You exhale slowly, forcing your hands to stay uncurled at your sides and straighten your shoulders again. Tucking the hurt somewhere deep enough to ignore as you grab a tablet, heading for your next patient.

It's a quarter to nine when Parker walks over to the hub after getting caught in back-to-back examinations. "Where's Trouble?" she asks, scanning the space with a frown. She hasn't seen you since you tossed her a protein bar after rounds. "Is she in triage?"

Lena looks up, pushing her glasses to the top of her head. "Didn't you hear?"

Parker pauses, squinting at her. "Hear what?"

"She switched to days."

Parker blinks in disbelief. "What? She wouldn't do that."

Lena shrugs, then her gaze finds Collins in the middle of a trauma. She nods in her direction, "Collins wanted nights before she leaves."

Parker stares blankly at Lena, connecting the dots, then her gaze snaps towards Abbot. Suddenly, his pissed-off expression makes sense. She’d thought his mood was fallout from yesterday—from the argument, from Lily getting hurt on his watch—but this was worse. She still remembers how he acted when you were sick—this could only be worse. "Oh shit."

"Abbot?" Shen strolls over, coffee in hand, following her line of sight and grimace.

She nods resignedly.

"Ah, yeah," Shen sighs, taking another sip. "It's gonna be a rough couple of weeks."

"Weeks?" Parker shakes her head. "We're doomed."

The three of them watch Abbot for a second—the clenched jaw, the ramrod posture, the way he taps relentlessly at the tablet like it offended him.

"Yeah," Shen comments dryly, "looks like the honeymoon phase is over."

Parker groans, resting her forehead on her arms. "Great."

"If by great, you mean excruciating," Lena chimes in, then ducks her head down as the man in question walks over.

"If you’re done chit-chatting, there are patients waiting. Or have we forgotten why we’re here?" Abbot asks, voice flat.

"No," Parker murmurs.

"Then what are you waiting for?" He doesn't even stop to see if she moves, just walks away, tablet clutched tightly in his hands.

Parker closes her eyes for a brief moment. "Jesus."

Shen raises his brows. "We might not make it through this."

"Whoever gets Trouble back gets out of the next ortho consult with the shark," Parker proposes, looking over at Shen.

"You're on."

Parker doesn't care who wins as the shift drags on—she just hopes one of them is able to succeed because this is hell. Every interaction with Abbot is terse, every question he asks tinged with annoyance. He catches mistakes before they occur and looks furious for having to correct them. He moves through the Pitt like a tempest—cold, sharp and impossible to ignore.

And the worst part of it is that he's exceptionally good. Hyper-focused to the point that he misses nothing. Charts get corrected, incomplete labs still ordered on time, and the resident who hesitated for a second too long gets reprimanded for endangering a patient. Everything gets caught, and each correction comes with that same biting edge.

By eleven o’clock, the tension in the night team is palpable. Parker watches Abbot from the corner of her eye as she charts. She only turns her head enough to murmur to Lena, careful not to catch his attention again. "Is he really this upset just because she switched shifts?"

Lena glances up briefly, weighing whether to share what she heard from Dana. "No."

Parker frowns. "Then what is it?"

Lena sighs. "He’s upset because she didn’t tell him."

Parker winces. "Oh."

Across the room, Abbot mutters under his breath as he yanks off a pair of gloves with excessive force. Parker studies him for a moment longer, then quietly mutters, "Why in the world did she agree to switch?"

Lena shrugs.

Whatever happened between the two of you is written all over Abbot—in the clipped orders, the rigid posture, the way every word cuts.

Whatever it is, it’s bleeding into everything, and Parker doesn't think she can survive weeks of it.

Robby catches Jack on the rooftop after a trauma-heavy night. He leans on the railing, watching Jack's back, who hasn't looked back even though he'd clearly heard him enter. He tries humour first, "Rumour has it you've been terrorising the night shift."

Jack doesn't answer.

Robby continues when that doesn't work, "I know this is about her switching shifts." He breathes out slowly. "I'm sorry, man. I didn't know it would hit this hard."

Jack huffs under his breath, sharp and bitter. He still doesn't answer him

Robby softens slightly. "Talk to me. Yell at me. Whatever might make this better."

"There’s nothing to say," Jack finally says.

"Bullshit."

Jack lets out a long breath. Robby waits.

Finally, Jack says, "She’s pulling away. She figured it out."

Robby frowns. "Figured what out?"

Jack laughs, a hollow sound. "That I’m in love with her."

The words sit there between them longer than either of them moves. It's the first time he's heard Jack say it aloud. State it plainly. Robby blinks, then he lets out a quiet, disbelieving breath.

And because the situation is awful (partly his doing, or so he's been told multiple times by Olivia) and because Jack looks like hell and because Robby genuinely cannot believe what he’s hearing, he says, "You think that’s what this is?"

Jack turns to him sharply. "What else would it be?"

Robby stares at him for a second. Because from where he’s standing, Jack has somehow taken a bad week and built an entire tragedy in his head. "She switched shifts after a fight," Robby says carefully.

Jack shakes his head immediately. "No."

Robby raises an eyebrow. "No?"

Jack laughs bitterly. "She was fine after the fight."

Robby doesn’t buy that, but he lets it go. Bites back a comment and watches as Jack drags a hand through his hair.

"She started pulling away after that. She barely talks to me. She won’t look at me. She changed shifts." His voice roughens. "She knows."

Robby folds his arms. "And your evidence is... what?"

Jack stares at him like the answer is obvious. "All of it."

Robby lets out a breath through his nose. "Jesus Christ."

Jack’s jaw tightens. "Robby." He says it like a warning.

"No, I’m serious." Robby shakes his head. "You think she found out you have feelings for her and decided to rearrange her life to avoid you?"

Jack looks away again. "Yes."

Robby stares at him, huffing a disbelieving laugh. "You are unbelievable."

Jack laughs once, a humourless sound. "Glad you find this entertaining."

"I don’t," Robby says sharply. "I find it insane. I see a sleep-deprived idiot making assumptions instead of having one honest conversation."

Jack doesn't answer him, just crosses his arms.

Robby rubs a hand over his mouth, clearly seeing that Jack isn't hearing what he's saying. "Okay," he says carefully. "Let’s say you’re right. Then ask her."

Jack’s answer is immediate. "No."

Robby blinks. "No?"

Jack shakes his head once. "No."

Robby stares. "If you think that’s what’s happening, why the hell would you not ask her?"

Jack’s voice drops quieter. "Because if I’m right, saying it out loud makes it real."

Robby studies him for a second. "And if you’re wrong?"

Jack laughs bitterly. "I’m not."

Robby tilts his head. "You don’t know that." He leans against the railing when Jack doesn't answer. "For what it’s worth, I think you’re dead wrong."

Jack gives a tired shake of his head. "You don’t know that."

"No," Robby says. "But I know what she looks like when she sees you."

Jack glances over.

Robby shrugs. "And I know what you look like right now."

Jack looks away again.

Robby presses on. "If you won’t talk to her because you’re afraid she’ll confirm this," he gestures between them, "then this spiral is on you."

Jack's shoulders tense. "...I can’t."

Robby exhales. "Then at least stop punishing everyone else." Robby claps a hand on his shoulder. "You don’t have to confess. But for the love of God, just talk to her."

Jack stares out at the city again. "Maybe."

Robby heads for the stairwell after a moment, then glances back once. Jack hasn’t moved. Still staring into the city like the answer might be written there—and refusing to look anywhere else.

Jack knows he's spiralling, but he can't understand how one argument has created this much distance between you. Every thought feeds the next one. Every unanswered question breeds ten worse possibilities. He tells himself he’s being irrational, that there’s an explanation, that if he could just hold on for another day, everything would make sense again—but the hours keep passing, and nothing makes sense.

He thought you were fine. That you just needed a little bit of space—he didn't realise you needed so much that you would switch to day shift. And it's not like he can even ask you because he only sees you at shift change. Only gets a brief moment of respite during his day, where he gets to spend time with you. But it's never alone.

You don't linger at the lockers. You don't have time for a quick break with him, always stating that patients are waiting. So all he has are the few moments, where he gets to feel your arms around his midriff when you greet him, and the few minutes he's breathing the same air as you as you do rounds.

And then he's alone again. He drives home alone. He eats alone. He sleeps alone.

Well, he tries to. The nightmares have come roaring back—violent and vivid and relentless. Every time he closes his eyes, something drags him under. He wakes sweating, heart pounding, gasping into the dark, reaching instinctively toward the other side of the bed only to find cold sheets. He’s lucky if he gets three hours. Most days it’s less.

And with the sleep deprivation comes the rest of it—the buzzing under his skin, the restlessness, the inability to sit still. The police scanner seems to be calling his name louder and louder with each passing day. Like it’s reminding him that there are easier things to deal with than this. Gunshots. Car wrecks. Overdoses. Those things make sense. Those things are simple: someone is hurt, and he knows what to do.

Because this creeping, gnawing fear that he is losing you and doesn’t know why—he has no idea what to do with that.

So his mind fills in the blanks. At first, it’s small. Maybe you’d just been kind when you agreed. Maybe you'd just been tired every time he'd caught your eye, and your smile didn't seem genuine. Maybe you just needed a little more space before things go back to normal. Maybe he's just overreacting, and you're fine.

But then the thoughts get darker. Maybe you’d realised he was too much. Maybe you’d seen how badly he’d fallen, and it scared you. Maybe all this distance was your way of telling him to let go.

Maybe that’s what this is. Maybe all of this distance—all the clipped words, the changed shifts, the careful professionalism—is because you finally realised what he’s been trying so desperately to hide. What he'd only just recently stopped doing because he thought you might like him back.

Because he does like you. God, he likes you so much it makes him feel sick. He likes the way you nudge his shoulder when you pass him in the hallway. He likes the way you steal fries off his plate. He likes the way your voice softens when you’re tired. He likes the way your face lights up when you laugh. He likes the way you know how to steady him when the world gets too loud. He likes the way being near you makes the noise in his head quiet down.

And maybe that’s the problem.

Maybe you saw it in the way he watches you. Maybe you felt it in the way he holds onto hugs half a second too long. Maybe you noticed the way he finds excuses to be near you.

And maybe you didn’t like it.

Maybe you’ve been pulling away because the truth makes you uncomfortable. Because whatever arrangement the two of you created, it wasn’t supposed to become this. It wasn’t supposed to become feelings. And maybe now that you know, you’re trying to put the walls back up. Easing him out of your life without having to actually say it.

And the thought destroys him. Because if that’s true, then every day that passes is another day you’re proving to yourself that you don’t need him. Another day of learning how easy it is to breathe without him there.

A whole week passes in a blur, and that almost makes it worse—how fast time moves when he wants it to stop. Every shift ends before he can gather the nerve to ask what’s wrong. Every night comes before he’s slept enough to think clearly.

And all the while the clock is ticking. He can't help but be scared, even if he knows you're coming back to the night shift soon. But he also knows that means you'll be an attending, and with that, the arrangement you'd created also soon comes to an end. The strange little life the two of you built—the blurred lines, the late-night conversations, the stolen moments, the comfort of pretending this was more than it was—ends.

You becoming an attending means he'll stop being your husband and go back to just being a coworker. He stops being whatever he has been to you. Stops being the person you come home to. Stops being the one you curl up beside after a brutal shift. Stops being the person who hands you coffee when your eyes are half-closed after waking. Stops being the one who feels you tuck cold feet against his legs in bed.

You becoming an attending means you'll move out again.

Maybe the move to day shift wasn’t just about work. Maybe it was the beginning of goodbye.

Still, he dissects every word, every glance, every pause. Trying to find proof. Trying to find hope. He keeps smiling when he sees you. Keeps pretending he’s fine. Keeps taking those few scraps of closeness like they’re enough. Because if he asks and the answer is yes—if you tell him outright that you’ve been distancing yourself because of his feelings—then the fragile hope keeping him upright shatters.

As long as no one says it aloud, he can pretend. Pretend the shift change is temporary. Pretend the distance isn’t deliberate. Pretend you aren’t already halfway gone.

Pretend that this doesn't have to end.

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