Summary: After an unfortunate mixup of pain medication and your friend's party substances at Pitt Fest, you're rushed to the Pitt and placed in the care of Jack Abbot. As he oversees your care, you get a little too touchy, and a little too honest.
Word Count: 6.6k
Content: accidental drug use (MDMA), mention of alcohol consumption, age gap (reader is mid 20s), fluff, comfort, a hint of smut (18+ MDNI) - literally like two seconds of thigh riding, mention of ovulation
A/N: listen… I’ve never done MDMA. I did a lot of research, but I had to fudge some stuff for plot. don’t do drugs kids
Pitt Fest was not your idea. When your friend Beth offered you her spare ticket, you waffled at first. You're not really a crowds person, or a partying person. Beth was always the partier in college. But you do like live music, and she pointed out that your top Spotify artist from last year is in the concert lineup.
So you’d caved.
That decision is coming back to bite you in the ass, and bite hard.
It’s hot as balls outside. You’re covered in sweat, which mingles in a sticky and unpleasant mix with the sunscreen you’ve been dutifully applying since the afternoon to avoid frying like an egg. When the sun finally set, you no longer had to worry about the burgeoning threat of skin cancer, but the heat doesn’t break. In fact, it almost seems to get worse, because more and more people arrive to crowd you as night descends and the bigger names with larger fanbases grace the stage.
You’re waiting for Beth outside of the bathroom facilities. She's been ingesting a steady stream of margaritas since sundown, so she leaves you holding the bag, literally. At least it's a nice excuse to separate yourself from the throng of jumping, sweaty bodies gathered by the stage.
It’s nearly two in the morning. You’re hungry. Your feet are killing you. You have a headache from the festival’s sugary cocktails. You’re sweating through the top Beth lent you. And on top of everything else, your ovulation cramps are kicking in like a motherfucker.
Growing desperate, you dig through Beth's bag, searching for the little Altoid tin that she always keeps her pain meds in. At long last, your hands make contact with the metal tin at the bottom of her tote. Nearly crying with relief, you pop an aspirin in your mouth and wash it down with the tepid bottled water you’ve been clutching for the last hour.
Beth's voice rings out from behind you, talking over the din of the nearby DJ set. “What are you doing?”
You turn towards her, and see Beth staring at the tin in your hand. “I have cramps,” you explain, and just as you’re about to shove the tin back in her bag and hand it to her, she grabs your wrist.
“…please tell me you didn’t just take one of those,” she says urgently.
You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because those are not aspirin, babe.”
Your blood runs cold. Your brain quickly does the math — Beth had told you how much she’s looking forward to meeting up with her rave friends tomorrow for the second night of Pitt Fest. Beth has always been quite the partier. And she often partied with her good friend Molly.
Your eyes widen in horror. “Oh no.”
Pitt Fest, as always, is a huge pain in the ass for the night shift.
Handoff gets messy. There's a shit ton of substance cases, even more of heatstroke. Robby stays longer than he should and snaps at everyone, clearly in his feelings remembering last year’s Pitt Fest. Understandable, yes, but it also makes everyone’s life that much harder when they’re within sniping distance of him.
Needless to say, Jack is already over this shift, and it’s not even halfway done. It doesn't help that his favorite resident happens to have the night off, which deposits his mood firmly in the hospital basement. Which, coincidentally, happens to be the location of the morgue.
Now that Robby has been politely ordered to go the fuck home, Jack feels like he can finally focus on his job instead of doing damage control with the med students. As he walks down the hall, Lena catches his attention from the hub desk.
“We have an ambulance two minutes out with a mid-20s female, collapsed at Pitt Fest,” she informs him. “Probable dehydration, likely drug-related, because, well… Pitt Fest.”
This festival truly is the gift that keeps on giving. Jack cracks his knuckles and eyes the ambulance bay doors. “All right. Let's get ready to receive the party girl.”
A few minutes later, the gurney is wheeled in by two paramedics and received by Lena and Parker. Parker shoots an alarmed and confused look over her shoulder at Jack, who steps forward to supervise.
“Dr. Abbot!"
Of all the things Jack expected to see tonight, this is at the bottom of the list. You're strapped to the gurney, scantily clad and gleaming with sweat, a goofy smile on your face and your pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow your irises.
Jack scrubs a hand through his hair. “You're shitting me.”
This is quite the surprising turn of events.
After Lena sets you up in South 16, Jack discreetly shoos away Parker so he can handle your examination himself. He doubts you would be comfortable with one of your fellow residents seeing you like this, considering your condition and your current state of dress.
Jack closes the door behind him and saunters over to you. His eyes snag on your tight, strappy top, and the strategically placed cutouts baring sections of your midriff and chest. He’s holding onto his professionalism by a thread, especially with the way you’re shifting around on the exam table, causing the hem of your miniskirt to ride up.
He has no choice but to focus up. You need medical attention, not the kind of attention his brain and body really want to give you right now. First, Lena takes your temperature and shows him the number on the display. 100.2 degrees F. It's coming down from what the paramedics recorded in the ambulance, and not so high that he’s still worried about heat stroke. But you’ll need cooling down regardless.
“That’s quite the outfit you got on,” he mutters as he gently raises your chin and shines his penlight into your pupils.
“Do you like it?” you ask, beaming up at him even as you squint. “I borrowed it from my friend. She’s so nice.”
Your pupils are so dilated that your eyes are almost completely black.
“Yup.” Jack clicks off the light and sighs, turning to Lena. “She’s rolling, all right. Let’s get a tox to make sure there’s nothing else to be worried about.”
You don’t seem to even register the pain of the needle prick, but you let out a delighted little hum when Lena smooths a bandage over your arm and adds gentle pressure over top of it.
“That feels good,” you murmur with a lazy smile.
“I bet.” Jack crosses his arms and tries to give you a stern look. “Can I ask what my best resident is doing taking ecstasy at a music festival?”
“I didn’t take it on purpose, I swear,” you protest, your eyes widening in a brief panic. “It was my friend’s. I thought it was aspirin, for my cramps.”
“You’re menstruating?” he asks, picking up his tablet and sitting in the edge of the exam table next to you to amend your chart.
You shake your head and say matter-of-factly, “Ovulation cramps.”
His eyebrows shoot up towards the ceiling in surprise.
You continue babbling, unaware of the grenade you just lobbed at Jack. “She tried to get me to throw it up, but I couldn’t because I don’t really have a gag reflex.”
Jack takes a deep breath to prevent his brain from completely short-circuiting.
Your face breaks into a sheepish smile, and you giggle, “Oops. Sorry, that was probably too much information.” Leaning forward on the exam table, you bring your face inches away from his and observe with a sigh, “Your eyes are really pretty.”
From behind him, Jack hears Lena snickering under her breath. He clears his throat and straightens up to standing.
Avoiding Lena's eyes, he instructs her, “Let’s, uh, get her some fluids and cooling packs, huh? Maybe a Saf-T-Pop, too. Keep her mouth occupied, so she won’t say any more nonsense she’ll regret in the morning.”
Lena just shoots him an amused look and heads off to gather supplies. Nurses, he thinks ruefully to himself. They see everything.
Movement and sound draw his attention back to you. You're laid back on the exam table, eyes fluttering closed. And you’re running your hands through your hair, letting out a pleased little noise like the sensation is better than sex.
Jack breathes carefully through his nose. He needs out of this room with you, before this becomes mortifying for everyone involved. His phone buzzes in his pocket, giving him the perfect excuse for escape.
His voice is thin when he speaks, and for a moment, he’s glad you’re too high to notice. “You sit tight, sunshine.”
As he turns to leave the room, your hand catches the edge of his scrubs.
“You’re leaving?” your mouth turns down into a pout, those huge eyes shining up at him. He very nearly gives in, very nearly reaches out a hand to stroke a thumb across your cheek just to hear the kind of sound it would pull from you. But his phone buzzes insistently, so he briefly pats your knee instead.
“I have other patients to see. But I'll be back before you know it,” he assures you, pulling open the door and diving headfirst back into the glorious chaos.
At least it’ll be a convenient distraction from the thought of you, eagerly waiting in south fifteen for him to return.
He shakes his head in disbelief. Ovulation cramps. You’re gonna be the death of him.
An MVA, a ketamine overdose, and a cardiac event later, the Pitt finally slows down enough for Jack to breathe. Enough to check your tox screen and sigh with relief that the MDMA you mistakenly took wasn’t cut with anything. Alcohol is the only other thing in your system, in levels not high enough to be concerning. Although, combined with the ecstasy, it means you probably won’t remember much of this exciting little escapade.
At long last, he manages to find some time to check on you.
In his absence, Lena had set you up with a gown to preserve a little more of your modesty. You’re laying on the exam table amongst the cooling packs, an IV attached to your arm and a Saf-T-Pop in your mouth that’s turning your tongue red.
A smile breaks like sunrise over your face as soon as you see him.
“Hey there, sunshine,” he greets you, approaching you with a little more warmth now that Lena's sharp eyes aren’t here to observe.
“Hi. I missed you,” you sigh.
Jack smirks. “Did you now?”
You nod happily. “Mm-hmm.”
“How are you feeling?” he asks, his gaze attentive, checking you over.
“Cold,” you answer, wrapping your arms around yourself.
He reaches up a hand to feel your forehead. Still warm, but still steadily coming down over time. He’s satisfied enough with your progress. You'll be out of here in no time.
The prospect disappoints him just a little.
“Yeah, your body is having trouble regulating its temperature,” he explains, his thumb stroking delicately along your hairline. “We’ll need to keep these cool packs on you a little while longer.”
Just as his hand retreats, your hand catches his wrist. You press his palm to your cheek, almost nuzzling into it like an affectionate kitten.
“Your hands are so warm,” you murmur, eyelids slipping shut as you revel in the sensation.
The gesture catches him off guard, but he doesn’t pull away. He couldn’t even if he wanted to, and he certainly doesn’t want to.
“Easy there, gorgeous,” he chuckles softly. “I need that hand for doctoring.”
Your eyelids flutter halfway open, and you look up at him with a lazy grin, clearly pleased as punch. “You think I'm gorgeous?”
Jack freezes for a moment. The word had slipped out without him even registering it, familiar and endeared and entirely too revealing.
“I plead the fifth,” he replies, warmth creeping up his neck.
You giggle again. God, that sound does things to his heart that are medically concerning.
“I think you’re gorgeous,” you mumble dreamily.
Jack blinks in surprise.
He’s been a little too fond of you for a while now, been staring a little too long when you brush past him in the halls. And he’s suspected before that it might not be completely one-sided. He sees how you receive his attention and praise differently than the other attendings, how you look at him with more than just the admiration of a mentor. But suspecting it and having it be confirmed are two different things. Especially since you wouldn’t be saying any of this if you were sober.
He tries to laugh it off before his ego can run away with the compliment. “I think you’re high.”
You shrug. “Maybe. But I always think you’re gorgeous.”
Removing his palm from your cheek, you examine it with fascination, running a finger along the deep set lines. “I think about these,” you say thoughtfully. “All the time.”
Jack is a little ashamed at how quickly that comment goes straight to his cock. His favorite resident, fantasizing about his hands, maybe even touching yourself to the thought of them, wishing your own fingers were his—
He drags his free hand over his face and mutters, "Jesus Christ."
“Can I tell you a secret?” You peer up at him again, that goofy, starstruck smile returning. “I’ve got, like, the biggest crush on you.”
Unfortunately for Jack, there is very little time to process this very interesting information before his phone buzzes again. Just beyond the doors, he can hear the familiar sound of what is likely a high-priority trauma heading into the bay. Voices overlapping in urgent tones, gurney wheels on tile floor, grunts and yelps of pain from a patient.
Jack crosses to the door in two steps, and speaks over his shoulder to you. “Hey, baby, I gotta handle something. Stay out of trouble, okay?”
As the door swings shut behind him, he just manages to catch the sound of you happily mumbling to yourself, “He called me baby.”
Which is how he heads into Trauma 1 with a smile on his face, entirely too cheerful for a man facing down a compound femur fracture.
The shift that would never fucking end is almost fucking over. And all Jack can think about is you. You and your moony, lovey-dovey eyes and your wide, childlike smile. You gazing up at him and crooning I have the biggest crush on you. You giggling and telling him point-blank that you’re ovulating.
As he rolls out of yet another demanding trauma, Lena updates him on your condition. You’re rehydrated and back to a normal temperature, pretty much ready for discharge if you can be released to someone who will take care of you. He returns to your room, finding you unhooked from your IV and cold-pack-free, happily set up with another lollipop.
“Jack, you’re back!” you exclaim, and then laugh at your accidental rhyme.
Still rolling, he thinks. He checks his watch. According to your best guess of when you took the ‘aspirin’ in your friend’s purse, it’s been about four hours. You'll be due to start coming down anytime in the next two hours or so. He's due to head out, but he can’t bring himself to go home until he knows you’re leaving in capable hands.
“Hey, sunshine.” He offers you a tired but warm smile. “Seems like you’re in pretty good shape here, and you should be tapering off pretty soon. You got anybody to take you home, keep an eye on you?”
A little crease forms between your brows as you think hard. “I don’t know where my friend went when the ambulance came. And I think my phone died,” you add pathetically, gesturing to the device in your lap and its terminally black screen.
Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. He can’t in good conscience leave you to your own devices, especially when you’ve never taken ecstasy before. At worst, there’s still a chance you could have some kind of reaction. At best, the comedown is sure to knock you on your ass.
He can only think of one thing to do. It's not the best idea. It might not even be a good idea. But his brain is too addled from the long shift to come up with anything better. And you need someone to take care of you.
“Jesus. Okay,” he mutters to himself, then sits on the edge of the exam table, bringing his face level to yours. “Listen up, sunshine.”
You gaze at him intently, attention vacillating occasionally between his eyes and his mouth. Jack has a feeling that what he’s about to say will go in one ear and right out the other. But there’s a chance you’ll retain it, so he says it anyway.
“You're gonna have a pretty serious crash when you come down. All those happy little chemicals that are making you feel good right now?” He gives you a soft little tap against your temple, and you giggle softly. He continues, “They’re gonna go on vacation for a day or two. I don't want you dealing with that on your own. So I'm gonna take you to my place, just to watch out for you until you’re feeling a little more like yourself.”
You’re quiet for a minute, your brain catching up and computing the meaning of what he just said. When it finishes, the lightbulb goes off behind your eyes, and you ask excitedly, “We’re having a sleepover?”
Of course that would be your takeaway.
He chuckles as he helps you to your feet. “That's right. You got it.”
When Jack drapes his hoodie over your shoulders and guides you out of the Pitt to his car, he’s reminded of all the reasons that this is probably a terrible idea.
He sees the watchful eyes and the knowing smirks of the nurses. He sees Parker and Crus snickering behind their hands. He sees Shen counting up his winnings from the betting pool, because he wrote down molly and tripsitter Abbot.
And he feels your hand clinging to his bicep, sees how you gaze up at him with a dreamy expression as he walks you out to his car. He’s knows he’s really going to need to behave himself for a few hours, because there’s a very good chance that you won’t, and Jack doesn’t want to accidentally take advantage of your… impaired judgement.
You spend most of the ride with your face by the cracked car window, feeling the wind on your face, eyes blissfully closed. Jack thanks his lucky stars that he thought to give the apartment a once-over before shift, so he isn’t bringing you into a total mess.
He walks you into his bedroom and gestures to the en-suite. “Bathroom’s there, if you want to take a shower. I'll find you something a little more… comfortable to wear,” he adds, peeling his eyes away from your tiny little shirt and how you’re already fussing with the straps.
As he turns to his bureau to find you a t-shirt, he feels arms wrapping around his middle, your body molding to his back as you embrace him with a sigh. “Thank you for being so nice to me.”
Jack swallows and delicately removes your hands, stepping out of your embrace and ushering you in the direction of the bathroom.
“Go on, then,” he instructs you. “While you’re still upright.”
You barely even register it as rejection, heading towards the shower and wiggling out of your top before Jack even has the chance to close the door behind you. Which he does, quickly and with his eyes glued to the floor.
His instincts were right. He will very much need to behave himself while you’re here.
He busies himself while you shower by changing out of his scrubs and assembling a meal. It's a humble offering — just a couple of sandwiches and frozen french fries heated up in the oven, but it’s better than nothing.
After about twenty minutes, you emerge from the bedroom with damp hair and your face scrubbed clean, clad in one of his t-shirts and a pair of his boxers, smelling like his soap. You lean on his kitchen island with a contented little sigh.
Jack repeats it to himself like a mantra — behave yourself.
“Time to eat something,” he says, sliding one of the plates toward you.
“I’m not hungry.”
“I know. But I'm trying to set you up for success here, so you don’t feel as awful when this is out of your system. When's the last time you ate?” he asks.
You rest your chin on your hand as you think back. “I had… lunch.”
“Thought so.” He puts the plate into your hands and steers you in the direction of the couch with a hand on your lower back. “You and I are gonna eat these sandwiches, drink some water, and watch Planet Earth.”
You gasp in delight and plop down onto the couch. “I love Planet Earth!”
He knows you do. You'd gushed about it being your favorite docuseries at work, and he’d bragged about owning the box set. It had been the first day you and he had really started to bond.
Once the tv is on, it thankfully keeps you occupied. You chew your food slowly, enraptured with the beautiful imagery on the screen. Managing a decent effort with the meal, you eat half the sandwich and most of the fries before you start to lose a little steam.
You abandon your plate on the coffee table, then take Jack completely by surprise as you lean over to lay your head in his lap.
He goes still for a moment, unsure if he should be allowing this. But he doesn’t have the heart to push you away, so he puts his plate aside and lets a hand come to rest on your shoulder.
You sigh happily and snuggle closer.
It's been so long since Jack has taken care of someone like this that he’d almost forgotten what it feels like. How good it feels to be needed. The easy intimacy of sharing a space, sharing a meal, of letting someone melt against you after a long night.
Affectionately, he brushes a stray lock of hair out of your face, and you practically purr in response, leaning into his hand. So Jack keeps doing it, keeps gently stroking his fingers through your hair, preferring to watch your relaxing form instead of the polar bears on screen.
The two of you spend nearly an hour like that, until your breath starts to take on that even, drowsy quality and Jack’s own brain starts calling for rest. He gently eases you off his lap to sit up, takes you by the hand and leads you to bed, already resigning himself to the aching back that a couch nap is going to earn him.
Jack sets you up with a glass of water and the best blankets in the linen closet. As he turns to head back to the living room, your hand grabs his arm, pulling him back.
“Stay.”
Your voice is low and warm. You're sitting up in his bed, his sheets pooled around your knees. Your eyes are dark, tempting, pleading.
Jack knows dangerous territory when he sees it.
Still, your serotonin is due to start dropping any time now, and hurt feelings are only going to be worsened once it does. Jack sits carefully on the edge of the bed, maintaining a few inches of distance, his other hand gently cradling your cheek.
“Sorry, sunshine. Not a good idea.”
You move closer, your gaze fixed firmly on his mouth. “Why?”
Best behavior, Jack.
“Because you’re still tapering off. Plus, I just worked a long shift and I need to sleep.” He takes in a deep breath as he feels your hand slide across his shoulders. “And I've got a feeling I won't be getting much rest next to you.”
In a move so surprising that Jack is momentarily powerless to stop it, you rise up onto your knees and shift to straddle one of his thighs.
“What if I promise to be really, really good?” you murmur sweetly.
Jack knows he should stop you, and he almost does. But then you rock your hips on his thigh, the tiniest little life-ruining movement, and you let out the softest, neediest little sound. Suddenly, Jack is hanging onto his sanity and self control-by a thread. And that thread is fraying rapidly.
“Baby,” he whispers, half warning and half plea. His hands come to your hips, torn between stopping you and spurring you on.
Your hips rock again, more purposeful this time. “Please,” you beg quietly, so close now that your lips just barely brush against his.
For a few shameful moments, Jack forgets about his fatigue and the ache in his leg and he wonders… how morally reprehensible would it really be to just let you get off on his thigh? You’d said yourself that you’re ovulating, probably making you even needier. Fuck, he can feel how badly you want it, wetness soaking through the boxers you’re wearing and Jack’s sweatpants. Would it really be so awful of him to sit passively as you hump his leg to get the relief you’re clearly so desperate for? To take pity on you and let you use him for your pleasure?
But he knows it would be wrong, because he’d be getting off on it even if you didn’t touch him. You're not in your right mind, and he doesn’t want to make you come for the first time when you’re whacked out on MDMA.
Summoning the will from deep inside himself, he stills your hips and eases you off of his thigh, ignoring your whines as he nudges you back onto the pillows.
“It wouldn’t be right. I'm not touching you until you’re sober,” he says firmly.
Jack gets to his feet and tucks the blankets around you. “I’ll see you in a few hours. Wake me if you need anything.” He laughs softly at the pointed pouting look you shoot his way. “Other than that.”
“You’re no fun,” you call after him as he retreats into the living room.
Once the bedroom door is shut behind him, he collapses on the couch and wrestles off his prosthetic, punching a throw pillow a few times to soften it before going horizontal. Even after what felt like the longest shift he’s had in months, he’s unsure how much sleep he’ll actually manage to get knowing you’re in the next room. Probably snuggling one of his pillows as if it’s him, probably squeezing your thighs together until the last of the drugs leave your system.
He groans and rolls over, willing his body and his still half-hard cock to go to sleep.
You wake feeling like death warmed over.
You’re in a bed that doesn’t belong to you, but smells familiar and comforting. Same with your clothes. A few memories make it through the fog, blurry and out of order. Planet Earth. Jack’s hand, warm and pleasant on your cheek. An ambulance ride. Lena ruffling your hair and handing you a lollipop. A shower with a chair and a grab bar and soap that smells like Jack.
You’re at Jack's apartment, you realize with a start.
Checking the time groggily, you observe that you've slept from the early morning until late afternoon. Thank god you’d asked for tonight off as well, anticipating you’d need recovery time after Pitt Fest.
You can vaguely recall the warm, fuzzy feelings you’d experienced last night. In the abstract, at least. Now, you feel mostly guilt and shame and embarrassment and anxiety. How could you have been so stupid?
Sounds of life echo from the kitchen, which means Jack has woken up ahead of you. Your guilt sharpens. Jack is spending his hard-earned downtime taking care of you, because of your own carelessness.
Fatigue clings to your bones as you shuffle to the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror is less than kind. Dark shadows frame your eyes, worse than the usual bags worn by the night shift crew. Your hair is a mess, and you sigh as you comb your fingers through to tame it.
Time to face the music.
You trudge out into the kitchen, where Jack is wearing an apron over a t-shirt and sweats and cooking an omelette, looking awfully chipper for having slept seven hours on the couch. He looks so good that it briefly makes you angry. Fuck him for looking so good, while you look and feel like utter dogshit.
Of course, that annoyance turns to guilt again when he looks up and smiles.
“Hey, lover girl,” he greets you warmly as you lean on the kitchen island. “How are you feeling?”
You rub your eyes and groan, “Like I got hit by a Mack truck.”
He squeezes your shoulder fondly and grabs a plate from an overhead cabinet. “Let’s get some food and water in you.”
“Thank you,” you mutter sheepishly. “I’m sorry about… all this.”
“Don't even worry about it, sunshine.”
Jack hands you a glass of water and starts making you a plate. You accept it with a grimace. “I'm not feeling very sunshine-y right about now. I can't remember half of what happened after I went down at the concert.”
“I hope we’ve learned not to go digging for meds in that particular friend’s purse.” He smirks and sets a plate in front of you. A vegetable omelette and buttered toast. Your appetite hasn’t yet returned to its normal levels, but your doctor brain knows that you really need to eat, so you reach for the toast first.
“Never again,” you vow as you take a bite.
In the light of day and out from under the influence of Beth's ‘aspirin,’ you get a good look at Jack's apartment for the first time as he assembles his own plate. It's not spotless, but it’s generally tidy, and it’s a very nice place. Good furniture, great windows with better blackout shades, a nice floor plan. Its niceness only makes you feel smaller.
You poke at your omelette, stewing. “Jack?”
“Yes?”
“Don't take this the wrong way, but…why am I here?”
He plates his own omelette and leans a hip against the kitchen island. “You’d never taken MDMA before, and I knew you’d be in for a hell of a drop. I didn't want you to be on your own.”
You resist the urge to frown. This whole saga is doing nothing to remedy your tragic crush on him. Did he have to be so nice and caring on top of everything else? It feels a little unfair at the moment.
“That’s… very considerate,” you mumble.
“What can I say? I'm a considerate guy.” He pops a bite of omelette into his mouth with a wink.
A thought occurs to you that briefly makes your stomach turn. “Does the whole Pitt know?”
Jack's expression tells you everything you need to know before he even speaks. “There… might have been a betting pool on the subject. Shen cleaned up.”
You drop your face into your hands. “Awesome. That's really awesome.”
Every single one of your coworkers knows that you spent the night rolling. Tears prick at your eyes beneath your palms, which only worsens your humiliation. The last thing you need right now is to cry in front of Jack Abbot. Even if it’s just because the chemicals in your brain are out of whack, it doesn't make it any less embarrassing.
“Hey.” Jack's hand finds your shoulder again. “Don’t worry about it. They're good people, no one is judging you.”
Despite your best efforts, a mortifying little sniffle slips out at the kindness in his voice.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Come here.”
You can’t bear to look up, but your breath hitches in surprise when Jack pulls you into his arms. Instantly, your brain begins to quiet, focusing on the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the reassuring weight of his arms around you, the slow arc of his thumb rhythmically stroking your shoulder blade.
It's medicine. Oxytocin and dopamine, feel-good chemicals produced by physical touch, bolstering your brain against the sapped well of serotonin the ecstasy left in its wake. It also makes your heart flutter pathetically in your chest.
He holds you for a long moment, his grip tightening when you finally loop your arms around his waist and return the embrace.
“Thank you for taking care of me,” you whisper, allowing the comfort to sink into your skin and fill your lungs.
“Of course.”
Jack only pulls away when you do, gently swiping a calloused thumb underneath your eye to banish the straggling tear that managed to escape.
“Let’s get comfortable on the couch,” he says, a hand settling on your back to guide you. “You’re still on the comedown.”
You worry you might be overstaying your welcome. But Jack seems to be in no rush to get you out of his apartment, content to let you rot on his couch as long as you need to. Surely he must have better things to do on his night off than take care of you, but he sits sentry at your side without complaint.
After some consideration, Planet Earth is tabled for the time being — even if you’ve seen it before, animal death is sure to bring back the waterworks in your current state. Flipping through channels, you settle on a cheesy mid-2000s rom-com that you’ve seen before and snuggle back into the couch cushions.
Through it all, you feel the comfort of his steady presence, his hand rubbing idle circles on your back, like an IV drip of Vitamin Jack straight to your brain. You give into the feeling, too worn out to fight it, curling into his side. Eventually, you feel a gentle graze at your scalp as he idly plays with your hair. It surprises you for a moment, but you’re not complaining in the slightest. You melt into it, eyes fluttering closed until you’re slipping in and out of a light doze.
Afternoon fades to evening, to dinnertime, to nighttime, to bedtime. Even after your intermittent sleep, your fatigue is still bone deep, and Jack insists you can stay the night. You really try to convince him to let you take the couch, but he refuses, insisting that your body needs proper rest to return to baseline. At the end of the night, he sends you off to bed with a smirk.
When you wake up in Jack's bed for the second time, it’s much less disorienting. It helps that you’re much clearer than you were seventeen hours ago. The clock reads 9:05 am — you have the whole day ahead of you to shower, change, and steel yourself for the humiliation ritual that is bound to be your shift tonight.
You stumble into the living room, bleary-eyed. Jack is reclined on the couch with a laptop and readers perched on the end of his nose. Ugh, fuck him again for looking so good.
His eyes find yours over the edge of the screen. “Hey there. You sleep good?”
“Mm-hmm,” you reply, stretching. “I'm feeling much better, I think.”
His mouth curves at the corner. “Good.”
Leaning on the edge of the couch, you sigh and glance at the clock on the wall. “I should probably head home soon, get my life together before shift tonight. Would you be able to drive me home?”
“Sure thing, sunshine.”
After you eat breakfast and shower off the cast of bedrotting from the day before, you change back into the clothes you arrived in, which Jack took the liberty of washing for you. As much as you appreciate the gesture, you blanch at the idea of Jack handling your underwear, and try very hard not to think about that mental image.
As the quiet car ride progresses, you ponder your looming fate, mentally preparing yourself for the teasing you’ll get from the nurses and other residents. It's disorienting to not know what you’re walking into, to have been mentally absent for most of it.
You can’t resist the urge to ask anymore. “Was I a total mess?”
He nods, amused. “Yes. But a very cute mess.”
“God, this is so embarrassing,” you groan. “What did I say?”
“Are you sure you wanna know?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.
That makes you pause, glancing at him warily. “…was it bad?”
“You got a little fixated on hands for a while.” Jack pauses, like he isn’t sure how much to reveal, if you’re ready to handle it. “Said you think about mine all the time.”
Suddenly, you feel a bit sick, even though the car is headed in a straight line down the road. If that's just where it starts… if that’s not the worst of it, then what is?
“Oh god,” you whisper in horror.
“You said you think I'm gorgeous,” he continues, voice thick with amusement. “And that you have a big ol’ crush on me. And… you might’ve tried to seduce me a little at bedtime.”
Your cheeks flare hot. This is quite possibly the worst outcome of the situation aside from death. At the moment, death feels preferable.
You stare straight ahead, sinking in your seat and pressing your hands to your forehead to try and keep your brain from exploding. “Excuse me, I'm just gonna open the door and go lay down in traffic.”
He laughs, the sound warm and fond and doing absolutely nothing to temper your embarrassment. “It's okay.”
“It is completely not okay, Jack,” you protest, turning your body away from him and towards the passenger side door, like that will save you from this conversation.
Jack places a hand on your thigh.
All the systems in your brain go down simultaneously.
His palm rests just above your knee, not high enough to be too inappropriate, but it’s intimate. Especially because your choice of garment for Pitt Fest leaves your leg bare and exposed to his touch. Never once does he take his eyes off the road.
“It was flattering,” he says coolly, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over your knee. “And extremely cute.”
He lets the assertion hang in the silence, and he doesn’t move his hand, letting it rest warm and comfortable against the soft skin of your thigh.
After some considerable effort, you remember how to breathe. Once the oxygen makes it to your brain, you manage to peel your hands away from your face and peek sideways at him.
“…really?” you ask, because you need the confirmation. Does Jack Abbot — your mentor, the object of all your desires, and the man who just babysat you through an unwitting MDMA trip — really think you’re cute?
He gives your thigh a gentle squeeze. “Really.”
There isn’t much else to say for the rest of the car ride. Jack keeps his hand on your thigh until he turns down your street and throws the car in park. You try and fail to suppress a smile the whole way, and allow him to walk you up to your building’s front step, palms tingling with anticipation.
“I’d like to do this again sometime,” he says as you unlock the main entrance. “Minus the party drugs.”
You grin up at him, slightly emboldened by the revelations that occurred in the car. “You wanna have another sleepover?”
“Very much.” His eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles back. “See you tonight?”
“See you tonight.”
You turn to head inside, but Jack catches your elbow. “Hey. One last thing.”
Before you have time to register his closeness, a hand slides along your waist, another cupping your jaw, and Jack is kissing you.
A warm, pleasant feeling floods you from top to toe, a high rivalling the chemical one you’d experienced twenty-eight hours ago. He kisses you like he’s been thinking about it that entire twenty-eight hours. It's tender and hungry at the same time. By the time he pulls away, your lips follow after his and you almost stumble forward into his arms.
You open your eyes and blink up at him, feeling a little dazed and starstruck again.
“Had to wait until you were level,” Jack murmurs. He gives you a lingering peck at the corner of your mouth and descends down the front steps to his car.
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ › you tell yourself that isolation is enough. just you, the cottage and the sea. but some storms begin long before the rain starts to fall.
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ › bucky x female reader
ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ › mature themes, character death (readers mother), grief, 5+1 with a twist, five stages of grief + one stage of love, stage two: anger, survivors guilt, emotional rollercoaster, hurt/comfort, semi slow burn, lowkey grumpy x grumpy, not beta read we die like... everything (also edited with the speed of light so soz if theres mistakes.)
ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ › 4.5k
ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ › and the plot thickens! well not really, kinda, its starting to boil.
ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ
Grief, it turned out, was not a single catastrophic event.
It was routine.
That was the part nobody warned you about. People talked about funerals, about loss and crying until your chest hurt. Nobody talked about the quiet days afterward. The ordinary Tuesdays, the mornings when you woke up and remembered all over again, the afternoons where nothing happened except the realization that she was still gone.
By the second week, your life had settled into something resembling a routine. Not a healthy one, not necessarily a happy one, but a routine nonetheless. You woke with the sun, not because you wanted to, but because the cottage did. The old curtains never fully blocked the morning light.
By seven o'clock, soft gold beams stretched across the living room floorboards and warmed the couch where you'd fallen asleep. Again. You'd stopped pretending the bedroom existed, the couch had become your bed, the coffee table your desk, the living room your entire world. Each morning began the same way. Coffee, the couch and silence. You'd curl beneath the same knitted blanket while the coffee cooled between your hands. The television remained off, the radio stayed untouched. The only sounds were the refrigerator humming in the kitchen and the distant crash of waves beyond the dunes.
The ocean was always there, patient and waiting. You still refused to look at it most days.
After coffee came chores. Laundry, dishes and sweeping sand from the entryway despite barely leaving the house. Tiny tasks meant to occupy your hands, to keep your thoughts from wandering.
Occasionally you'd make a trip into town, only when necessary. Groceries, hardware supplies, the pharmacy then immediately back home. You never lingered, never stopped to chat, never gave anyone the opportunity. The town remembered you, you quickly realized that, which was unfortunate because you'd been hoping it wouldn't. People recognized your last name, your face. Recognized your mother's eyes staring back from yours. The pity that followed was unbearable, so you learned how to move quickly, how to smile politely, how to escape before conversations could become condolences.
For a while, it worked.
Until you started noticing him everywhere.
The first time could've been coincidence, the second time too but by the third, you were beginning to suspect the universe had developed a twisted sense of humor. You spotted the motorcycle before you spotted him parked outside the diner, the same black motorcycle you'd accidentally backed into, the same motorcycle belonging to the most irritating man you'd met since moving home. You told yourself you weren't looking for it which would have been more convincing if you'd stopped noticing it immediately.
That morning he sat outside the diner with a rag draped over one shoulder, cleaning the bike while drinking coffee. You rolled your eyes so hard it practically hurt.
The following week, he appeared at the grocery store while you were comparing pasta sauces. He was reaching for cereal when you saw him, then he saw you. Both of you immediately looked away. The interaction lasted less than three seconds and still somehow managed to annoy you. A few days later, he appeared at the hardware store carrying what looked like enough lumber to construct an entire neighborhood. You stood in the checkout line watching him load board after board onto a cart. An absurd amount. An unreasonable amount. A suspicious amount.
What exactly is he building? Noah's Ark?
The thought startled a laugh from you, not because it was particularly funny, because it had appeared at all. You hadn't realized how long it'd been since you'd made yourself laugh. The moment passed quickly and the guilt that followed arrived even quicker. By the time you reached your car, irritation had already settled back into place. Irritation seemed to be your default emotion lately. Everything bothered you, the tourists clogging sidewalks with cameras, couples holding hands, families eating ice cream together.
The sight of happiness felt almost offensive, which made you feel like a terrible person. You knew these people weren't doing anything wrong, you knew that. But grief wasn't logical, it didn't care that the world had continued moving after your mother died, continued laughing, continued celebrating. Continued existing as though nothing had happened. You hated it for that, hated how easy happiness looked on everyone else, hated how unfair it felt.
Most of all, you hated the anger, because anger wasn't supposed to be directed at her and yet sometimes it was. The thought would sneak up unexpectedly, while washing dishes, folding laundry, staring at the ocean through a crack in the curtains.
You left me.
The realization would hit immediately afterward, sharp and ugly and followed by guilt. Because she hadn't chosen to leave, she hadn't abandoned you and wanted to die. You knew that, you knew it with every rational part of your brain. But the irrational part didn't care, the irrational part remembered unanswered questions, unfinished conversations, future holidays that would never happen. The irrational part wanted someone to blame, even when there was nobody.
One afternoon you found yourself sitting in your parked car outside the grocery store. Watching a mother and daughter load shopping bags into their trunk. The daughter couldn't have been older than sixteen, she was talking animatedly about something. The mother laughed and reached over, fixing strand of hair that had blown into her daughter's face. Such a small gesture, one you'd witnessed a thousand times growing up.
The sight of it made your throat ache as you looked away immediately. You quickly started the engine and drove home.
The cottage greeted you with the same silence it always did. The same closed curtains, same unopened boxes, the same grief waiting patiently inside. The ocean rolled endlessly toward shore outside, yet you completely ignored it and sank onto the couch and convinced yourself this was enough. Just you, the house and the beach. Nothing more. Nothing else.
Certainly not friends.
And definitely not sarcastic men with motorcycles who somehow kept appearing wherever you went.
Unfortunately, life seemed determined to disagree.
There came a point where you were sure that the universe was determined to laugh at your suffering, specifically on Tuesdays. You were carrying a basket of laundry back inside when your hip brushed the railing, there was a sharp crack, a groan of wood, then half the section gave way. The basket slipped from your hands as you jumped in shock and clothes spilled across the porch.
The carved and smoothed weathered wood laid there snapped in half and scattered on the stairs and ground. It just… broke. There was no heavy winds rocking it from its post, no dramatic accident involving a flightless pelican or raccoon. Just age. Years of salt air and harsh summers finally deciding they'd had enough. For a moment, you simply stared at the broken wood and splintered boards.
It wasn't even that bad. Objectively speaking, it was fixable. A weekend project, just a minor inconvenience. Something your mother would've laughed about.
That thought did it and something inside you snapped right alongside the railing.
"Oh, come on!" The words burst from you startling in the quiet morning air. Your eyes burned instantly. "Seriously?"
The porch, the laundry, the broken wood—it all blurred together. Every tiny frustration from the past few months surged forward at once. The stuck screen door, the leaky faucet. The endless paperwork, the loneliness. The fact that every time something broke, there was no one left to call. Because your mother would've known exactly what to do. She always had.
You could practically hear her voice.
"Don't panic, sweetheart. It's just wood."
Just wood. Except she wasn't here, and suddenly that felt unforgivable. You kicked a loose board, immediately regretted it then stood on the porch and cried angry, frustrated tears that had absolutely nothing to do with the railing and everything to do with the fact that the one person who would've helped you fix it was gone.
Two hours later you found yourself standing inside the hardware store. Still irritated, still grieving, still holding a broken piece of railing like evidence in a court case. The owner glanced between the wood and your expression. A wise man would've stopped there, unfortunately, he chose to speak.
"You'll need something stronger than wood glue."
"I don't."
His eyebrows rose. "You do."
"I don't."
"You absolutely do."
Your grip tightened on the broken board. "I just need glue and nails."
"You need replacement wood."
"No, I need glue and nails."
The owner sighed. The long-suffering sigh of a man who'd probably had this exact conversation a thousand times.
"Ma'am—"
"I know how to fix a porch railing."
That wasn't entirely true, the owner clearly knew it, you clearly knew it. Neither of you acknowledged it.
"You really don't."
"I really do."
"You don't."
"I do."
A voice appeared behind you.
"You definitely don't."
You closed your eyes. Of course, of course it was him. Turning slowly, you found the motorcycle guy standing a few feet away with a box of screws tucked beneath one arm.
His expression carried entirely too much amusement.
"You."
"Me."
The hardware store owner looked between both of you. Immediately sensing entertainment. Traitor.
You folded your arms. "What do you want?"
He nodded toward the railing section in your hands.
"To save your porch."
"I didn't ask."
"Good thing."
Your jaw clenched. "You know, some people manage to have conversations without being irritating."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Haven't met any."
The hardware store owner barked out a laugh and you shot him a look that had him suddenly finding a price tag very interesting. Coward.
The irritating man glanced at the wood again and his amusement faded slightly.
"You broke it?"
"It broke."
His gaze flicked toward your face. You weren't sure what he saw there and whatever it was made him pause. The teasing disappeared completely.
"How bad?"
The question surprised you, not because of the words but because of the tone. It came out gentler, unexpectedly so.
You looked away first.
"Worse than it looks."
Something in your voice must've given you away because he nodded slowly, as though he understood the answer had very little to do with the porch. For a second, neither of you spoke, the store felt oddly quiet.
Then he set his box of screws on the counter.
"I can help."
Your immediate response arrived before he finished speaking.
"No."
His eyebrow rose. "You sure?"
"Positive."
"You know how to replace a railing?"
You hesitated, which was a mistake.
His eyebrow rose higher.
"I'll figure it out."
"That's usually code for 'I absolutely will not figure it out.'"
You glared and he did nothing but looked unimpressed. The annoying thing was he wasn't being cruel, just honest, which somehow irritated you more.
"I don't need charity."
"Didn't say you did."
"You think I can't do it."
"I think your porch is going to end up in the yard."
The hardware store owner immediately turned away to hide another laugh and you considered throwing something at both of them.
He leaned against the counter. "I'll help."
"No."
"You'll help me."
You blinked. "What?"
"We fix it together."
His shoulders lifted slightly, a matter-of-fact shrug like it was the most obvious solution in the world.
"You can carry things."
Your glare deepened. "I can do more than carry things."
"Good."
A faint smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "Then you can use the drill."
You stared, suspicious, waiting for the catch. Waiting for the typical pity to follow. There wasn't one, just a simple offer. No condolences, no careful expression people used whenever they looked at you now. Just a guy offering to help fix a broken porch. The normalcy of it caught you off guard.
"I'm not going to let you help just to laugh at me."
The words escaped before you could stop them. The moment they did, you wished they hadn't. Because suddenly you sounded exactly as vulnerable as you felt.
Something softened briefly in his expression, then gone almost immediately.
"No one's laughing."
Your throat tightened.
He looked away first this time, giving you space to recover.
"We start Saturday."
"You've already decided?"
"Yep."
"You don't even know if I agreed."
He grabbed the box of screws from the counter and started toward the door.
"You will."
The confidence was infuriating.
"You're impossible."
He glanced over his shoulder, the smallest hint of a grin appearing.
"Saturday. Eight o'clock."
"You don't even know where I live."
"I'll find it." Then he disappeared out the door.
Leaving you standing in the hardware store holding a broken piece of railing and wondering how, exactly, you'd managed to get voluntold into spending an entire afternoon with the most annoying man in town. And the truly irritating part? For the first time in weeks, the thought didn't sound entirely terrible.
Saturday arrived bright and hot. The kind of coastal morning that already carried the promise of humidity before nine o'clock. You'd been awake since six, not because you were excited, because you were annoyed. There was a difference.
The coffee in your mug had long since gone cold by the time a motorcycle rumbled up the driveway.
You watched from behind the living room curtain, like a suspicious raccoon protecting its territory.
He parked beside the cottage, killed the engine and climbed off. No hesitation, no awkwardness. No lingering in the driveway trying to figure out how to navigate you and your dead mothers house. He simply grabbed a toolbox from one side of the bike and headed for the porch. The simplicity of it caught you off guard.
By now most people in town treated you one of two ways. Either they drowned you in sympathy, or they looked at you like you might shatter if somebody spoke too loudly. You hated both. He apparently chose a secret third option, ignoring the issue entirely.
You screen door creaked open to get a better look, he was already by the railing taking in the damage.
"You planning on helping?"
You looked at him, already setting tools down, already working. No good morning, no condolences, no questions. Just work. Something inside you relaxed despite yourself.
"You're early."
"You're late."
You glanced at the clock. Eight-oh-two.
"You said eight."
"Exactly."
"I hate you."
"No you don't."
The response came so quickly you almost laughed. Almost.
Instead, you rolled your eyes and stepped onto the porch. The morning sunlight illuminated him fully for the first time as he shrugged off an overshirt and rolled his sleeves above his elbows.
And froze you in place.
His left arm was… metal.
Not a prosthetic, not exactly. Something far more complex. Dark silver glinted beneath the sunlight, gold flecks and intricate plates disappearing beneath his sleeve. For a moment your brain simply stalled, not because it frightened you or because it looked strange. Because suddenly a realization settled heavily inside your chest. Nobody ended up with an arm like that because life had been easy.
Whatever story existed there, whatever pain, whatever loss.
Whatever circumstances had led him here, none of it could've been simple. You thought about the way you'd immediately labeled him irritating, thought about every sarcastic comment, every assumption. And felt a little embarrassed.
He noticed your staring and his expression immediately shuttered. A defensive wall sliding neatly into place. You recognized it because you'd built plenty of your own.
Your gaze dropped away first, not out of discomfort, but respect. The tension eased without comment or explanation. And you became just two people quietly deciding not to ask questions neither was ready to answer.
You picked up a stack of replacement boards. "Where do you want these?"
Something flickered across his face, brief surprise and gone almost immediately.
"Over here."
And just like that, you got to work.
The strange thing was how easy it became. Not the physical labor, that part was miserable. By noon you were sweaty, sunburned, and questioning every life choice that had led you to carrying lumber in ninety-degree weather.
No. The easy part was him. He didn't fill every silence, didn't pepper you with questions or force conversation because he found quiet uncomfortable. He'd told you his name and didn't make a sorry face when you'd told him yours like everyone else did, he'd looked at your weather-worn house not as the pity project for its recently deceased owner, but just as it was. An old ass house with a broken railing that needed to be fixed. Hours passed with only occasional exchanges.
"Hand me that drill."
"Which one?"
"The drill-shaped one."
"You own three drill-shaped ones."
"Good point."
Then silence again, comfortable silence, the kind you'd forgotten existed. Back in the city every moment had required something. Meetings, calls, presentations and constant conversations. Noise. This felt different, just two people working beside one another with no expectations attached. When lunch rolled around, you disappeared inside and returned with two sweating glasses of lemonade.
Bucky accepted his with a nod, took one sip and paused.
"This is homemade."
"Obviously."
He stared at the glass. Then at you. Then back at the glass.
"You made lemonade from actual lemons."
You frowned. "That's generally how lemonade works."
"No." He shook his head. "People buy powder now."
"That's horrifying."
"That's modern society."
You snorted and the sound surprised both of you. Bucky hid his smile behind another sip before getting back to work.
The porch took longer than either of you expected. One afternoon turned into three, then three became nearly a week. Neither of you mentioned it. The project simply expanded, a few loose boards here., a weathered step there, an unstable post that definitely needed replacing. Each day Bucky arrived around eight and each day you found yourself making two glasses of lemonade instead of one.
By Wednesday, he'd stopped knocking. By Thursday, you'd stopped pretending to be annoyed about it. On Friday afternoon, you climbed onto the porch with an armful of supplies.
Bucky immediately took half from you.
"I can carry things."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because this only needs one set of hands."
He didn't even look up from his work, just continued measuring a board.
"You can sit down."
The casualness of it made something warm settle unexpectedly in your chest. Not pity or condescension. Just consideration, a simple kindness from one person to another. The sort your mother used to perform without thinking. You sat for the first time all week, just watching him work. The breeze lifted strands of his hair, the ocean hummed softly in the distance and for a moment, things felt almost normal.
Then Bucky looked up, completely serious.
"Did you hear about the lumber thief?"
You narrowed your eyes immediately. "No."
"That's because I wooden tell you."
The silence that followed was devastating as you stared at him absolutely horrified. Bucky looked immensely pleased with himself.
"That was terrible."
"I know."
"Objectively awful."
"I've got more."
"Oh God."
He ignored you. "What do you call a fish wearing a bowtie?"
"No."
"Sofishticated."
The laugh escaped before you could stop it, sharp, unexpected and real. Both of you froze as the sound seemed to echo across the porch, across the yard, across weeks of grief and anger and loneliness. For one brief second, it felt like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Your smile disappeared almost immediately, guilt arriving right on schedule, because laughter still felt wrong somehow. Like betrayal, like forgetting the truth.
But Bucky didn't comment, didn't point it out or make it a thing.
He simply picked up another board.
"See?"
You rolled your eyes. "What?"
"My jokes are growing on you."
"They're not."
"They are."
"They absolutely aren't."
Bucky grinned. And despite every effort to remain irritated, something suspiciously close to enjoyment began taking root between the two of you. Small and unplanned, like a wildflower growing through a crack in the sidewalk. Neither of you noticed it happening, not yet but it was there all the same.
The sound lingered long after it ended. That laugh, short but genuine. You hadn't meant to do it, hadn't meant to let it slip past the carefully constructed walls you'd spent months building yet there it was. Hanging in the warm afternoon air, proof, and for a moment everything remained exactly the same. The porch, the ocean, the lemonade sweating against the table. Bucky looking far too pleased with himself.
Then something shifted, a sharp yet subtle splinter working its way beneath your skin. Because suddenly you realized something. That had been the first genuine laugh you'd had since your mother died. Not a polite smile, not a forced chuckle, not something performed because social etiquette demanded it.
A real laugh. The kind that escaped before you could stop it.
The realization hit hard enough to steal your breath and your stomach dropped, chest tightened and the warmth from moments ago vanished entirely.
Bucky was still talking, saying something about how he was obviously hilarious. You didn't hear a word of it because all you could think about was your mother's funeral. The cemetery, the closed casket, the flowers, the dirt.
And you're sitting here, laughing.
The guilt arrived immediately, fast and brutal racketing through every bone in your body. As though happiness itself had become something forbidden.
You stood abruptly, the movement startled both of you.
"I need a minute."
The words came out strange, thin and tight and before Bucky could respond, you disappeared inside. The bathroom door clicked shut behind you and enveloped you in silence. You gripped the edge of the sink and stared at your reflection, waiting for the feeling to pass. Instead it grew.
Your eyes burned and the first tear slipped free. Followed immediately by another.
"No."
You shook your head as though refusing would somehow stop it. This wasn't fair. None of it was fair. The emotions crashed together so violently you couldn't separate them. Sadness. Relief. Joy. Grief. All tangled together. You'd laughed and for one brief second, you'd forgotten and somehow that hurt more than remembering. Because your mother wasn't supposed to be a memory, she was supposed to be here. Supposed to be sitting on the porch criticizing Bucky's construction techniques, supposed to be making lemonade.
Supposed to be alive.
Instead she was buried beneath six feet of earth.
And you were here. Laughing, fixing a porch, living.
Anger brewed fast and hot inside you. You should've been sad, should've curled up against the tub and cried until your ribs ached. But being angry was easy. Too easy. You were angry at yourself, for laughing, for enjoying yourself, for letting someone in.
You'd had a plan. You'd come home to be alone, to disappear quietly with just you the house and the beach. Nothing else. Then somehow a sarcastic idiot with a motorcycle had managed to wedge himself into your routine. And worst of all? You hadn't stopped him.
The irrational part of your mind then shifted the anger towards your mother. You hated that part. Because she wasn't supposed to leave, she wasn't supposed to die yet. She wasn't supposed to leave you standing alone in a bathroom trying to figure out how to survive without her.
The tears came harder and you swiped angrily at your face, furious with yourself for crying, furious with everything.
Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance, low and heavy. A storm moving in from the water so fast that by the time you emerged from the bathroom, the sky had darkened considerably. The sunlight was gone quickly replaced by thick gray clouds gathering over the ocean.
Bucky looked up immediately with concern flickering across his face, not pity. Concern. Somehow that angered you too.
"You okay?"
The question was gentle. You hated it.
"I'm fine."
The lie sounded terrible.
Bucky glanced at the unfinished section of railing, then back at you clearly unconvinced but didn't say anything. You couldn't stand it anymore, the kindness, the patience. The fact that he kept looking at you like you were a person instead of a problem.
"You're done for today."
His brow furrowed.
"What?"
"You can go."
He looked around at the tools, the unfinished work, the section of porch that still wasn't safe.
"We didn't get much done."
"I don't care."
Thunder rolled again, closer this time. The ocean beyond the dunes had turned dark and restless, whitecaps churning against the shoreline.
Bucky set down the board he'd been holding.
"The railing still needs another day."
"I said I don't care."
The words snapped out sharper than intended. You saw the surprise cross his face, brief and then gone.
"It's not really safe to use yet."
"Then I'll fix it myself."
"You don't know how."
The statement wasn't cruel. Just factual, and that somehow made it worse.
Something inside you finally snapped.
"Then maybe I'll learn."
The air between you went still as the storm pressed heavier overhead.
Bucky just stared quietly, waiting. You hated that too. The waiting, the understanding, the fact that he wasn't fighting back.
"You know what?" your voice rose. "You've done enough."
His jaw tightened slightly yet still no argument, no anger, just silence. And suddenly you couldn't stop. Because if you stopped talking, you might start crying again.
"I'm not even paying you."
Nothing.
"You've been here all week."
Nothing.
"You don't have to keep showing up."
The first drops of rain began tapping softly against the porch roof. Bucky remained exactly where he was, steady and calm. You wish he would say something, do something. You wanted him to react, wanted him to get angry, wanted him to give you something solid to push against.
Instead he simply waited.
So you delivered the only thing sharp enough to hurt.
"Just get the hell out of my house."
The words landed heavily, and immediately you regretted them. Not enough to take them back, but enough. The rain intensified, steady now, the ocean roaring louder beyond the dunes. For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then Bucky nodded once, a small motion, almost imperceptible.
"Okay."
No lecture, no argument, no demand for an explanation. No reminder that you didn't mean it. Just okay. He gathered his tools, packed everything away, moved with the same quiet efficiency he'd shown all week. You stood frozen, watching and waiting for him to say something. Anything. He never did. A few minutes later the motorcycle engine rumbled to life, then faded into the distance. Gone. The storm arrived fully after that. Rain hammered against the roof, wind rattled the unfinished railing and the ocean churned violently beyond the windows. Dark water crashing against the shore in angry waves.
You stood alone on the porch long after he'd left. Staring at the section of railing still broken, half repaired, half destroyed, caught somewhere in between. Just like everything else. Just like you.
Thunder cracked overhead and just like that the cottage was empty again, not like when you'd arrived. This time you had known a presence, known warmth and something eerily close to friendship, and now you know its absence. And you don't know which feels worse.
summary: the three times jack abbot compared you to someone else vs. the one time you were exactly who he wanted but couldn't have anymore.
tags: jack abbot x reader, angst, deep insecurities, jack compares you to samira, robby, and his late-wife (I named her alice), a few scene changes but it's for the plot, trying out [name] but if I don't like it, it's back to y/n for all of you, jack is lowkey an asshole on accident (thinks he's meaning well by complimenting others, but tears you apart in the process), medical inaccuracies, hurt/no comfort (at least for jack), eventual breakup, special end scene guest star, age gape (28-32/50), heavily inspired by lacy by olivia rodrigo (which I suggest listening to while you read) and all the feels that come with that, 18+ MDNI
notes: this hurt to write, and this better hurt y'all in the best angsty way possible! just a reminder that my requests for the hatosyverse are open, and that I'm doing smutty blurbs to build my writing abilities, enjoy!
word count: 7.4k
You didn't understand how you'd been able to score Jack Abbot.
Somehow, the universe decided that you'd be his match, the one he chose to go home to at the end of a bad shift, the one who'd been able to give him the most comfort during his darkest days. You knew what you'd be getting into: the PTSD, the depression, shifts where he felt more like your boss than your partner. But you believed you could get through it; Jack was older, and you liked to think you were mature enough to handle anything thrown your way.
For almost a year, your relationship bloomed in stolen glances across the Pitt, hidden moments in supply closets, and late-night baths spent at his house trying to bury yourself next to his heart. Jack was it for you, and you let yourself dream about a future, ring on your finger, possible children running around the house you shared. The two of you rarely fought, often choosing to apologize for anything under the sun before arguments grew too large for your feelings.
Never once did Jack make you feel inadequate, even if you had voiced early on that you truly didn't understand why he picked you. Compared to his gorgeous salt-and-pepper curls and freckled skin and large stature, you felt plain. Your hair was always pulled into a slick ponytail, makeup caused acne breakouts after 12-hour shifts, and what little time you had to yourself, you spent it at home, reading a book, instead of going out with friends and colleagues. People looked at you without so much as a second glance. Jack, on the other hand, made heads turn and nurses blush if they somehow caught his attention long enough for him to send a look their way. You couldn't remember the last time you went through a shift where a female (or sometimes male) patient failed to make a comment about the sexy, silver fox doctor.
You never made it more than it was: harmless flirting from people Jack would never think about again once they got discharged.
After, you and he had gone through the HR meetings, the contract signings, and the swearing that your relationship wouldn't get in the way of saving lives or have Jack start playing favorites. To further this, around the 9-month mark of being Jack's, they plucked you from the safety of the nightshift and dropped you right into Robby's hands. But this was how it was going to be from now on; there was no point in arguing as long as you got to keep Jack.
For three months, you persevered. Finding a groove with an already well-oiled shift proved to be harder than it looked. People talked. Nurses gossiped. Doctors speculated. You, through it all, kept your chin high. Their words didn't get to dictate your relationship. During handoffs, Jack still swept you into his arms and kissed you like a man coming back from war. He still told you that dinner was in the fridge once you got home and napped. He still continued to send updates during his shift, text messages from the separate night-shift group chat made after your departure chiming loudly while you ate. And most important of all, he still loved you.
However, nothing could have prepared you for the three times you felt the most unloved.
I care, I care, I care, like perfume that you wear, I linger all the time, watchin', hidden in plain sight, ooh, I try, I try, I try, but it takes over my life, I see you everywhere, the sweetest torture one could bear
"Hey, Dana," you called out while swimming through the chaos only brought on by a 4th of July shift.
At her name, Dana looked up over the thin frames of her glasses, pausing momentarily to look your way before going back to her board. "Please don't tell me that the 36 hot dog guy is back."
You shook your head, hands coming to rest on top of the vinyl counter. "Not that I'm aware of."
"Thank heavens. What can I do for ya, hun?"
Leaning in, you did a quick glance around the department. "I heard Jack was here early?"
Her eyebrows almost rose to her hairline. "Yeah; he came in with one of his SWAT buddies. GSW to the man's neck, but it looks like he's going to be okay." She reached over and grabbed a tablet. "Actually, can you find Jack for me? He wanted an update ASAP."
Your fingers drummed against the counter anxiously before you took the tablet from her. "I was just about to ask if you'd seen him."
Dana glanced over your shoulder and stuck out her chin in the same direction. "Saw him duck into Room 15. Might be taking a breather; Lord knows he needs one after that raid." She gave you a knowing look, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Maybe you're exactly what he needs."
A rush of heat flooded your face, eyes darting away from hers. "I'll see if I can find him."
You turned away before she could say anything more, hands desperately holding the tablet to your chest. Your shoes squeaked against the tile floor, steps bringing you closer to the room Jack was supposedly in. Once at the door, you raised a hand to draw the curtain away, but the sound of voices—plural—had you stopping. Saliva pooled between your teeth as you listened closely.
"—is the hospital going to pay for it?"
There was a pause before Jack clearly grumbled, "I'll pay for it."
You slowly moved to the side next to the wall where the curtain didn't completely cut the room off. Through the slot, your eyes widened at the sight of a Jack, shirt off, pale chest, wound-care swab twirling in his fingers with Samira sitting in one of the chairs. In the next beat, she stood and walked right past the curtain slot, completely oblivious that you were right behind it. She stopped near the wall and grabbed a pair of gloves before snapping them on.
His brows furrowed. "What are you doing?"
She smiled before rounding to stand behind him. "What you clearly can't."
Begrudgingly, he handed over the swab.
"Did you make a chart?" she asked while dipping the cotton end into a wound cream.
Jack crossed his arms, and his shoulders rolled and dipped. "No. This can stay off the books. Don't need the paperwork from the hospital or police department."
Samira paused. "Would you rather me go get Dr. [Name]? I'm sure she could do this much better than I could."
"No," Jack responded, shaking his head. "She'd just panic about this. There's no need to throw her off her game."
Your stomach flipped. He thought you'd panic? Sure, you'd be worried, but it wasn't like you hadn't seem him hurt before. Whatever wound he had on his back wouldn't be the worst thing he'd come home with after a SWAT shift.
"Isn't she your girlfriend?" She began dabbing at his back, the swab coming back bloodied.
"Yeah, but it's different with you. I don't have to worry about you taking your time or being indifferent about this." He winced at a deeper brush into the graze. "She's not like you, Dr. Mohan. She wears everything on her sleeve. Really, she could learn how to be more level headed like you, Dr. Mohan. I've seen the way you handle traumas. We wouldn't be so in the low if we had about 10 more of you."
He ended with a chuckle like what he just said didn't feel like a knives to your stomach.
Is that what he really thought about you? That you should be more like Samira and her ability to stay cool through anything thrown at her? With a blink, your eyes glossed over.
Jack turned his head, neck twisting to he could meet Samira's eyes. "You won't tell her about this, right? Our little secret?"
You didn't stay to hear what she said, choosing to turn around before you could watch any longer. It was incredible that you were able to stay for so long, submitting yourself to a new kind of torture. Walking back to the nurses station, your steps slowed as if molasses coated the floor, its stickiness clinging to your shoes.
At your oncoming presence, Dana looked over. "Did you find him, hun?"
You forced yourself to not look back at the closed curtain. "Yeah, but he's in the middle of something right now. I'll just catch up with him later."
The tablet gave a small thud as you placed it back into the holder, and you desperately tried to find another patient to busy yourself with, specifically one furthest from Room 15. However, before you could grab one, a hand wrapped around your elbow and tugged.
"Hey, I need you for the incoming trauma," Langdon said as he dragged you with him. "Twenty-year-old female, unconscious for an unknown matter of time."
You nodded silently, allowing him to keep walking you like a dog on a leash until he stopped in front of the ambulance bay sliding doors. Your lungs expanded in a deep, wavering breath.
Now was not the time to panic. You could do this. You could be like Samira. You could show Jack that you could handle a trauma.
During your internal pep talk, the doors slid open, giving way for the gurney and two paramedics.
"BP is 140-over-92 and climbing. No relevant medical history. She woke up once on the way over and vomited before passing out again."
You quickly followed Langdon into the first trauma room and helped transfer her over onto the bed. Immediately, numbers started being shouted while you started your initial exam.
When nothing seemed to blare any red flags, Langdon started impatient as the woman kept deteriorating. Through it all, you willed your hands to stay steady, your mind calm while you mentally went through what could be the matter. You took a step forward, body positioning near her head so you could look at her pupils one more time, and that's when you smelled it: the acrid, fruity smell puffing out of her mouth as she struggled to breath.
You jerked back quickly. "Dr. Langdon, is there a history of diabetes or hyperglycemia? Her breath smells like rotting fruit."
Langdon looked over at you before leaning toward her face. He hissed a curse before barking for a blood sugar test. Your eyes widened when the screen flashed a 450 mg/dL.
"She's experiencing diabetic ketoacidosis," you breathed.
"Let's get her on an insulin drip, now," Langdon hissed, face pinched until he looked over at you with a softer expression. "Great job catching that and staying calm." He chuckled slightly. "Never seen you like this but keep it up."
You knew his words were meant to be encouraging, but all they did was send bile up your throat. Without saying anything more, you tore off the gloves and shoved them deep into a biohazard bin. You wanted to cry, wanted to find the nearest restroom and tug at your hair.
But that's not what Samira would do your mind provided; the thought ugly and green. She'd shrug it all off and keep working like nothing was the matter.
Your teeth ground together, shoulders squaring in tandem. If everyone would rather have you calm, you'd be calm. You'd tuck your heart away rather than show it to the patients who needed someone that wore it on their sleeve. You picked up another tablet at the nurses station and got back to work.
The rest of the fourth went by in a tornado. Systems went down after a cyberattack; fireworks boomed off in the distance; you stayed busy. Each of your patients were in and out at a lightning speed, and by the start of the night shift, you were ready to go home and cry your heart out into a pillow.
You'd seen Samira every so often in between patients and a small lunch break. Like always, she smiled at you and waved and chatted when she could, but her actions made you want to wither up like a dead flower. You couldn't help but stare at her, thinking that you should be more like the woman in front of you, mind comparing your features to hers at a rapid speed you couldn't stop. She somehow looked like an angel in the middle of a place jokingly nicknamed one of the seven layers of hell, skin clear and hair somehow perfectly put in a bun. You tried your best to match her enthusiasm, but the poison had already been drank.
On the contrary, the only time you really saw Jack was at the start of handoffs. He had helped with one trauma before going to the on-call room for a needed nap, and you hadn't wanted to talk to him then, scared of how he'd act around you.
"There you are, sweetheart," you heard him say as you finished up converting with Lena about the man in Room 5. "I've been looking for you. Thought you might have left without saying goodbye."
You winced slightly. "No; I've just been busy."
Jack hummed and smiled warmly at you, but the expression was tainted by his words earlier. "I heard. Langdon's been nothing but praising you for earlier. I'm proud of you."
"Sure you are," you muttered too lowly for him to catch. Your lips thinly stretched into a smile that didn't meet your tired eyes. "Thank you, Jack," you settled on instead.
His hazel eyes scanned over your face, and his smile slightly dropped. "Are you okay, though? You look a little down."
"I'm fine," you shot out. "Today's just been long, and I'm ready to get home."
Jack nodded. "I left food in the fridge for you, so make sure you eat it after you sleep for a bit."
"Got it."
He looked at you expectantly before rolling his eyes. "Come here."
Like it had been etched into your DNA, you listened and fell into his open arms, face tucking into his chest. He squeezed you tightly before placing a kiss to your temple.
"Proud of you," he said. "You do such a good job. We need so many doctors like you, my perfect girl."
Perfect felt like a twist of the knife, because if you were so perfect, why had he told Samira that he wished you were more like her?
I feel your compliments like bullets on skin. Dazzling starlet, Bardot reincarnate, well, aren't you the greatest thing to ever exist?
As the weeks went on, Jack's words never left your soul, the damage irreparable in everything that you did.
Second guessing yourself had been a struggle you'd dealt with since an earlier age. Normally, Jack would be able to quiet all those thoughts; he had chosen you; he loved you. But now, as you second guessed everything you did, you also second guessed everything Jack said. You picked apart every encouragement, every compliment, every sweet promise he whispered in your ear.
What he said now couldn't be taken at face value, and you wondered if that feeling would ever go away. You'd asked him about the bullet graze a few days after the 4th, acting completely oblivious to what you knew. Like you thought, Jack assured you that he got it handled and for you to not worry about it, like that did anything to settle the rolling feelings in your stomach.
You tried your best to move on, knowing you'd only bring yourself down more if you dwelled too long about really how much Jack's words had affected you while he never said anything directly to your face. The idea that he wanted you to be like someone else made your heart clench tightly to the point you often wanted to call off work, hoping that you could just wallow in self pity for hours and hours.
But the Pitt did not care for you like that; it demanded twelve hour shifts and grueling doubles. So every day, you rolled out of bed before Jack got home and pulled up your big girl pants.
You worked through it. You'd learned how to stay calm, how to not panic under duress, and it killed you to admit that you'd become a better doctor because of it. You hardly ever hiccuped during a trauma, gaining compliments from the surgeons and Robby for your techniques that were close to flawless. For the smallest second, you would preen under their words before the ugly, repulsive reminder that they might not be real swallowed you down in a nasty gulp.
"Dr. [Name] follow me please," Robby called as he brushed past the nurses station where you were currently typing away at a chart, hands clutching a chart out in front of him to read. "Quickly."
You pushed up from the desk, chair rolling far behind you from the force of your legs. Not wanting to lose him, you rounded the counter and jumped into his long stride.
"Yes, Dr. Robby?" you asked.
As far as you knew, there weren't any incoming traumas and it was too late in the day for him to have questions about your patients that were currently waiting for a room.
Robby paused in front of an empty trauma room. "Jack just let me know that he found a man in need of medical attention and is bringing him in before handoffs, and I thought you could help him out." He handed you the tablet, already ready to go with updated information.
You took a quick glance over this. "Um, Dr. Robby, it looks like he'll need a pericardiocentesis."
"It's good that you know exactly what he'll need. What's the issue?"
Your eyes looked from the screen to his brown eyes. "I've never done one before."
He simply smiled at you and patted your shoulder. "That's why Jack's going to lead you through it. I would stay, but since he's coming in early, I'm going to head out."
You tried to quirk a smile. "Got a hot date waiting for you?"
A low chuckle shook his shoulders. "You got jokes. My bike needs some repairs, and today's the only day I can get it into the shop. But I know you'll be just fine. Your improvement in traumas will only grow if you step out of your comfort zone."
The automatic sliding doors slid open, and Jack plus a nurse wheeled a man through on a gurney. Jack's eyes lit up at the sight of you, but his brows pinched when he noticed Robby's bag slung over the taller man's shoulder.
"You leaving early, brother?" Jack questioned as he stepped past the two of you.
Robby's hand gently rested on your shoulder. "Yeah, but you two will have this handled."
You inhaled deeply, the weight of his hand and words pushing down on your chest.
Robby was counting on you. Don't fuck this up. Don't panic.
With the tablet tucked under your arm, you walked into the trauma room before pulling on a pair of gloves. Jack had already cut through the man's shirt.
"I need two 18-gage needles, one 9cm and one 15cm, a guidewire, dilator, and 8Fr pigtail catheter." He looked up toward Jesse. "Let's give him 10ml lignocaine 1%."
You quickly gather what he needed and placed him on the dressing that covered the side tray.
"Okay, Dr. [Name]," Jack said, lips twitching upwards at using your official name, "I need you to place an ECG electrode on the pericardiocentesis needle with a crocodile clip and insert. Once the tip touches the myocardium, the trace should show immediate ST elevation. Once that comes up, insert the wire to aspirate the fluid."
His words tumbled through your mind much too fast to the point that you wondered if he didn't know you'd never done this before. You pursed your lips as you tried to remember everything. In the grand scheme of things, your training provided everything that needed to be done.
Yet, there was a big difference between studying and actually doing the procedure.
You kept your breath steady as you readied the needle, clamping on a clip before turning the pointed end toward the man's chest. The first part went smoothly, and the needle went right through. However, instead of the consistent beeping that should have followed if the needle was in properly, an onslaught of alarms sounded through your ears.
You had missed something.
Jack whipped his head toward you and sneered. "You went too deep. I told you that the needle needed to touch the myocardium not go all the way through. Give it here."
He didn't even wait for you to transfer the needle over, hands already grabbing at it. His head bent down so he could see what was happening. With a practiced ease, he maneuvered the needle exactly where it should have been.
"Fuck," he whispered, "Robby wouldn't have done that. I don't know why he handed this off to you if he knew the patient would need a pericardiocentesis for tamponade."
You thickly swallowed pooling saliva to clear your throat. "Sorry."
"Just—" He closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. "I'll finish up here. You go home."
You jolted just a bit. Go home?
"Jack, I can still assist. You're going to need—"
"We have it covered. Catheter is in place, and you'd just be standing around. You're good."
Suddenly, a wave of anguish flowed through your body. It was happening again. Jack had just added fuel to the ever growing fire of jealousy and self-loathing. The feeling sized your chest, and you stepped back from the bed, shaky hands ripping off the nitrile gloves.
You couldn't help the stressed wheeze that pushed from your lungs.
Don't panic. Don't panic. He didn't mean it. He was just stressed. He didn't know that you'd never done that before.
Numbly, you walked back to the nurses station and sat back down in front of the computer, but your hands didn't raise to the keyboard. Your mind had already taken over, spewing rotten things about yourself that you could fix.
Be like Samira. Be like Robby. Jack won't keep wanting you if you aren't like them.
Your tongue ran across your dry lips in an attempt to wet them, but even your mouth had gone parched.
"Is charting really that bad?" you heard Dennis ask you as she sat down at a computer to your left. "You look like someone just told you they flushed your fish down the drain."
In a jerky motion, you turned towards him and did your best to compose yourself. "Oh no. I, uh, I didn't do well on a procedure with Dr. Abbot, and he asked me to leave."
Dennis at least had the decency to look sorry for you. "I bet you didn't do too bad. What was the procedure?"
"A pericardiocentesis," you said shyly.
He nodded slowly. " Shit, that's like one of the first things Robby let us do." He turned towards his own chart. "I could probably do them in my sleep by now."
Because he wasn't looking at you, Dennis missed the way your shoulders dropped and tears welled in your lash line. Jack's comment had been bad, but he just completely shattered any confidence you had left for the day.
"Right," you muttered. "Of course it'd be that easy if Robby taught you."
And you'd be right. On the night shift, patients like that rarely if not ever needed such a complex procedure. You could only think to one time that a woman came through almost needing one before they were able to use a different method to get her stable enough to be transferred to the OR.
With keys clacking loudly, you quickly finished up the chart before turning the whole thing off. You didn't even try to find Jack before you left, choosing to slip out before he even noticed you'd left without saying goodbye.
Once you were home, you stormed past the fridge and went straight to yours and Jack's shared room. Your scrubs hit the floor, and you didn't even bother to put on pajamas. The bed dipped under your weight as you pulled the duvet up over your body in a sad attempt at being comforted by its weight.
Sleep came quickly, only being interrupted by the door opening, a signal that Jack had gotten home. Blearily, you listened to him walk around the room before his edge of the bed sunk after he sat. The familiar hiss and pop of his prosthesis preceded him turning to lie down. You kept still as he scooted closer before wrapping an arm around your middle and molding your back to his chest.
"Sorry if I woke you up," he muttered sleepily. "Tried to find you before you left, but I guess I missed you. Wanted to say good job for that trauma. You helped so much."
You clamped your eyes shut, squeezing a fresh round of tears that dripped down your cheeks to puddle on your pillowcase.
After Samira, you had done your best to convince yourself it had been a slip of his tongue. But now after Robby, you weren't too sure that Jack would keep you around for much longer before finding someone better. Because there was no way you could ever amount to someone like Robby.
It was impossible.
I care, I care, I care, like ribbons in your hair, my stomach's all in knots, you got the one thing that I want. Ooh, I try, I try, I try, try to rationalize people are people, but it's like you're made of angel dust.
You were trying but failing to pretend Jack's words and comparisons hadn't left a giant, bleeding gap in your heart. Before everything happened, you never ever wondered if Jack loved you. Except now, you waited with bated breath for him to just drop the bucket and break up with you. You walked on eggshells around him.
Don't panic. Be put together. Keep your heart to yourself. Be calm like Samira. Don't fuck up. Know how to do your job. Be confident like Robby.
Those thought became your mantra and lifeline. No one seemed to think twice about your recent personality change. They loved the way they could count on you, the way you had an answer ready for everything. To the day and night shift, you were the epitome of composure. But behind closed doors, you were falling apart and into a pit you didn't think you'd be able to climb out of.
Jack didn't help with that either. You guessed he didn't even know what he had done to you, going on with his life like he hadn't given yours so many potholes that you couldn't continue on without falling behind. Everything you did was carefully thought out, every patient you talked to met a version of you that didn't reflect what you felt inside or outside.
You avoided mirrors the most, their reflections showing you exactly what you weren't. You weren't Samira with her lovely thick hair and clear skin. And you weren't Robby who carried years of trauma like it was apart of his body.
You were you, and you loathed it entirely.
You hated the glances you caught between Jack and Samira across the department. You hated the way they looked like they knew what the other was thinking before they spoke. You hated how you felt like on onlooker to a relationship that wasn't even happening.
You also hated the way Robby changed from a mentor to an idol. He had soon morphed into someone you wanted to so desperately be to the point you lost yourself in ambition.
And the worst part? You held nothing against them personally.
They didn't know what Jack had said. They didn't know that you were dying on the inside every time they raised you up during shifts. Bits of you crumbled away while they continued to glow.
Every morning you woke up, you wondered if the day would provide the straw that broke the camel's back with the way you felt like a stretched out rubber band waiting to fly.
A soft, savory aroma wafted through your kitchen. You absentmindedly stirred the spatula through the sauce, eyes glancing back and forth from the pan to the recipe. The instructions were written in beautiful, slanted cursive with curled letters that danced together. You'd found the card mixed in with a bunch of recipes Jack kept in his drawer. With a quick read told you that the owner of this one was his late wife, and the heart next to the title had you guessing if this was a favorite for the two of them.
Without thinking, you plucked it from the drawer and started working. After a week of back to back cases that ended in more loss than wins, a homemade meal was exactly what you and Jack needed after a day off. He was currently out getting his truck washed, and you wanted to be finished by the time he came home.
Quickly, the separate parts of the recipe—the chicken and veggies basting in the oven, the sauce on the stove top, and the wine chilling in the fridge—all came together right as Jack walked through the door.
"Hi, baby!" you called out as you pulled the pan from the oven. "Dinner's almost ready!"
You picked up on Jack's slightly clompy gate as he got farther into the house.
"Smells good," he said, walking over to stand behind you. "What did you make?"
Suddenly, you got nervous. What if it didn't taste correct? What if Jack didn't want you to make something so special between him and his wife. What if you ruined everything.
You didn't meet his eyes and poured the sauce over the top of the chicken. "Uh, a recipe from the drawer. It looked good, and we already had the ingredients."
He grabbed the card and held it up to his face, and you held your breath. When he didn't seem to get angry or sad, you counted it at a win.
"There's a bottle of white in the fridge if you want to get it out," you offered.
Jack stayed quiet. You didn't dare look even as the sound of a cork popping echoed in the room. While his immediate lack of response didn't cause concern to rise, your stomach still churned. To mirror him, you also didn't speak while you set the table.
He sat down, and so did you, your chairs facing the other like you'd done so many times in the past. Your heart pounded against your sternum as he took the first bite.
Loudly, he smacked his lips, setting his fork down at he chewed. The noise felt like nails on a chalkboard in the silence.
After a minute, he finally spoke. "Did you change anything in this?"
Your racing heart plummeted to your feet. "No. I kept it just like the card had it."
His brows furrowed. "Really? It tastes different than how I remembered it last."
You dug your nails into the fabric of the table running. "Does it not taste good?"
Jack looked up from his plate with wide, hazel eyes. "No, no, it's just different."
"But not good," you scoffed.
"I'm just trying to say that maybe you missed something. I know Alice's handwriting isn't the easiest to read."
"I know how to read cursive, Jack," you spat lowly. "I followed every single instruction on the card. It's the exact same recipe."
"It's not that big of a deal, sweetheart," he tried. "Maybe if you had a bit more practice like her, it might have come out the same. You're a good cook, don't get me wrong, but—"
Your hands slammed on the table in frustration, causing Jack's eyebrows to pinch as his words died in his mouth. He went to keep talking but stopped when he noticed the frustrated tears fall from your eyes.
"I'm done," you breathed, eyes darting around the room.
"Done?" Jack echoed. "What are you done with?"
"Everything," you hissed. "I'm done with this—" You gestured to the food with a wave of your hand. "I'm done with-with you. I'm done with it all."
You pushed up from the table and walked away, leaving Jack to scramble out of his chair and follow you.
"Sweetheart, what's going on?" he loudly asked, but you ignored him.
By the time he made it into the bedroom, you had already ripped out a suitcase from the closet and were pushing clothes into it without making them neat.
"Hey," Jack said gently. "Look, I'm sorry for saying that. I didn't think it'd upset you this much, but you don't have to leave."
You paused in a mid-throw of your shirts and spun to face him. A disbelieving laugh bubbled wetly through your throat. "That's the problem," you muttered, "you don't think."
He crossed his arms, biceps resting against his chest. A need to defend himself bloomed in his stomach. "What's that supposed to fucking mean."
You threw your arms up with an exasperated scoff. "Oh, so now you're concerned for what I'm saying. Maybe you should be concerned more with your words." You sucked in a deep breath. "Just go on and say it."
Jack took a step forward. "Say what?"
"That you'd rather me be someone else!" you screamed. "That-that I'm not enough by myself for you anymore." Pants heaved in your chest. "I'm sick and tired of standing here stuck listening to you compare me and wish that I'd be like or act like someone else."
Your words stole the breath from Jack's lungs as confusion and dread washed over him. "What?"
You closed your eyes and dropped your shoulders. "I heard you; I keep hearing you."
In another step forward, Jack was within two feet of you. He swallowed thickly, but you beat him to more words.
"On the fourth," you began to explain through tears, "I saw Samira patch you up, and I heard the way you told her that I could learn how to be more level headed like her."
A chill crept up Jack's spine. "Sweetheart—"
"Don't," you ordered. "Don't do that where you try to make it all better. I heard you loud and clear, Jack. And that's fine. I knew I could be more calm during traumas, so that's exactly what I did, but apparently—" You chocked out a laugh. "That wasn't enough for you."
He shook his head, hazel eyes swimming with guilt already.
"And I really thought that if I could be anything like Samira, your words wouldn't hurt as much. But then you had to go and tell me that you wished Robby had been there instead of me to do a pericardiocentesis." Your breath shuddered in the next exhale. "Did you even know that was the first time I'd ever been asked to do one? And instead of teaching at a teaching hospital, you threw me to the side saying Robby—the fucking chief attending—could have done the job. No fucking duh, Jack."
You threw a hand in the direction of the kitchen. "And now this? I thought that maybe I could be like Samira or study enough to be like Robby, but h-how am I supposed to compare to the woman who had your love first." You turned back toward the bed and haphazardly packed suitcase. "That's unfair to me. So, like I said, I'm done."
A pleading sound ripped from Jack's throat at the sound of your suitcase zipper closing.
"No, sweetheart, please. Let me fix this; tell me how to fix this," he begged.
"That's just it, Jack. I don't think this can be fixed. I've spent weeks with your words in my head wondering how I can be the perfect person for you. And I don't know if I can keep going on pretending."
Jack's body shook under a small sob as everything came crashing down. He absolutely had no clue what he had done to you, but thinking back, he understood that his careless words wracked irreparable damage to you and your personality.
"I'm sorry," he managed, voice breaking in a whisper.
"I know you are,' you responded, "and somehow that makes it hurt worse. Because while you were trying to compliment everyone else, you made me feel inadequate in every aspect of my life." Your fingers wrapped around the suitcase handle and tugged it off the bed. "I can't stay with someone who keeps hoping I'll be a conglomeration of all the best parts of others; that's not me. And I'll be honest, I don't even really know who me is anymore."
He inhaled sharply, eyes tearing from your face to look down at the floor. "So this is it? You're leaving?"
Another round of tears spilled down your cheeks as you choked on a sob of your own. "I don't want to, but I need to."
"But I love you," he croaked, eyes coming back up to meet yours.
"You love the best parts of me, Jack," you said, already moving to walk past him. "And that's never going to be enough to make me stay."
Your shoulder lightly brushed by his as you walked out of the room and all the way out the front door, leaving Jack behind in a house he realized he didn't want empty.
You poison every little thing that I do, Lacy, oh, Lacy, I just loathe you lately, and I despise my jealous eyes and how hard they fell for you, yeah, I despise my rotten mind and how much it worships you
Jack didn't truly realize what he'd done until almost six months after you left him crying in his bedroom.
Your absence in his life gave him a lot to think about, and the only conclusion he could come up with was that you were absolutely right. It didn't matter if he'd compared you to others unconsciously; he made you feel like that: worthless, in need of self change, inadequate; the list went on.
He'd seen the small changes too late.
The next shift he worked with you, Jack tracked every minuscule thing you did, and it felt like one big punch to the gut. He saw the way you constantly checked your hair, ponytail pulled tight enough to give you a headache, skin, and scrubs and the way you straightened your stethoscope so it rested perfectly across your collarbones.
His stomach dropped when he watched you pause before a trauma and gulp down air before heading inside like someone who needed to take control before it could get out of hand. Before him, you weren't like that. Yes, you could be nervous to mess up, but you didn't act like you had to be the smartest person in the room.
He did that to you. He made you feel the need to change. And it killed him. It killed him once he learned you transferred over to a specialty in orthopedics, and his mind made him think you did it just to get away from him.
He was slightly correct, but not entirely.
You needed a fresh start, somewhere where you knew no on had any high expectation of you. And somehow, orthopedics gave you just that. And you thrived in the environment, only coming down to the Pitt when they needed a transfer or second opinion. Sure, you had to accompany Park the Shark more than you'd liked to, but through your time there, the old you was coming back, the one who worked through her panic instead of shutting it down, the one who only got frazzled when she cared about patients and their needs.
It was never weakness you showed, and you had to learn that all over again.
Someone helped you see that along the way as well.
"What do got here?" Park asked while snapping on a pair of gloves, eyes predatory as he walked into Trauma Room 1.
Jack looked up with pinched brows when he realized that you didn't walk in behind the larger man. "Where's Dr. [Name]?"
Park didn't even acknowledge his question. "For fucks sake man, you didn't even pack this right."
"You should know how to put a detached leg together even if I missed the pressure of the wrapping by an inch," Jack shot back.
"Abbot, you should know that I can't fucking put your patient back together after you decided to play Barbies. It's not as easy as popping a joint back in place."
"Dr. [Name] could do it."
Except for the monitors, everyone went quiet. Jack tore his eyes away from Park and looked back down at his blood soaked gloves. Reality crashed down on him as he realized he just did to Park what he'd done to you. Even if he knew he probably didn't hurt Park's feelings at all, it sucked to know that he was still so quit to throw out words like that.
Park's shoulders rose in a shrug. "She could, but she isn't here right now. She switched shifts and won't be in until 7." He smirked. "Think she said she had plans with someone."
An ugly roar of jealousy clawed at Jack's insides, nails sinking deep in his gut.
You were with someone?
He went through the motions of his shift, mind still on the fact that you weren't on call because someone had taken your time and attention away from the hospital. His knuckles turned white around the tablet he held while going through handoffs. He didn't know if his body was still trained to look for you, forever waiting for your soft lips against his, but Jack couldn't help but keep his head on a swivel and ears open to catch the sound of your voice.
Like a laugh in his face from the universe, your laugh fluttered through the ER, and his head whipped hard enough that his neck hurt in order to find you. When he finally saw you walking in, his heart dropped to his feet, because there you were, smiling brighter than he'd seen in a long while, hand enclasped with a man's.
Jack swallowed thickly. He instantly hated the way his blood boiled at the sight. He looked back down at the tablet after your voice seemed to draw closer to where he was standing.
"Andy," you sighed wistfully, "you didn't have to walk me all the way in here. I know you're weary of the germs."
"I know," the man—Andy (you gave him a fucking nickname?)—muttered back, wide, hazel eyes looking down at you like you hung the moon. "But I wanted to."
You pouted playfully. "You're so sweet. Am I going to see you tomorrow morning, or are you working again?"
He hummed. "My morning's yours if you want it."
"You know I always do."
Jack watched the corner of the man's mouth twitch into an almost-there smile, and he had to look away when his head started leaning in toward yours.
The small smack of your lips on his made bile gurgle in Jack's stomach.
"Okay, you gotta go save lives."
You giggled again. "I just put people back together, and technically, Park's the one doing all the procedures. You know my hands start shaking."
From the corner of his eye, Jack watched him lift your hands to his lips and kiss the tops of your knuckles.
"Just breathe and know that you alone can do this. You were the one to get into the program, so they want you, shaky hands and all."
Jack's heart clenched to the point of a physical reaction to the pain. He should have been the one saying that to you, standing in your corner and building you up one compliment at a time.
But now, he had to stand on the sideline and watch a man (someone who scarily looked a bit like him) give you all the praise and love you deserved. And while Jack could do everything in his power to let people know how good of a doctor you were, it wouldn't ever be the same, forever stuck loathing the moment he lost you without knowing.
Description: Alexa, play ‘manchild’ by Sabrina. Or, 3 times Jack notices the incompetency of your new boyfriend and gets annoyed, and 1 time he does something about it.
Tags/warnings: big age gap (r is in 20's and abbot is 50), "ive got tattoos older than you" gets said, yes he has tats bcos i said so, size diff, mentions of concussion, medical inaccuracies (idk shit), (1) allusion to reader having a choking kink (💀), r has a used to have a massive crush on him, made ellis a lesbian bcos ofc, abbot life's goal is to make fun of r's bf, flirting (so much), bit of yearner!jack & dom!jack vibes, gets dialogue heavy at the end, angsty fights & confessions, suggestive themes, mentions of sex, sexual innuendos, i use loads of em dashes (dont even compare me to chatgpt bcos im better), pet names: kid, kiddo, sweetheart
Note: tysm for the love on my first ff, it means the world to me. Writing something longer made me lose all objectivity, and I genuinely cannot tell if it's good or great or whatever. Please give me feedback (PERSONALLY). Again, I tried to keep r neutral but you might see mentions of r having hair.
Enjoy. This is for the ones with a competency kink. And for the ones who def wanted him to call you “kid.” and the ones who love silver foxes (get checked) (ur girl incl)
1
“I told him not to take me here,” you mutter to Jack, who's checking for tenderness in your neck, his thick fingers pressing against the side, while you try not to think of his hands on your neck in a very different context.
“Let him. Something the boy can do right, hm?”
After checking for initial symptoms — making you walk in a straight line, and balancing yourself on a single foot, you're subjugated to the very hands-on physical examination. You're suddenly wondering how other patients remain composed when Dr. Abbot touches them like this.
Well, usually, attending physicians don't do a history check or a physical exam, but this one does. For you. Probably because you're his staff.
Focus.
You clock into the reality, realizing the dig he made at your “boy.”
“Yeah, she didn't wanna come, I kinda dragged her here. I was like, ‘babe, it may just be a light concussion but you're a nurse, not a doctor’ so, like, thanks, doc. We needed the big guns,” proudly speaks Noah standing against the wall, checking time on his phone for the 5th time since you've been in this room.
Jack's jaw tightens and he shoots him a look so dirty, Noah actually takes a step back.
“Watch it, kid, if it wasn't for nurses, American healthcare would be even fuckin’ worse.”
Abbot looks back at you, and raises an eyebrow as if to say “really? him?”
You should speak up in your boyfriend's defense, something — anything — to wipe that perceptive look on Jack's face, the smugness he isn't trying hard enough to hide. You might as well be in your birthday suit right now, for how bare you feel. How bare you always feel in his presence.
God knows how much you'd actually like to be — no, you have a boyfriend. A perfectly handsome, competent, and a caring one.
Handsome. Not rugged.
Competent. Doubtful.
Caring. Well, caring enough.
“Doctor Abbot…” you begin, voice stripped raw, breath coming uneasy, when his index brushes right over your thrumming pulse.
“Focus on the examination. Tsk, thought we taught you better here. Well, I at least did. Don't you agree, nurse?”
The air leaves your mouth in a little puff, leaving your throat dry, your lips soon following. You need a glass of —
“Need some water? You've been here a while,” Jack asks, tone becoming gravelly and intimate, eyebrows drawing closer seeing how pale you look.
He immediately turns to Noah — hands leaving your neck — without waiting for a response from you. His voice takes on its normal cadence. “Hey, son, grab her a bottle, would you? Vending machine is at the end of the corridor. Thanks.”
His ‘Thanks’ comes out in a slow drawl that makes you squirm in your seat.
Your attending has not even fully turned back to you yet, when your partner speaks up, “Uh, bottle of what?”
“A Pinot Noir, perhaps. Which one do you prefer?” His eyes find yours again, brows raising in deep amusement. Is he getting a kick out of humiliating your boyfriend — and by extension, you?
“Uh…” noah looks utterly confused. You feel almost bad for him. Almost.
“Water, son. Get your girl a bottle.” Noah makes a move to leave, complying immediately to the doctor. Has he ever even listened to you so quickly? God, men are such dicksuckers for each-other.
“A chapstick while you're at it, maybe,” Jack mutters, trying to keep the humour out of his voice. Noah stops in his tracks again, clearly deaf to the sarcasm.
Jack huffs. “Just go.”
You honestly don't understand why he dislikes Noah so much. You've only been dating him for 3 weeks.
Well.
Noah did try to make a “romantic” gesture by coming to pick you up from your shift. Except, he arrived an hour early as a “surprise” and cribbed because you couldn't leave early. And he did just undervalue your job as a nurse. And…of course, an hour ago, he accidentally hit you your head with a football while he was showing attempting a trick.
As Noah leaves, Jack lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Don't worry, I'll get you a chapstick,” he says, staring shamelessly at your trembling bottom-lip before making a slow way up again.
“Penlight. Incoming.”
You've barely had time to react when a sudden light shone in your eyes. Your face instinctively tries to move back, only to be stopped by a feather-light touch on your jaw. Jack's finger retracts as soon as it comes, leaving you starved for more. More than just the pad of his index.
You hold still for him, letting him sway the torch alternatively between your eyes. When the light is kept back with a soft clink, there are no more distractions as he stands up straight again.
The creases in his scrubs only increase when he folds his arms over his chest.
“So.” You mutter, your gaze trying to find something interesting on the floor.
“Nick seems like a good guy.”
“Noah.”
“Right. We should thank Nick for bringing you here right on time. Wouldn't wanna lose one of our best nurses.”
You scoff at his words. Your feet are moving in a slow back and forth rhythm, your eyes fixated on them.
“Let's not say things we don't mean for good staff satisfaction scores.”
“If you're trying to insult me by implying I care about that shit, good job. I'm slightly more offended than the time you implied I am too old for karaoke." He's slightly rocking himself back and forth on the balls of his feet.
“Didn't imply, actually. I think I was pretty direct.”
A huff of laughter leaves his lips. You don't want huffs or sarcastic laughs. You want his full belly-laugh. His happy laugh that you've only seen Robby drag out of him.
“I don't care about staff satisfaction scores,” he lightly shakes his head for a moment.
“Yes, you just sai —”
“Only care about yours.”
That makes you look up at him again with widened eyes and parted lips. Little shit, off-handedly throwing around words that gives you butterflies.
Dead butterflies, of course, just like your affections on him. Former crush. Yes.
You quickly regain your senses to retort.
“Satisfaction with your services? If so, thank you for checking me for a concussion.” The formality in your words completely betray the flush creeping up your cheeks.
“Of course, what else?” You hate the way he says your last name. The way it rolls off his tongue. The way it reeks of intent, and not casualty.
The sharp noise of metal rings dragging across a rod brings you out of your trance. Nic — Noah emerges from behind the privacy curtain, a bottle of water clutched in his right hand, and a simmering cup of black coffee in left. “Got you choices, babe.”
You smile thankfully at him, perhaps more grateful for the distraction. You extend your hand, your pointer gesturing at the water. You don't feel the same electricity when Noah's fingers brush against yours in the hand-off.
Jack takes a step back. He nods at you. “Rest. Hydrate. You know it.”
"Mhm, no big brain activity, limited screen time, don't avoid if symptoms worsen."
"Impressive. How does a civvie like you know the drill?" he asks, eyes widening in mock-surprise.
"Oh, I'm very smart. Could've easily been a nurse at your hospital," you can't help but smile.
"Shame. I'm sure you would've been terrific."
He nods at your boyfriend next, “Nick.”
“Uh, it's actually Noa —” but Jack's right hand has already caught the edge of the curtain, swiftly pulling it out of his way, and disappearing shortly after.
“She prefers lattes, by the way.”
2
Bzzzzzzz
“Doctor Ellis, I didn't know you allowed your staff to bring phones in a trauma bay. I would've brought mine to play some music while we inserted a chest tube inside this man.”
Ellis only grunts, too focused on work at hand.
Your cheeks heat at Doctor Garcia's comment, feeling the loud buzz against your thigh for the nth time today.
“I'm sorry — ” you had only just begun when Dr. Abbot's voice cut in, deadpan and dry.
“Yolanda, you listen to music?”
“Doesn't everyone?”
“Yeah, well, normal people do. Why?”
Garcia's sharp glare to the attending does nothing to his demeanor. His hands — controlled, precise, and so fucking practiced — don't stop for even a fraction of a second.
“Not everyone can have eccentric hobbies like nude yoga, Dr. Rabbit.”
Nude yoga? Nude? You force your mind to not conjure up an image of that. Especially not with your attending — who you have used to have a schoolgirl crush on — as the main character. Or, you'll be the one on the operation table instead of observing, breaking out in hives.
“I'm sorry, Dr. Garcia,” you complete.
“Apologise to the man on the table; It's not my life on line. No matter how much I wish whenever I work with you boy scouts.” You always cringe at the bluntness in her tone, but it's worse when directly aimed at you.
“Easy, Garcia,” Jack commanded, tone instantly gaining its authority, pausing a moment to shoot her a look. Yolanda doesn't deter, and two of your most-respected, highly-competent seniors seem to engage in a silent eye-conversation. It ends with a twitch of Garcia's lips as she glances at you, and your attending muttering, “shut it.”
Huh, Strange.
***
The biohazard bin shuts with a snap, and you rub your clammy hands, trying to get the feel of rubber gloves off them. Trauma bays are always stress-inducing, no matter —
Bzzzzzzzzz.
You're about to kill someone tonight. It's gonna be your boyfriend. And you're gonna enjoy it. And you're gonna go online, talk about it, and watch a number of supportive women tell you, “I support your rights, but also your wrongs. You go, bitch.”
The constant vibration against your thigh, the baby crying in pedes, and looking like a fool in a trauma bay…you heave a sigh. Has the ED always been so bright? It's like the lights are directly in your eyes.
You hate loud. So much.
You un-pocket your phone, letting it unlock before you start typing furiously, your mouth instinctively murmuring everything you're typing. Your feet carry you forward, muscle memory taking you to a quiet corner, where you can peacefully argue. And bang your head against the wall, if you're lucky. But you're not sure if there's a staff discount at The Pitt. And frankly, you're already struggling with rent and groceries.
Look at you being fiscally responsible.
“Fuck, sorry,” leaves your mouth as soon as you accidentally collide with someone. A single calloused palm settles on your hip, steadying you.
Your lips part to say something, but no words come out. It seems the entirety of blood in your body has rushed towards your hip to greet Dr. Abbot's hand, before it retracts.
“Been apologising a lot today. Forgot your training or have you rejoined pre-school?” His body moves to your front, effectively blocking the view of rapid-paced staff, and people in wheelchairs and gurneys.
“Just…one rookie mistake after another.” Your body sags sideways, taking support of the wall. As if on instinct, his posture mirrors yours, his entire side leaning against the wall as well. You deposit your phone back in your pocket.
“For what it's worth, you started out not too long ago. You are, technically, still a rookie,” he speaks.
In this slow corner, the lights seem dimmer and noise quieter. Your shoulders drop just a bit. You're not sure if it's the location or him. Your bet is on location.
You wonder how you must look to the others, a junior nurse and the person with the most seniority on this floor, tucked away in a hushed hallway. What would they think of you? Certainly not co-workers.
Your lips curl in a tired, soft smile. “Trying to make me feel better again, sir?”
“Trying to tell you trauma surgeons have a permanent stick up their ass. Shen and I have bets on whether she lives in an ice castle or a secluded cave.”
Your smile grows bigger, and his eyes crinkle. “It's not just her. In fact, I admire women with a mean mouth.”
“Only women?”
“Men already are. I can't think of any situations where they'd need to be more mean.”
“I can think of a few,” his voice dips even lower, rocks coated in honey. Your eyes find the fluttering pulse on his throat, and travel up his face, to find his gaze fixated on your lips. He looks up again. Slowly. Not in a rush.
In this low-lit corner and his head tilted down to adjust to your height, his curls — salt and pepper and presumably soft — brushed his forehead, creating shadows across his face.
You clear your throat, trying to erase some of the tension. “It's Noah. You met him the other day, if you haven't forgotten."
“Oh, I tried.”
You click your jaw, “He's a nice guy, sir.”
“Uh-huh. Is he blowing up your phone? What's wrong?” His brows furrow in concern, and you find his worry comforting. You're about to open your mouth to explain —
“Did he forget his Roblox password?”
You slightly shake your head, looking down at his shoes. “You…Dr. Abbot,” you trail off, looking up at him again to see the corner of his mouth twitching, eyes wide as if he's seriously expecting an answer.
“How do you even know what that is? And no, that's not it. He…sprained his ankle, hewasdoingaparkourjump,” you mumble the last part as quickly as you can, cheeks heating and eyes wandering.
Jack pauses, expression caught somewhere between humour and exasperation, “Wow, didn't know your boy was still in middle school. Tell me, were you trying to find a boyfriend or a son?”
You throw your head back, a light groan escaping your mouth. While you rub your eyes, you feel your attending move. After a second, he has a bottle of water in his hand.
You give him a look of gratitude and hold your fingers out. But before passing it to you, he twists off the cap with ease. For a moment, you let yourself enjoy the sight of his biceps straining against his scrub top.
You empty almost half the bottle, throat working the liquid down, flushed under the heavy gaze of the man standing in front of you who is currently shamelessly oggling your neck. He's quick to take the bottle off your hands once you're done.
You mutter a quiet “Thanks.” He holds out his free hand forward. You shoot him a confused look, your fingers come up, hovering centimeters away from his palm.
Does he want you to hold…?
“Your phone, nurse.”
Your eyes blink, realisation creeping with a smudge of cringe, “Oh, that makes more sense. Yeah.” But the embarrassment is quick to vanish when you think about what he said.
“What? No. I feel naked without my phone on me.”
His eyes drop to your chest the moment the word “naked” leaves your mouth. You're not sure you've stopped blushing in the last 2 minutes.
“You're not a teenager.”
“Well, I love my phone like one,” you defensively say, standing up straighter. Your right hand moves towards your pocket to protect your mobile.
Abbot rumbles your last name like a warning, his husky voice settling low in your belly, and your traitorous hand is fishing the phone out without a conscious thought.
Before you can even hand it to him, he slightly bends, prying it out of your fingers.
“Now, I feel like a teenager,” you pout.
He uses her corner of your phone to tap against your nose, “Then don't make me go all authoritative on you again, kid.”
With that, he pockets your phone and walks away. You watch him twist the cap off the bottle again and drink directly from the mouth of it. The mouth you just had your own lips wrapped around.
Kid.
You need a chair.
3
“Okay, instead of using this job as an excuse for a sad dating life, how about you guys just admit…y'all got no game,” Mateo knocks back the last sip of his drink, making this very, very bold claim.
“First of all, nobody was talking about dating life. We were talking about sex. Forget dates, when was the last time any of you got laid?” Ellis asks, using her glass to gesture vaguely around the table, a few droplets falling on the wood.
Your shift was hell. Well, everyone's was. Really, every shift is hell, so this one was no different. The only thing was that today, everyone decided to grab a drink. Not in the nearest park, no. Instead, they're all here, the nearest bar that's open at a time when a person should be doing a morning walk, not shots.
You're tucked between Mateo on your left and Jack on your right, in a worn-out brown leather booth, with Shen and Ellis across the table.
“I don't feel comfortable talking about the personal details of my married life with my colleagues,” replied Shen, sadly nodding his head.
Jack's voice, raspy from his whiskey, cuts in, “Oh, shut it, Shen.”
“I'd say 6 weeks since we slept together,” Shen gave up quickly. A series of sympathetic groans and nods went around the table.
Mateo juts his chin towards Ellis, raising his brows. “Hooked up with someone last week. Left before she woke up,” replied the woman.
“Didn't know you were a player, doc,” laughs your fellow nurse, before his head turns to you. “And you? Come on, we're the youngest and hottest, we gotta rub it in their faces. Besides, you have, uh, what's his name...”
You laugh nervously, tracing the rim of your glass with your index. While everyone’s lazy and heavy-lidded all around, you feel Abbot's fervent gaze burning a hole into the side of your head.
“Noah. And hate to disappoint, but it's been some while,” you admit. Not being able to hold back any longer, you finally turn your head to the right. Not taking his eyes off you, your attending takes a long sip of his whiskey.
“How much is a while?”
This is inappropriate. Your attending physician shouldn't be asking you this, you're sure of it. But nobody but you looks alarmed.
“I would say…none of your business, doc,” you softly murmur, the liquid courage making your tongue sharper.
“And what about you Dr. Abbot?” Mateo jumps in again.
It's your turn to look at Jack with the same intense gaze. He doesn't take his eyes off you, “been a while for me too,” he mutters so low, like he's only referring to you.
You lose. You lose the staring contest and let your eyes fall back to your glass. Thank god, you have some of your drink still left.
“Why, is it…old man stuff?” Mateo asks, and your eyes widen at his question. You bite the inside of your cheek to hold back your laugh. Ellis's rich chuckle fills the quiet bar. You finally bring your cup to your lips.
“I'm an attending, Mateo. We're always at the very top of our performance. Here to serve well. In or out of trauma bays.”
Your drink goes down the wrong pipe, and you break out into a violent cough. Why would he say it like that? You're pretty sure you look like a tomato.
You feel a strong hand on your back, beginning to rub small circles through the thin fabric of your shirt. “Easy,” Jack whispers into your right ear.
Is nobody watching this?
You look around to see Shen, Ellis, and Mateo have deeply engrossed themselves in a completely different conversation. You wonder for a second if it's intentional.
His heavy hand stops rubbing, instead patting the small of your back softly and rhythmically. Your coughs start dying down, and you wipe the underside of your watery eyes with your knuckle.
“Have trouble swallowing, kiddo?” His voice is right next to your ear, every breath rustling a tiny bit of your hair.
Oh. Oh. OH.
“Think I need some air, sir,” you mutter, voice dried. You feel floaty, and it has nothing to do with alcohol.
Jack rises from his seat with a low grunt, “Think we're gonna step outside for a moment,” he announces.
You quickly follow suit and walk out after him before you can see anyone's expressions. You're pretty sure you hear Shen's giggle.
***
You welcome the morning chill that greets your face as soon as you step out, double doors falling shut behind you. You close your eyes, tilting your head upwards, and take a deep breath, easing the night's tension out of your body.
“Hot date yesterday?” You're quickly brought back to reality, turning sideways. Abbot has his hands in pocket and hair ruffled from the wind.
“Oh, uh, yes. How'd you guess?”
“You clocked in yesterday wearing something…different.” His eyes drop to your chest, before lingering on your lips, and then meeting your eyes again.
Your cheeks burn. You didn't realise he saw you in your fancy clothes. It was bad enough that you were running late, and worse that you didn't get to change before clocking in with your date outfit still on.
“Yeah. Noah took me to dinner. I just signed a new lease. I'm moving out of my current dumphole to another dumphole, but it's nearer to work. So.”
“Congratulations, glad to have you close.”
“Thanks, sir.”
A comfortable silence falls over for a minute before he speaks again, “was the place nice and quiet?”
“Hm?”
“Where he took you. Nick.”
“Ah. No. It's kinda trendy right now, so, super loud…” you trail off with a sigh. Jack keeps looking at you, as if wanting you to say more, as if finally expecting you to spill the truth out: Noah doesn't know you.
“Hm. Didn't peg you for a gold person, either.”
“What?”
He gestures with his chin towards your neck, where a sliver of chain is peeking out from under your shirt. A new one, gold colored, gifted by your boyfriend yesterday.
“I'm an anything person, really.”
Jack doesn't say anything, only waits. And this time, it works.
“Well, silver, if I had to pick. I like silver,” you speak, your voice bordering on a whisper.
Jack finally stops looking at you, and with that, you finally breathe. He casts his gaze towards the sky.
“I know.”
He says your name.
Your first name that he rarely says. Your heart stutters. Every bit of fresh air you inhaled seems to leave your lungs all at once. Instead, a family of butterflies — so fucking alive — have swarmed in there, rendering you speechless.
Please say my name again.
“I know, kid.”
“I'm not a kid, Jack.” For a second, you watch his eyes get darker. He takes a step closer to you. Then another.
You crane your neck to look up at him. Suddenly, he turns his back to you. One of his hands peeks from his side, and tugs at the lower back of his shirt, pushing it down by an inch or two.
You stand confused, until you notice faint black ink — now visible — just below his neck. You suck in a sharp breath.
By the time Jack turns towards you again, you're barely holding yourself up. He leans forward, his nose only inches away from yours.
“I've got tattoos older than you,” he breathes, “kiddo.”
Your knees turn to jelly. A sharp heat travels straight into your belly, increasing the buzz between your legs. Your lips part, teeth sinking into your plush lower lip.
You can only numbly turn your body towards the door as he holds it open for you. There's not a hint of teasing or smugness in his expression. There is something else, though.
Desperation.
You walk in through the gate, mind already trying to think of a reason to break up with Noah. Unfortunately, or fortunately, it finds plenty.
+1
“Oh, honey, just take this right now. The doctor has told your mom the rest. You're gonna be just fine!” You give your brightest smile to the 6 year-old girl, looking all sad and tiny on the gurney.
You stand up straight again, your back protesting. For someone still “young”, you definitely have an old-person back.
The mom gives you a thankful smile that still doesn't hide her tiredness, “Thank you so much.”
“She's gonna be alright, mom.” You flash one last smile and turn to pull the privacy curtain. When you step out, you see Lena, your charge nurse, and Jack in a conversation at the charge nurse station.
Lena calls out to you, “All done in there, hun?” You nod and give a thumbs-up. You expect your attending to say something, a joke, or even glance at you, but he doesn't.
Your heart sinks. After the morning at the bar, you went home and planned how to break-up with your boyfriend. On the other hand, Jack apparently went home and came up with, “10 ways on how I will ignore my co-worker who I occasionally flirt with on purpose.”
For the past week, there have been no lingering looks, no cornering you to check in, and no making fun of you.
No point in dwelling. You start going on about your usual business, entering through another curtain, all while the back of your mind still calculates how to leave Noah.
You had prepared your speech and your reasons. But then, Noah lost his job the same day you were planning to have the talk. And 2 days later, he was leaving to visit his parents in California. Shouldn't you just wait until after the trip? It will be so much easier.
Yes, you're definitely delaying it because it makes sense, and not because you're scared that Noah will absolutely take it the wrong way. He's been miserable lately as is, and while you were trying to be sympathetic, you couldn't find it in yourself.
Noah had always been unobservant and insensitive to your needs, not doing anything till he's told. All while, he expected it all from you — emotional support, moral support, and now, financial support. You saw nothing wrong with being “needy” but didn't you deserve the same treatment from him?
As you leave another exam room, still conflicted, you see Lena waving you over, the telephone receiver pressed against her ear. You quickly walk over.
Lena brings down the handset, palming the mouthpiece so the other person can't hear. “Sweets, it's your boyfriend, he's all panicking over something. Do you wanna take this, or should I make an excuse?”
The color from your face drains. This is humiliating, Noah calling at your work because he can't take care of himself. You quickly un-pocket your phone, tapping the screen awake.
9 missed calls from Noah.
“Uh, I'll take it. Thank you, Lena. Sorry too.” She gives you a sympathetic smile and hands you the handset.
“Noah, you can't be calling me at work.” You whisper into the mouthpiece.
“Babe, did you think I wanted to? I called your phone like 3 times, but you didn't pick it up. It feels like you're ignoring me.”
“It's because I am ignoring you. I am at a fucking hospital, working the emergency department,” your voice is straining with the effort to keep it low.
“Oh, I knew you'd throw your job in my face because I'm unemployed. You're a nurse, not a doctor, babe. See, I remember things.”
You take a deep breath.
“What do you want?”
“I locked myself out of my house. The locksmith will come by in the morning. Can you swing by and drop your keys? You know, I lost my license recently, and my ankle is still not good enough to take the subway.”
“No.”
“Jesus, I'm stranded, just be a good girlfriend for once.”
That sends you over the edge. You put the telephone down with more than necessary force, cringing when a few people turn to look at you.
“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, tears of frustration welling up in your eyes.
“You okay, kid?” Lena asks sweetly, coming to stand closer to you. You're only able to nod at her. If you open your mouth, your voice will break. When your charge nurse finally steps away, you clear your throat, and blink back your tears.
When you look up with clear eyes, there's Dr. Abbot standing about 20 feet away from you, in a conversation with a nurse that he's not listening to. Because he's looking directly at you.
You quickly move your head, “Lena, mind if I take 5?”
“Take 10, hun.” You flash her a grateful smile and start walking towards the supply closet.
You twist the doorknob and walk into what must be a 6×6 feet room, and close the door behind you. Your phone is still in your hand, clutched tightly enough to be used as a weapon. You open Noah's chat.
This isn't working out. When the locksmith figures out your door, pack my things in a box and leave them outside my door. Have fun folding your own bedsheets. I'm changing my Netflix password!
Your thumb hovers over the send button. Is the message too unkind? Too cruel for you? You drop the phone in your pocket, with the text still sitting there.
You force yourself to take deep breaths, pressing the heel of your hands against your eyes, turning around to face the organized racks.
“Fuck, fuck, fuc —”
The door slams open, and then shuts behind you, making you jump around, your hands falling to your chest.
“Jesus, Jack.”
“Did you forget your manners?” His voice comes out stern, low enough to drop the temperature of the room.
Your hands fall to your side. You're not in the mood for this. You don't want him in here, no matter how quickly your body is gaining color in his presence.
“What do you want, sir?” your question comes out breathless.
“You know, we pay you to work, not to hide in supply closets when you have fights with your childish boyfriend.”
“I asked Lena first, and I should be out in 5.”
“A patient can need you in 1,” he deadpans.
“Good thing there's Mateo and a bunch of fucking nurses already out there! I'm not the only one, sir,” you frantically wave your hands around, voice rising in pitch.
“Yeah, you're the only one yelling at your attending,” he leans back against the door, looking like he's enjoying a goddamn show. His calm pisses you off even more.
In your frazzled state, the true words spill out before you can filter them.
“Yes, my attending who has spent the last couple of days icing me out, keeping his distance, like I broke into his house and stole his leg.”
He's eyeing your motioning hands cutting through the air. You must look like the crazy one, while he stands there all frickin’ composed, his lips twitching.
“That's dark. And I'm your attending, nurse, as you mentioned. I'm not your boyfriend,” he shakes his head slowly like he's talking to a dog.
“I know that. Do you?”
“Oh, I know I'm not Nick,” he snickers.
“FOR THE LAST —” your voice booms throughout the small room before you stop yourself. You pinch your nose, chest heaving up and down.
Deep breaths. In and out. You're not the only two people in the hospital, no matter how much it feels like that.
Nurse, there's people that are dying.
“For the last time, his name is Noah,” you calmly say, voice shaking with the effort of controlling your pitch.
“Right, sorry. I just forgot because he forgot to fill his name out on your discharge papers when he brought you in. It's okay, children make mistakes like that all the time. Even when the forms are very easy to navigate, and the font size is very large,” Jack mocks, laughing sardonically.
“Why do you care so much?”
“Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart. I care about all my staff.”
Sweetheart.
“You're killing me.”
“Trauma bay 1 is empty,” he deadpans, shrugging his shoulders.
A humorless laugh escapes you. Oh, he thinks he's so funny.
“Staff. Is that what I am? Then why do you look at me differently than you look at others? Why do you catch me in the hallways? Why are you always seeking me out? Why have you not walked out of this —”
You flinch at the sudden motion, hand moving towards your temple where something just knocked against it. You look down, where a box maybe twice the size of your hand, lies on the ground.
The rack behind you is still vibrating from when your right arm collided with it 2 seconds ago. You shouldn't have been waving your arms around so much.
“Ow,” you mutter, the heel of your impacted hand rubbing your temple, and eyes downcasted at the box, looking at it like it personally wronged you. Which it did.
Jack quickly moves towards you, his left hand shooting up to take hold of your fingers that are kneading your head — same fingers that smashed against the rack — and brings your conjoined hands down.
“Careful. Are you hurt?” With only inches between you, he bends his head down to examine where you took the hit. His free palm brushes your hair back gently, and you shiver at the touch of his warm skin.
Trapped between your torsos, your hands are still joined, his thumb stroking against your knuckles to soothe any pain you felt on the impact.
“I asked you something, kid.”
You've lost your voice. You look from your connected fingers to his eyes.
And, oh.
His eyes have softened, looking at you with concern. This man sees lacerations, head traumas, hematomas, and fractures every single day. You've never seen him look this worried, and all for a pathetic clash that didn't even leave a bruise behind.
He switches positions with you, and suddenly, his back faces the shaky rack, his form protectively towering over yours. All of your body protests when he moves back, his hands dropping to his own sides.
“You can continue yelling at me now.”
In and out. Deep breath.
“Why have you not walked out of this room yet? And why have you kept me at an arm's distance?” you say but your voice is anything but loud, it's small and quiet, breaking at the end.
“As I said —”
“Stop, stop, stop. Stop, Dr. Abbot, and don't lie to me.” You instinctively take a step forward, closing all the distance again.
A pause.
“I really thought you were gonna break up with him. That morning, I thought you finally regained your senses, and were gonna cut off the dead weight,” he admits, running a hand through his hair.
“Jac —”
“Shut up and let me speak. I thought you were gonna end it with him, and you would come to the next shift looking happy and bright again. Just like you used to before you let that boy date you. You.”
His eyes are boring into yours, and he looks breathless and affected, so opposite to how he was just a minute ago.
“Me? What about me?”
He laughs humourlessly, “let's not fish for compliments. You know what you are. And if you don't, it makes me wonder what kind of limpdicks you have been with.”
You suck in a sharp breath, at a loss of words. Your cheeks burn, and your heart does a backflip.
He thinks that?
Jack turns around, so his back is facing you. Both his hands brush his hair back, and you can see the expansion and contraction of his back as he takes deep breaths.
“What if I had broken up? Nothing would've changed. It's not like you would've done anything. You would've continued to eye-fuck me across gurneys, and flash a smile once a day,” you speak up, voice rising in pitch again.
He turns back sharply, walking even closer to you, his chest colliding with yours.
“Oh, you know it's more complicated than that,” he retorts, eyes narrowing.
“What? You're my senior, you're older —”
He says your name. Low. Authoritative. You feel a traitorous sensation between your thighs.
“I'm not just older, I am old. Period. And I know just how old I am, because I feel it everyday when I strap my leg, and wake up with a new pain every day."
You don't know how to respond. Your gaze falls to his lips, and before you know what you're doing, you're withdrawing your phone from your pocket.
You take a tiny step back to make space, and tap your screen awake. It directly opens to Noah's chat, your message still sitting there in the type box.
You turn your screen towards Jack. His eyes move back and forth, reading your draft. When his eyes meet you again, they're intense, frantic, and what do you know…excited.
“Why haven't you sent it?”
“Because he's already going through a lot. He doesn't have a job, or a car, or…okay, I get it.”
Jack's fingers come up to grab your chin, holding it up. He looks like he's just had a shot of espresso and topped it off with another 3.
“Do it. Do it right now, in front of me, or you'll chicken out. He lost his job, his car, the next thing he loses is you. The one that's worth the most.”
With his breathless voice, taking the edge of desperation as every second ticks, you know you've lost. You bite your bottom lip.
His thumb moves from your chin, to your lower lip, freeing it from your teeth, “don't worry yourself over him.”
Deep breath. In and out.
You slowly look down at your screen, your thumb hovering over the little arrow.
Send.
You put the mobile back in your pocket and look up at Jack with hope, like a kid waiting for approval. Jack flashes you the biggest smile you've ever seen on him.
You did that. You.
“You did so good, sweetheart,” his thumb strokes your cheekbone, and you can't help but lean into his palm. You're high watching him smile, a similar one takes form on your lips.
He's so beautiful. He's the most beautiful man you've ever seen. He should be on TV, winning Emmy's for his grin.
But then you falter, “My…my minutes are up.”
“You can take another 5,” his face leans closer, and the tip of your nose kisses his.
“Patient might need me in 1,” you helplessly whisper, your breaths mingling.
“Well, consider me a patient, then. Your patient.”
You gulp. Your knees are growing weaker by the second and you can't stop staring at his soft lips. You let out a little pathetic whimper before lifting your chin, brushing your lips against his softly.
Fuck.
Your heart tries to escape your ribcage, palm operating with a brain of its own and landing right over his heart. His fluttering, excited, nervous heartbeat greets you, and your lips curve upwards.
Just as you try to move your lips against his —
“Not like this,” he murmurs against your mouth.
You let out an entirely pathetic whine, forehead crashing against his neck with a soft thunk. Your affectionate graze on his sternum turns into a punch — also, pathetic — and it makes him chuckle.
“How, then?” your mutter into his neck.
His arm comes around your waist, holding you up for him so you can let your weight go. His arm tightens as soon as he feels you melt.
“When I'll get you all the silver jewelry in the world,” he breathily replies in your ear.
“That's a lot.”
“What can I say? I like paying for things.”
His free fingers travel to the back of your neck, deftly working the hook of your golden chain with a single hand. You catch as the necklace falls down your chest, reluctantly taking your face out from his neck.
Note to self: Ask him what perfume he uses later.
“One hand, wow.”
“A lot of things I can unhook with one hand.”
He captures your wrist that you've held against his chest — index hatefully scratching, trying to harm him for not kissing you — and brings it to his lips.
He doesn't break eye-contact when he kisses the inside of your wrist. Then the middle of your palms, and finally the tips of your fingers.
You're grateful for his arm around your middle, otherwise you'd be on the floor, shrieking and screaming.
“Don't want to see that on you again,” he points with his chin towards your fist with the necklace inside it.
“Yes, doctor.”
He nods, heat swimming in his gaze. He finally extracts his arm from around your midriff, using it to pull out your phone from your pants and swiftly slipping it in his.
“No more worrying, hm? In return…” He empties his other pocket, taking out a set of keys. He brings your palm down from his face and puts them in it.
“Sit in my car at the end of the shift. You know which one. Turn the heating on, and wait for me,” he raises his eyebrows, awaiting confirmation.
“Yes, okay,” you gulp, closing your other fist as well. One holds your past, another, your future. Or, so you hope.
“Yes, what?” he asks, already side-stepping you and moving towards the door.
“Yes, doctor”
“Good girl,” he shoots you a wink, the door falling shut behind him.
Look at that, your 10 minutes are up.
I enjoyed writing this sm, and i hope you lovely people do too. again, feel free to glaze me in asks, comments, and dms. likes and reblogs appreciated much <3 i also need to know if yall blushed reading this, if yes, WHEN
summary: Jack hosts a congratulations party for you and ‘forgets’ to invite Robby. He shows up unannounced anyways. (part three to pretty little birds)
part one / part two
pairings: mentor!boyfriend!jack abbot x younger!fem!reader, ex mentor!michael ‘robby’ robinavitch x younger!fem!reader
contains: angst/comfort, fluff, alcohol consumption, reader is drunk for majority of this, toxic!robby (back on his bs), jack is lowkey toxic too, fear of abandonment from reader, jack is not a good friend to Robby i fear
word count: 2.3k
note: HEHE i love this dynamic!! i wasn’t planning on writing a full follow up fic but i love a power imbalance love triangle :3 i also cleaned up my formatting a bit here. i finally grew up a little and decided to capitalize my sentences :P
Technically, Jack wasn’t hiding anything from Robby. He wouldn’t lie to his best friend, nor would he deny anything if Robby just asked, which he didn’t,
“And when is this party happening?” Robby asks Victoria with his head tilted down and eyebrows raised,
“Tonight at Doctor Abbot’s house. I-I wasn’t sure if she invited you since you aren’t her y’know…” Victoria isn’t sure how to put you and Robby’s relationship into words. He’s your attending? Mentor? Situationship? None of them seemed to fit,
“We aren’t anything Javadi, thank you.” Victoria smiles awkwardly and takes the opportunity to leave the conversation while she can,
Surely it was an accident. There was no way that Jack or you would forget to invite Robby to your fellowship celebration party. Robby still credits himself as a big reason you were able to get into the fellowship in the first place, despite Jack essentially stealing you from him. He pulls his phone out to quickly ask him about it.
Were you going to tell me about the party you’re hosting for her?
Dana passes by as he hits send,
“Did you know about that party Jack was throwing tonight?” he asks her as he leans onto the desk,
“Yeah, I just didn’t think you would wanna go.” Dana says mindlessly as she shuffles through the papers on her desk. She looks up to see Robby's bitter smile,
“Don’t get any bright ideas, Robinavitch. That girl worked hard and you aren’t going to ruin her party just because you’re upset. Either you show up tonight with a smile on your face or you don’t come at all.” Dana finds the form she was looking for and walks away.
Robby can’t picture showing up tonight and spending most of the night standing on the sidelines while Jack parades you around. He’ll feel ridiculous knowing Jack was the one whose name was signed on your letter and not his. Robby’s phone buzzes, snapping him out of his thoughts.
I didn’t think you would wanna go.
Change of plans, he was going to show up tonight.
⋆˚౨ৎ ⋆.˚
Robby shows up a little later than expected. It was nearing 9 PM but he was hoping a bottle of champagne would make up for it. He knocks on the door, standing awkwardly at the doorstep. He can hear music coming from the backyard and the occasional laughter. The door swings open to reveal you in a small pink dress. Your eyes widen at the sight of Robby,
“Robby! What are you doing here?” he can tell you’re already a little drunk from the red flush in your cheeks and slightly messy hair,
“I’m here to congratulate you.” Robby says, holding up the bottle towards you. You grab it from his hands,
“Thank you.” you mutter,
“Hey, you made it!” Dana says, approaching from behind. She puts her hands on your shoulders and gives him a warning glare as he welcomes himself in. You turn around to see Dana giving you a reassuring smile.
There’s a big ‘Congrats!’ banner hung up in Jack’s kitchen, along with balloons on the floor and some stuck on the roof,
“Help yourself to some food and drinks are in the fridge.” you tell him, stumbling around to open the fridge. Robby is quick to grab you and stabilize you,
“Woah, hey. You’ve had a lot already, huh?” he gives you that same familiar condescending smile. You feel your cheeks getting warmer as you regain balance,
“Hey, didn’t think you were gonna make it.” Jack says from behind Robby. He gives Robby a pat on the back as you hand him a beer,
“Change of plans.” He cracks open the can, walking outside to join the rest of the party. You notice Victoria’s eyes widen from afar in surprise as he joins the rest of the residents and nurses,
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know he was coming tonight.” Jack whispers in your ear. You give Jack a kiss on the cheek,
“It’s okay, it’ll be fine.” you grab another drink from the fridge.
⋆˚౨ৎ ⋆.˚
To say you’re freaking out is an understatement. From the second Robby walked in, it seemed like you only got drunker from there,
“Cheers to PTMC’s future attending neurologist!” Trinity yells out as everyone stands with a small plastic shot glass. Robby and Jack stand together watching from afar as you swing the cup back. Jack smirks at the face you make as the liquor burns the back of your throat. Robby looks over and sees Jack’s expression,
“You gonna let her work tomorrow with a hangover?” Robby asks,
“She’s a big girl, she can handle it.” Jack says, keeping his eyes on you. Robby shakes his head laughing dryly, taking a sip from his drink,
“Good luck with that, her work gets sloppy when she’s hungover.” Jack can sense Robby’s attempts at getting under his skin. Even after all this time, Robby is still trying to find an opportunity to get you back,
“Like I said, she can handle it.” Jack says flatly.
“Actually, do you wanna know why I think she can handle it?” Jack pauses and turns towards Robby,
“It's because I trust her. I also respect her and I’m not afraid to show that.”
“The only reason you know that is because you went and changed her shifts without asking me.” Robby quickly responds.
The pair notice your attention shifting to them as they talk in the corner. You aren’t able to make out their words but quickly forget about the sight when Mel pulls you for a picture.
“I didn’t need to ask. I’m also an attending in case you forgot.” Robby laughs.
“You won, Jack, is that what you wanna hear?” Robby excuses himself and walks away back into the kitchen towards the fridge.
In Jack’s eyes, it was never about ‘winning’. It had always been about treating you right— no more standing by, watching Robby speak to you however he wants. Winning was the last thing on Jack’s mind especially after you had confessed that you were previously sleeping with Robby. His goal has always been to love you fully and with as much support as he could provide.
As Robby grabs another drink from the fridge, he hears you stumbling towards the washroom. You look like a newborn deer trying to learn to walk for the first time. Robby follows as you slowly make your way down a hallway. You trip and nearly fall until Robby catches you,
“I got you.” he says lifting you back up,
“Thank you.” you try to keep yourself upright and stand as far away from him as possible— It’s not much given, it's a tight hallway. He stares as you adjust your dress. Your hair is done differently than how it is at work and he also notices that you wear a different perfume now. You did your makeup a little differently too and notices a small tattoo possibly? It’s almost frustrating to him how recognizable you were yet different you had become. You were no longer the same compliant, docile resident he trained and he hated it,
“You look beautiful, by the way.” Robby says quietly. He hesitates for a second,
“I’ve missed you.” It comes out awkwardly, like it was something he repeated in his head but had no intention of saying out loud,
“Thank you.” you mumble.
Robby stands close to you but keeps his hands behind his back— if he could, his hands would be on your cheeks, pulling you in slowly. Instead, Robby leans closer and closer to your lips. He doesn’t plan on kissing you, but hopes you’ll kiss him first. He wants to see that you still need him and prove that Jack isn’t giving you what he thinks you need.
You step back a few steps before hitting the wall and stumbling again. Robby grabs your arms again, lifting you up,
“Looks like you still need me.” Robby mumbles jokingly. Though it comes off much more condescending than he usually intends,
“I don’t need you anymore, Robby,” you say, shoving his chest as hard as you can. He stumbles back in surprise, hitting the other side of the hallway wall,
“It was just a joke.” Robby laughs at your reaction.
Robby loved watching you get riled up at him. Any indication that you needed validation from him, he was taking from you. He was willing to keep pushing until he decided to give it to you,
“Yeah, well it didn’t feel like it.” you felt anger bubbling in your chest the longer you looked at his stupid, ego filled smile.
Meanwhile, Jack had been searching all over outside for you. You weren’t with Trinity or Samira or any of the residents around— Dana started helping search for you at some point. As he starts searching inside, he hears Robby’s laugh first then your voice,
“I haven’t needed you for a long time now. I didn’t need you to get into my fellowship.” it comes out more obviously irritated this time and Robby smiles.
Jack knows it’s wrong to be eavesdropping. He trusts you wholeheartedly but he doesn’t trust Robby and whatever ulterior motive he might have. He stands close by around a corner. Jack swears to himself that he’ll give it a minute before he grabs you. He can’t help but be curious to know where this might go,
“Right, and now you need Jack.” Robby retorts,
“That’s different.”
“How so? You went from one attending to the other. Does that make it any different” Robby scoffs,
“He isn’t a manipulative asshole for one.” Jack almost lets out a laugh as he overhears you,
“Manipulative asshole?” Robby repeats laughing harder this time,
“I made you into one of the best residents, and an even better neuro fellowship candidate. Don’t forget that when you come crawling back to me.” That's Jack’s cue to step in. He rounds the corner to see Robby towering over you,
“Hey, there you are. Dana brought a cake for you.” You turn to look at Jack. He senses a feeling of relief from you and irritation from Robby. Jack puts his hand on the small of your back, leading you outside but not without glaring right at Robby.
Sat between Samira and Mel, you cut the small cake into slices and pass them out. As you pass another plate around,
“This feels like a birthday party.” Trinity says,
“Cakes are meant for celebrations, what’s wrong with that?” Dana says, slapping her arm jokingly.
A pop! is heard from the corner as Princess holds another open bottle of champagne; it’s the bottle Robby brought, which doesn’t go unnoticed by you. In the corner of your eye, you notice Robby standing by the backyard door. He stands with his body half inside and half outside, as if he’s teetering on staying. Jack thinks he’s overstayed his welcome and Robby agrees since the next time you look over, he’s already gone.
⋆˚౨ৎ ⋆.˚
Jack sits beside you as he pulls the blanket over top. He smiles at the sight of you drunkenly looking up at him. Jack can’t help but notice a small shift in your mood as he watches your smile turn into a pensive expression. He doesn’t rush you to confess what’s on your mind, he know it’ll come out when you’re ready,
“What were you and Robby talking about earlier?” Jack gives you an uncomfortable smile. He knew the conversation was coming, he just thought it would be tomorrow morning over breakfast and not while you were drunk and half awake. He takes a deep breath,
“Nothing really, I think he just misses you and doesn’t know how to talk about it.” there’s a pause,
“What were you and Robby talking about? Earlier by the bathroom.” you flash a similar uncomfortable smile to Jack’s question,
“You heard that?”
“I was looking for you and I might’ve heard a bit.” The pitch of Jack’s voice goes higher towards the end of his sentence. You ponder Jack’s thoughts for a second,
“I don’t know if he misses me. I think he might just miss controlling me— having control over something really,” you say.
Jack walks to the other side of the bed, removing his leg and climbing in beside you. He pulls you close until your head is on his chest,
“You’re not gonna leave me once I’m at Westbridge, right?” you whisper,
“Why do you ask?” Jack knows exactly why you’re asking. He knows Robby planted the idea in your head earlier and you haven’t been able to shake it since,
“No reason.” you mumble. Jack doesn’t press on it.
“I’m not leaving. I fully expect you to come back and boss us around when we call neuro down. Don’t think I’m gonna go easy on you though.” The small laugh from you makes Jack’s chest swell.
The bedroom goes quiet and is soon filled with your soft snores. Jack lays wide awake, replaying the conversation he overheard between you and Robby. The more Jack thinks about it, he doesn’t entirely agree with what you just said about Robby. Jack thinks the complete opposite of what you said. Yes, Robby lacks control over things in his life, but he’s more frustrated that he can’t control who you fall in love with. Robby can’t make you love him and he hates that so much that he’ll take whatever you give him.
Jack feels himself spiraling more and more until your phone dings. He thinks it’s just Santos sending you pictures from tonight until another one goes off shortly after. He grabs your phone in hopes of turning it silent but sees it’s a text message from Robby.
I didn’t get a chance to say it but congratulations.
I’m proud of you. More than you’ll ever know.
Jack stares at the phone for a second. There’s no other messages, no previous conversation. He swipes delete on the conversation and watches it disappear from your text history.
He feels you shuffle around and puts your phone down,
“Who’s that?” you mumble half awake,
“Just Santos. Don’t worry.” Jack kisses the top of your head as you fall back asleep.
Summary: Your daughter fakes a stomachache to surprise her parents at work on Take Your Kid to Work Day, never realizing the panic it would cause.
Word count: 4.2k+
Warnings: fluff, tiny angst
A/N:
this was co-written with my friend Nora! We actually wrote some other stuff together too, but this is the first fic where she wrote the most of it. She also wants to write fanfics but is a little hesitant. Can’t wait for you to open your own blog and share your talent with tumblr Nora, this one’s you!!!💓
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
When your daughter Lucy heard about Take Your Kid to Work Day, she came home convinced it was going to be the greatest day of her entire six-year-old life.
Her class had spent nearly a week talking about it. Every morning another child had a new story, another exciting detail to add. Emma was going to help frost cupcakes at her mother's bakery. Noah couldn't stop talking about riding in his dad's garbage truck, proudly announcing to anyone who would listen that he was going to press the "real buttons." Olivia was getting a behind-the-scenes tour of the aquarium where her mom worked. Even little Ben, whose father worked at a bank, marched around the classroom with a paper tie taped around his neck, declaring he would be "approving loans all day." By Thursday afternoon Lucy had listened to enough stories that she'd begun planning her own. She was absolutely certain she would wear one of those little white doctor coats she'd seen in toy stores. She'd carry a clipboard. Maybe even a stethoscope. Everyone would finally get to see how cool her parents' jobs were.
So when you and Jack walked through the front door that evening after a twelve-hour shift, you barely had time to take your shoes off before Lucy came barreling across the living room like an excited puppy.
"Mama!"
She wrapped herself around your legs so tightly you had to catch yourself against the wall to stay upright.
"Daddy!"
Jack wasn't spared either. She launched herself at him next, nearly knocking the backpack from his shoulder.
"Whoa, easy, bug," he laughed, catching her under the arms before she could accidentally headbutt him. "Someone's excited. Where's your grandma?"
"In the kitchen. I have something important to say."
You and Jack exchanged an amused look over the top of her head. Important announcements from Lucy ranged anywhere from losing a tooth to discovering worms in the garden.
"Oh?" Jack asked, setting his bag down.
Lucy nodded so enthusiastically that her ponytail bounced. "It's Take Your Kid to Work Day next Friday."
Her grin stretched so wide it nearly split her face.
"And I get to come with you."
The silence that followed was tiny.
Barely a second.
But it was enough.
Jack's smile faltered first. You watched it happen almost imperceptibly, the corners of his mouth relaxing as his eyes drifted toward yours. The excitement on Lucy's face hadn't dimmed yet. She was already imagining hallways and stethoscopes and showing all her friends pictures afterward.
You felt your heart sink before either of you had even opened your mouths.
Lucy noticed immediately.
Her smile wavered.
"...What's wrong?"
You crouched until you were eye level with her, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear while you searched desperately for words that wouldn't break her heart.
"Oh, sweetheart..."
Jack carefully lowered himself beside you, adjusting his balance before slipping an arm around Lucy's shoulders.
"Our jobs are a little different from everyone else's."
She frowned in confusion.
"But I can still come, right?"
Jack let out the smallest sigh.
"The emergency department isn't really a place for kids."
Her forehead wrinkled.
"Why?"
You looked at Jack for half a second before answering.
"Because the people who come to see us aren't coming for fun." You spoke gently, carefully choosing every word. "They're usually having one of the worst days of their lives. They're very, very sick..."
"Or hurt," Jack added quietly.
"They can look scary sometimes," you continued. "There can be blood. People cry. Sometimes they're frightened, sometimes they're angry, and sometimes they need every doctor and nurse in the room paying attention to them."
Jack nodded. "Our job is making sure they get help as quickly as possible. We can't always stop to explain what's happening, and there are things no six-year-old should have to see."
Lucy listened with surprising seriousness, though it was obvious she still didn't understand.
"But..." she said softly, "I'll be quiet."
Your chest tightened.
"I know you would."
"I could sit in the corner and color."
Jack smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"You probably could."
"I wouldn't touch anything."
"We know, sweetheart."
"I wouldn't even talk."
Jack smiled sadly. "You'd probably be the quietest kid in the whole hospital."
For the briefest moment, hope flickered across Lucy's face before reality settled back in. She looked between the two of you, swallowing hard.
"So..." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "...I can't?"
The words were so small they made your chest ache. You reached for her little hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.
"No, sweetie. I'm sorry."
Her eyes filled almost instantly.
"But everyone else gets to go to their parents' work."
Jack closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. Every parent hated hearing those words because sometimes there simply wasn't a fair answer. He rubbed his thumb absentmindedly over the back of her tiny hand.
"I know."
"I wanna see where you guys work."
"I know."
"I wanna wear one of those little doctor coats."
Despite the ache in your chest, a smile tugged at your lips. "You would look absolutely adorable."
"I could help."
Jack let out a quiet snort, his expression turning dramatically serious.
"Oh, that's exactly the part I'm worried about."
Lucy blinked. "...Really?"
"Oh, absolutely," he said with a solemn nod. "I think you'd spend the whole day walking around the department telling everyone what to do."
"I would not."
"You absolutely would."
She crossed her arms.
"No."
"No?"
She puffed out her chest, planting both hands on her hips as she deepened her voice into what she apparently believed sounded very authoritative.
"'Okay everybody, one at a time! No pushing! You have to wait your turn!'"
Jack laughed so suddenly and genuinely that it echoed through the house.
"There it is."
You couldn't help laughing too.
"Our little charge nurse."
Lucy dissolved into giggles, pleased she'd made both of you laugh.
The moment was warm.
Light.
Comfortable.
Until it wasn't.
Her smile slowly faded as she remembered why she'd started the conversation in the first place.
"...But I still don't get to come."
Jack's laughter disappeared just as quickly. He opened his arms without saying a word, and Lucy climbed into his lap as naturally as breathing. She tucked her face into the crook of his neck, wrapping her little arms around him with a sigh that sounded much older than six years old.
"No," he admitted quietly, kissing the top of her head. "Not to work."
The room fell silent.
You watched Jack gently rub circles over Lucy's back while she sat curled against him, neither of them speaking. The disappointment in the room was almost tangible. You knew Jack was feeling it just as sharply as you were. Both of you spent your careers taking care of other people's children, yet this was one of those moments where your own daughter simply had to accept that your jobs came with doors she couldn't walk through.
Finally, you leaned over and kissed the top of her head.
"How about this?"
She peeked up hopefully.
"When we're both off next weekend, we'll take you to the hospital."
Jack immediately caught on.
"We'll show you the cafeteria."
"My locker."
"The ambulance bay."
"If there aren't any helicopters flying, maybe we can see the helipad from outside."
"The empty waiting room."
"My office."
Lucy sniffled, considering the offer with all the seriousness of someone negotiating an international treaty.
"...Can I push a wheelchair?"
Jack looked over at you.
You shrugged.
"If nobody's using it, sure."
She thought for another long moment before giving a tiny nod.
"...Okay."
It wasn't the answer she'd wanted.
It wasn't even close.
But she accepted it with the quiet resilience children somehow managed to find after their hearts had been disappointed. Before long she was asking what was for dinner and whether Grandma was still making pancakes the next morning, and by bedtime she seemed perfectly content again.
You smiled to yourself as you tucked her in that night, smoothing the blankets over her little shoulders.
Children had an incredible ability to move on.
Or so you thought.
Lucy had absolutely no intention of moving on.
She smiled when you tucked her into bed that night. She happily ate pancakes with Grandma the next morning. She colored pictures at the kitchen table, watched cartoons, and talked excitedly about the hospital tour you had promised for the following weekend. If anyone had asked, she seemed to have accepted your answer completely.
She hadn't.
To a six-year-old, "next weekend" felt impossibly far away. Everyone else would get to visit their parents' jobs on Friday. Everyone else would come back to school Monday with stories to tell. Emma would talk about frosting cupcakes. Noah would probably tell everyone he got to honk the garbage truck horn. Olivia would have pictures of fish. And Lucy... Lucy would have to say she stayed home because her mommy and daddy worked somewhere she wasn't allowed to go.
That simply didn't seem fair.
By Wednesday she had the beginning of a plan.
By Thursday she had improved it.
By Friday morning, she was convinced it was foolproof.
Your mother had barely finished pouring herself a cup of coffee when she heard small footsteps padding down the hallway. Lucy appeared in the kitchen doorway still wearing her pajamas, her favorite stuffed rabbit dangling from one hand while the other pressed dramatically against her stomach.
"Grandma..."
Your mother looked up immediately.
"Morning, sweetheart."
Lucy took two slow steps into the kitchen, making sure not to walk too quickly. Sick people probably didn't move very fast.
"I don't feel good."
The smile disappeared from your mother's face at once.
"Oh, sweetheart."
She set her mug down without taking a sip and crouched in front of her granddaughter, brushing a hand over Lucy's messy bed hair.
"What's wrong?"
"My tummy hurts."
"Oh no."
Lucy gave a pitiful little nod.
"It hurts a lot."
Your mother frowned with concern.
"Can you show me where?"
Lucy froze.
That...
She hadn't prepared for.
She looked down at herself, suddenly realizing stomachs had different parts. She'd heard you and Jack ask patients that question before. Daddy always wanted to know exactly where it hurt.
Panic fluttered in her chest for half a second.
"...Everywhere."
Your mother's eyebrows lifted ever so slightly.
"Everywhere?"
Another solemn nod.
"Mhm."
She gently rested both hands on Lucy's shoulders.
"Did you throw up?"
"No."
"Do you feel like you have to?"
Lucy pretended to think about it before giving a hesitant little shrug.
"...Maybe."
"Do you have a fever?"
"I don't know."
"Hmm..."
Your mother pressed the back of her hand against Lucy's forehead before checking again with her palm, the way mothers and grandmothers always seemed to do. Her skin felt perfectly cool.
No fever.
That was reassuring. Still, children didn't always spike a temperature right away. Maybe she'd eaten something that hadn't agreed with her. Maybe a little stomach bug was just beginning.
Lucy watched every expression that crossed her grandmother's face. She could tell she wasn't entirely convinced.
She needed to make it more believable.
So she let out the tiniest little whimper she could manage. Not loud enough to sound dramatic, just enough to make it seem like the pain had returned.
Your mother's face softened immediately.
"Oh, you poor thing."
Lucy leaned instinctively into the comforting touch, a small stab of guilt twisting in her chest before she quickly pushed it aside. She wasn't trying to be naughty. She just wanted to see Mama and Daddy at work like everyone else got to.
After a long pause, she lowered her voice to an almost frightened whisper.
"I think..." She looked up through her lashes with the biggest, saddest eyes she could manage. "...I need the hospital."
Your mother smiled gently as she tucked a strand of hair behind Lucy's ear.
"Oh, honey. I don't think we're there just yet."
Lucy's heart sank.
"...But my tummy really, really hurts."
"I know it does."
"We should go."
Your mother hesitated. Normally she would've waited an hour or two, called you first, given Lucy some water, and seen whether she felt any better after breakfast before rushing to the emergency department.
But abdominal pain in children was one of those things she'd learned never to dismiss completely after watching both you and Jack work in emergency medicine for years. You had both told stories about children who seemed perfectly fine until they suddenly weren't. Appendicitis. Intussusception. Things she'd never heard of before you became a doctor and Jack became a nurse.
She didn't want to overreact.
She also didn't want to ignore something important.
Her eyes lingered on Lucy's face. The little girl looked uncomfortable enough to be believable, even if she wasn't crying. Some children tolerated pain differently.
Your mother sighed softly as she stood.
"Alright."
Lucy's eyes widened before she could stop herself.
Really?
It worked?
Excitement rushed through her so suddenly she almost smiled.
Almost.
She bit the inside of her cheek just in time, quickly lowering her head and pressing a hand dramatically back against her stomach.
"I'll get dressed," your mother said. "Then we'll have one of Mommy's friends take a quick look at you, okay?"
Lucy nodded with all the seriousness she could muster.
"...Okay."
As your mother disappeared upstairs to change, Lucy remained standing in the middle of the kitchen, hugging her stuffed rabbit tightly against her chest.
Her plan had worked.
In just a little while, she'd finally get to see where her mom and dad spent all day.
She had no idea that before the morning was over, two people who had faced mass casualty incidents, violent trauma, and countless life-or-death emergencies would see her name on the emergency department tracking board and experience a kind of fear neither of them had ever learned to prepare for.
The emergency department had been in controlled chaos since seven that morning.
Every room was occupied. Hallway beds had filled before breakfast. Monitors chimed from every direction, phones rang almost constantly, stretchers rolled past one another with practiced precision, and conversations overlapped until they became little more than background noise. Jack had barely stopped moving since clocking in. He had just finished helping stabilize an elderly patient in respiratory distress and was updating the tracking board when a new name appeared among the incoming pediatric triage patients.
His own last name.
At first his brain didn't process it.
He frowned automatically, assuming it was another family with the same surname. It wasn't uncommon.
Then his eyes shifted to the details beneath it.
Accompanied by: Lucy.
The world seemed to narrow into a single point.
His stomach dropped so violently it almost hurt.
No.
No, no, no.
His mind filled the blanks long before reason had a chance to intervene.
Car accident on the way to school.
She'd fallen from the playground.
An allergic reaction.
A seizure.
Appendicitis.
A ruptured appendix.
Internal bleeding.
She'd stopped breathing.
His chest tightened so sharply that, for one terrifying second, it felt impossible to draw in air.
He was already moving before he'd consciously made the decision.
"Jack?"
Dana looked up from her workstation as he hurried past.
"You okay?"
He didn't answer.
Couldn't.
His prosthetic clicked faster against the floor as he rounded the nurses' station, weaving through stretchers and staff with an urgency that made several people instinctively step aside. Every extra second felt unbearable. His heartbeat pounded so loudly in his ears that he barely registered the voices around him.
Across the department, you were finishing charting after discharging a patient when your own eyes drifted toward the tracking board.
Your last name.
Pediatric triage.
Lucy.
Everything inside you went cold.
"No..."
The word escaped before you realized you'd spoken aloud.
Your pen slipped from your fingers onto the counter.
You didn't bother picking it up.
Someone behind you asked a question you never heard. You abandoned your chart mid-sentence and hurried out of the trauma bay, every rational thought dissolving beneath one singular, suffocating fear.
Not my baby.
Please not my baby.
You'd both spent years watching parents run into emergency departments wearing that exact expression.
The look that silently begged someone to tell them their child was okay.
Now you understood it from the inside.
Jack reached pediatric triage first.
He rounded the corner so quickly he nearly lost his footing, instinctively compensating before his prosthetic could catch awkwardly beneath him.
Then he stopped.
Lucy sat on one of the triage beds beside your mother, happily swinging her legs back and forth as she hugged her stuffed rabbit. She looked perfectly content, completely fascinated by everything happening around her.
The moment she saw him, her entire face lit up.
"Hi, Daddy!"
Jack didn't answer immediately.
He couldn't.
His breathing still hadn't caught up with him. His pulse hammered painfully against his ribs as his eyes swept over her with clinical precision born from years in emergency medicine.
Skin color okay.
Breathing normal.
Alert.
Talking.
No blood.
No bruising.
No obvious deformities.
No signs of respiratory distress.
No altered mental status.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Relief crashed into him so suddenly his knees threatened to buckle.
He had to grip the back of a nearby chair to steady himself.
"Jack?"
Your mother stood immediately, guilt already written across her face.
"I am so, so sorry. I should’ve called."
You arrived only seconds later, breathing almost as hard as Jack.
"Lucy!"
Your daughter beamed.
"Hi, Mama!"
You dropped to your knees in front of her without hesitation, your hands automatically moving through the familiar sequence every parent in emergency medicine knew by instinct. Forehead. Neck. Arms. Wrists. Face.
"What happened?"
Your mother looked apologetic.
"She was perfectly fine this morning. She'd been playing, and then all of a sudden she started holding her stomach and said she was in terrible pain. I didn't know if I should wait or..."
"You absolutely did the right thing," you assured her automatically, even as your attention remained fixed entirely on Lucy.
"Honey?"
Lucy nodded solemnly.
"It hurt."
"Where does it hurt, bug?" Jack asked.
She pointed vaguely toward the center of her stomach.
"...Here."
"How bad?"
She held up eight fingers.
"On a scale of ten..."
"...Eight."
"When did it start?"
"This morning."
"Did you throw up?"
"No."
"Feel sick?"
She hesitated.
"...Maybe."
Jack exchanged the briefest glance with you.
Neither of you relaxed.
Because children lied about vegetables.
They didn't usually lie about pain.
And even when they weren't lying, they were notoriously bad at describing it. Jack had treated smiling children with ruptured appendixes, kids who laughed while walking on fractured ankles, toddlers quietly coloring despite severe dehydration. Looking well meant almost nothing in pediatrics.
You rested a reassuring hand against Lucy's abdomen.
"I'm just going to press a little, okay?"
She nodded.
You gently palpated one quadrant.
"Does this hurt?"
"No."
You moved to another.
"How about here?"
"No."
Lower right.
"No."
Lower left.
"No."
Jack watched every tiny flicker of her expression. Or rather, the complete lack of one. She wasn't tensing beneath your touch. She wasn't guarding her stomach or curling inward instinctively. If anything, she seemed far more interested in everything happening around her than in the examination itself.
Her eyes wandered constantly around the department, following nurses rushing past, patients being wheeled down the hallway, monitors chiming, stretchers rolling by, the ambulance doors sliding open every few minutes. She wasn't frightened by any of it. She looked fascinated.
You noticed it too.
Before either of you could ask another question, Lucy turned back toward Jack, wearing the brightest smile she'd had all morning.
"So..." She tilted her head innocently. "...Can I see where Daddy works now?"
Silence settled over the four of you.
Jack closed his eyes.
Very.
Very slowly.
Your mother frowned, looking between the three of you.
"...Lucy?"
Your daughter's grin only widened.
"It worked."
Jack opened one eye.
"...What worked?"
"My tummy."
Neither you nor Jack said a word.
"It wasn't really hurting." She paused, as though she'd only just realized you weren't reacting the way she'd expected. "I just wanted to come."
For several long seconds, nobody moved.
Jack slowly lowered himself onto the chair beside her, more because his legs suddenly felt weak than because he'd intended to sit.
Because his prosthetic leg suddenly felt unsteady beneath him.
He rubbed both hands over his face, forcing out a long, shaky breath before looking back at his daughter.
"You..." His voice was rougher than he intended. "...You faked it?"
Lucy nodded proudly, completely oblivious to the emotional hurricane she'd just unleashed.
"That was the only way Grandma would bring me."
Your mother's mouth fell open.
"Oh my goodness..."
Lucy looked between the two of you with complete sincerity.
"I wanted to see where you work."
Jack let out another slow breath that sounded dangerously close to becoming a laugh. Not because anything about this was funny, but because relief had nowhere else to go.
"You scared ten years off my life."
Her smile faltered.
"...I did?"
Jack swallowed, the image of her name on the tracking board still burned into his mind.
"When I saw your name pop up..." His voice caught unexpectedly, forcing him to pause. He looked away for a moment before gathering himself enough to continue. "I thought something terrible had happened."
You nodded quietly beside him.
"I thought my little girl was hurt."
Lucy's face crumpled almost instantly. The excitement disappeared, replaced by confusion and guilt.
"I..." Her shoulders curled inward. "...I didn't know."
Of course she hadn't.
She was six years old. In her mind, she'd come up with the smartest plan imaginable. Pretend to have a stomachache. Go to the hospital. Surprise Mommy and Daddy. She'd never stopped to think about what it would feel like for two emergency clinicians to suddenly see their own child's name appear on the tracking board.
She looked down at her sneakers, twisting one toe against the floor.
"I'm sorry."
Jack watched her quietly for a long moment. Every ounce of frustration he'd felt dissolved beneath the sight of her trying so hard not to cry. Without another word, he opened his arms.
Lucy climbed into them immediately.
He wrapped her tightly against his chest, closing his eyes as he rested his cheek against her hair.
"I'm not mad."
She looked up uncertainly.
"...You're not?"
He shook his head.
"I'm relieved."
His voice was barely above a whisper.
"So unbelievably relieved."
He held her for another moment before leaning back just enough to meet her eyes.
"But you cannot ever pretend to be sick like this again."
She nodded immediately.
"Okay."
"I need a real promise."
"I promise."
You moved closer until your shoulder rested against Jack's, wrapping an arm around both of them. Almost instinctively, Lucy reached for your hand with her free one.
"I'm sorry, Mama."
You squeezed her little fingers.
"I know."
"I just wanted everyone at school to know my mommy and daddy have cool jobs."
Your heart ached.
"We know, sweetheart."
"They all got to go."
You met Jack's eyes for a brief second. Sometimes the hardest part of parenting wasn't saying no. It was understanding exactly why your child wanted something so badly and still knowing the answer couldn't change.
Jack kissed the top of Lucy's head.
Jack was quiet for a moment before a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"You know what?"
"What?"
"Since you're already here..." He glanced at you, silently asking the question before either of you spoke.
You smiled back.
"I think our patient has been thoroughly examined."
Jack nodded solemnly.
"I agree."
He looked back at Lucy.
"So I'm officially discharging you."
Her eyes widened.
"You are?"
"Mhm." He reached over and gently tapped the tip of her nose. "No tummy ache. Cleared to go home with Grandma."
She giggled.
"But..." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Before you go home, I think we can spare five minutes."
Lucy's mouth fell open.
"Really?"
"We can show you the nurses' station." He pointed toward the center of the department. "My locker. Maybe the ambulance bay if there isn't anything coming in."
"And the cafeteria," you added with a smile.
Jack nodded.
"But that's it."
"No treatment rooms."
"No sick patients," you said gently.
"And you stay with one of us the entire time."
Lucy threw her arms around his neck so quickly he almost laughed.
"I promise!"
"I know you do." He hugged her back before pulling away just enough to look at her seriously. "But that doesn't change one thing."
"What?"
"If you ever feel left out again, you tell Mommy or me."
She nodded.
"You don't have to scare us to spend time with us."
The smile slipped from her face.
"...Okay."
"I mean it, bug."
"I know."
She leaned forward to hug him again, then reached for you too, nearly pulling the three of you together on the waiting room chair.
Jack caught your eye over the top of Lucy's head.
"I think she inherited our problem-solving skills."
You laughed.
"No."
"Our stubbornness."
Lucy looked up immediately.
"I heard that."
"Oh, we know," Jack said with a grin. "Trust me, we know exactly who you got it from."
"I did not fake being stubborn."
"You absolutely did."
That earned another burst of laughter, loud enough that even your mother laughed through the tears she'd been quietly wiping away.
As Lucy happily slid off Jack's lap, already asking a hundred questions about ambulances and whether nurses really kept candy in the break room, the knot in his chest finally began to loosen. The fear hadn't disappeared entirely. He wasn't sure it ever would. Seeing her name on that tracking board had unlocked a terror he hoped never to feel again.
But as he watched her bounce happily between you, clutching one of your hands and one of his as though the last twenty minutes had never happened, he found himself smiling despite everything.
He would take fake stomachaches, dramatic plans, and six-year-old schemes over seeing his daughter in one of those treatment rooms for real every single day.
in which you find a puppy and bring him home, hoping jack will understand...
fem!reader. lost / abandoned puppy :( reader and jack in a relationship. fluff :3 i own a rescue beagle and i love her with all my heart. this is dedicated to my pup, sorry i didn't get there sooner baby.
you really hadn’t meant to bring home a dog. that was the problem.
people who meant to bring home dogs prepared for them.
they bought food. they bought beds.
and they definitely discussed it with their boyfriend beforehand.
you, however, had found a trembling beagle puppy curled beneath a bus stop bench at eleven o’clock at night.
and now there was a puppy in your bathroom.
a very tiny puppy. a very dirty puppy. a very skinny puppy.
a puppy that had looked at you with huge brown eyes and immediately destroyed your ability to make rational decisions.
so now you’d spent the entire night cleaning him up, feeding him tiny portions of food left over in the fridge, googling what was safe for the pup to eat, and trying to convince yourself that jack wouldn’t be upset.
or at least not too upset.
the front door unlocked just after seven in the morning.
your stomach dropped. jack was home.
you were still sitting on the couch in yesterday’s clothes, running entirely on caffeine and poor decisions.
the second he walked inside, he frowned. “why are you awake?”
you immediately looked anywhere but at him. “couldn’t sleep.” you stuttered out quick.
jack narrowed his eyes. doctor eyes. the same eyes that caught every lie told in the emergency department. unfortunately for you, they worked at home too. “you look guilty.”
you scoffed. “i’m just tired.”
“you look guilty and tired.” he kicked off his shoes. “what happened?”
“nothing happened. what makes you think that?” you defenced back.
“something happened.”
you smiled weakly.
he sighed.
“how much trouble am i about to be in?”
“define trouble.”
jack groaned. “oh no.” he pointed at you. “what did you do?”
“i didn’t do anything.”
before he could respond—
woof!
both of you froze.
the tiny bark came from the bathroom. jack slowly turned his head. then looked back at you. then toward the bathroom again. then back at you.
“…what was that?”
you considered lying.
you lasted approximately one second. “…a dog.”
jack closed his eyes. “you found a dog.”
“well technically the dog found me.”
“that’s not how dogs work.”
another bark echoed through the apartment. followed by a tiny scratching sound against the bathroom door.
jack pinched the bridge of his nose.
you stood. “before you say anything—”
“that’s never a promising start.”
“—he was abandoned.”
jack immediately opened one eye.
you continued. “he was cold.”
the other eye opened. “and hungry.”
his expression softened despite himself.
you knew it would.
jack could pretend to be grumpy all he wanted, but he spent twelve hours a day saving people for a living. he had the softest heart of anyone you’d ever met.
you disappeared into the bathroom before he could argue further. a moment later, you emerged carrying the beagle puppy.
the puppy looked ridiculously small wrapped in a towel.
one floppy ear. oversized paws. sleepy brown eyes.
the second jack saw him, his face did something. not much. just enough.
that tiny shift that meant he was already losing the battle. “he’s cute,” he admitted.
victory. you grinned.
the puppy, however, had his own priorities. the second you crouched near the couch, the little beagle scrambled from your arms.
straight toward jack.
jack blinked. “oh.”
the puppy climbed directly into his lap. like he’d been doing it his entire life.
tiny tail wagging so hard his whole body wiggled. you watched in delight as jack looked down at the puppy.
the puppy looked up at jack. and that was it. gone. completely smitten. jack was finished.
the puppy pressed his nose against jack’s hand. jack immediately scratched behind one floppy ear. the puppy practically melted.
“oh my god,” you whispered.
jack didn’t even hear you. “hey, buddy.”
the puppy licked his thumb. jack smiled. an actual smile. the soft one. the one that made you fall in love with him. the one that meant you were absolutely bringing this animal home forever.
you pointed accusingly. “there it is.”
“what?”
“that face.”
jack glanced up. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”
the puppy promptly curled up against his chest and fell asleep.
you laughed. jack looked back down at the tiny sleeping beagle. then sighed. a long, defeated sigh.
“…we should probably schedule a vet appointment.”
your grin widened. “jack.”
“don’t.”
“jack.”
he rolled his eyes. “fine.”
you practically launched yourself at him.
the puppy remained asleep through the entire thing.
and somewhere beneath your celebration, you could swear jack was already trying to figure out where a dog bed would fit in the apartment.
Summary: when you start packing lunches for jack, the ED takes notice. not just of the notes you leave, but of the changes in jack too.
Warnings: none really; TONS of fluff, age-gap, established relationship, mentions of the ED, soft jack, mutual affection, & medical inaccuracies.
Word Count: 3k+
Author’s Note: ahhh !! i finally finished this & have ‘just fluff june’ fic out for you guys !! i hope you all enjoy this one !! <3
Jack Abbot was never really the type to feed himself the way a person should eat. He lived off of vending machine food and granola bars. He could cook—he’s actually a very good cook—but didn’t see the point after a twelve hour shift that left him dead on his feet.
But for you? He’d cook a three course meal if you asked. He made sure you had dinner when he was off, waited on you hand and foot.
You did the same for him. But more so; you kept him fed.
You started meal prepping lunches for him to take to work; sometimes just leftovers from the previous night or something you made new entirely the day before while he was at work. Then you started adding desserts and snacks; a donut or pastry from the corner bakery you both loved, homemade cookies or brownies.
You left yogurt and homemade granola, veggie sticks with dip, beef jerky. But the dinners you packed? God, Jack could die on that hill.
He couldn’t explain how happy and domestic it made him feel to open up his lunchbox and find you’d packed him leftovers from the lasagna you’d made. Or chili, or a sandwich that looked like it came straight from a deli. Wraps that were filled to the brim with turkey and lettuce and everything he liked in them. He’d groan every time he took that first bite, leaning back in his chair with a content sigh. Something dangerous playing in his heart.
You—his sweet girlfriend of a few months who lived in his t-shirts and padded around his apartment with a giddy step and had more kindness in your pinky than most people had in their entire body—packed him lunch like it was nothing. Taking care of him like it was second nature. For you, it was.
People noticed, because Jack Abbot didn’t eat on shift unless it was a handful of nuts or whatever stale thing fell out of the vending machine when he kicked it after it ate his money.
But along with Jack eating good, came the changes in his body. Not anything drastic or bad but…he got thicker. At first it was just a little more pull at his scrubs, nothing he couldn’t handle by adjusting his arms a little.
He didn’t get fat or out of shape just; broader, healthy fat lining his muscles. His pecs and biceps always strained against his shirts, but now they looked like they were seconds away from busting the seams open. His ass got rounder, cheeks slightly more plush that you grabbed every time he kissed you; making him yelp a noise of protest. Every. Single. Time.
Don’t even get started on his torso. Layered with a slight pudge at the bottom when he wore his belt, abs and back muscles visible and flexing underneath his movements. He looked divine. He was stronger, more solid and filled out. His scrub top looked more than two sizes too small, hanging on for dear life.
Even if people noticed, they didn’t say anything; not at first. But of course Robby would be the one to put a stop to that; coming to a halt as he walked by with an ipad in hand, looking at his best friend like he’d just committed a felony in front of him.
“Jesus brother”, Robby says; “Let that shirt breathe.”
Jack turned to look at him, pushing his elbows off the counter of the hub; “What?”
“You look like your shirt’s two seconds away from ripping”, Robby points out, like it’s common knowledge.
“I don’t-“
Dana appears out of thin air next to them; “He’s right. You’ve been eating actual food too.”
Jack’s mouth stays open for a second, before a smirk takes its place; “So what? People eat.”
“You”, Robby says, pointing at him with a look over his glasses; “Don’t eat.”
“This feels like a personal attack”, Jack scoffs, still slightly amused; “You don’t eat either.”
“Correct. But i’m not suddenly showing up two months later looking like an honorary Avenger about to bust out of his scrub top.”
Jack’s jaw ticks, eyes flicking between the two; “You’re unbelievable.”
Jack grabs his own tablet, throwing a mock glare at the two in front of him; “I have patients to see, you know, like a real doctor?”
Then he walks away, throwing a half-hearted wave and a middle finger at whatever Dana and Robby are calling out after him.
Robby shifts on his feet, scoff leaving his mouth; “Damn.”
Dana gives him a look; “Whatever you’re thinking Robinavitch; don’t.”
Robby shakes his head; “No…Abbot’s got a better ass than me.”
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
A week later Jack finds himself standing in the break room, pulling out the lunch box you packed for him—leftovers from dinner the night before. Pasta and bread that he happily reheated in the microwave and toaster oven.
A small yellow sticky note was stuck to the top of the container, his lips already twitching at the corners.
‘Baby! I can’t wait to see you today. Go kick ass & save lives, sexy doctor man !! I love you sooooo much !! PS: I left you a surprise from your fav place !!’ with a little smiley face and heart drawn below it.
Jack’s heart skipped a beat, feeling the heat climbing up his neck and ears; settling on his cheeks as he slipped the note into his pocket to hang in his locker later with all the other notes of yours he kept.
He settled at the round table in the break room, looking further into the lunch box where sure enough—he found a pastry from his favorite bakery around the corner from his apartment.
He took a bite of it, sighing and letting his eyes close as the sweet taste hit his tongue. Shoulders dropping a bit as he relaxed a little into the chair.
He didn’t even open his eyes when the break room door swung open, whoever was stepping inside slipped to the back of his mind.
“Woah, is that homemade pasta?”, Shen’s voice broke through his thoughts.
Jack grunted quietly in response, nodding as he leant forward to take a bite; “Maybe.”
“You got a professional chef at home we don’t know about?”
Jack smirked a little; “Something like that.”
He took another bite, knowing more questions were coming and secretly hoping Shen would just do whatever he came in to do and let him eat in peace—but this was the ED, the night shift nonetheless; and Jack knew that was wishful thinking.
The door swung open behind them, Ellis sliding up next to Shen—stopping in her tracks.
Ellis leans over to inspect; “Now I know you didn’t cook that yourself.”
Jack raises his brows; “I can cook.”
“Not like that”, Ellis defends; “You burnt the noodles at last year’s potluck.”
“Robby was distracting me.”
“Excuses.”
Jack huffed and took another bite of his food.
“A pastry too? Who’s packing you this stuff?”
Jack takes the last bite of his pasta, pushing himself out of his chair and packing up the empty container; “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
He can feel the eyes on him as he puts the lunchbox back into the fridge, pulls out a water and slips past them with a smirk; “Enjoy your break, crawlers.”
Ellis scoffs, turning to Shen; “Fifty bucks says he’s got a woman at home. He’s not cooking like that.”
“Sixty-five”, Shen says, holding out his hand.
Ellis shakes it; “Done.”
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
The buzz of Jack Abbot’s sudden new eating habits—that actually benefited his body more than a vending machine dinner—quickly reached every corner of the ED. Various bets and hushed whispers of different theories floated around med students and residents alike. Hell, even Robby’s name had made it up on the betting board.
Jack himself couldn’t care less, the hushed whispers of the bet made him smirk to himself; knowing it was driving his coworkers crazy.
He wasn’t keeping you a secret exactly; it had just never directly or seriously come up.
He didn’t pay too much mind to all the whispers about his new size, either—mostly brushing it off as teasing or Robby and Dana just trying to get him all riled up.
But now, as he stood in the bathroom of his apartment—tugging a soft grey t-shirt over his head after a much needed shower; he was starting to think what Robby had said may have some truth to it.
You can hear him huff to himself in the bathroom, words you can’t quite pick up on as you flip through TV channels. A soft groan of frustration or disbelief echoes through Jack’s room, making you sit up more.
“Baby?”, You call, “Everything ok?”
There’s another quiet murmur of something before Jack comes out of the bathroom; hair still damp, greying curls lightening up as they dry. Boxers clinging low on his hips, the grey shirt he has on doing almost nothing to cover the contour and outline of his muscles—clinging to him so close he might as well not even bother wearing it.
Your mouth goes dry, watching as he sets his crutches against the bedside table and slumps down onto the end of the bed—every muscle in his back moving and pulling the shirt fabric even tighter.
“M’fine”, He says, messaging his residual limb; “Just starting to think maybe Robby’s right.”
“Ok…?”, You breathe; “Don’t ever say those words again…but about what?”
Jack huffs a laugh; “I’m serious!”
You shimmy out from underneath the covers, walking on your knees to the end of the bed and letting your hands roam over Jack’s shoulders. He instantly leans into it—like he didn’t even have to think about it anymore.
“He said my scrub top looked too small”, Jack sighs.
“Really?”
“Well actually his exact words were ‘let that shirt breathe, you’re about to rip it’ but I was phrasing it nicer.”
You laugh; “What makes you think he’s right?”
Jack shrugs; “Didn’t notice anything until I tried to put this shirt on and it barely fits. It used to be loose on me…”
He trails off, something in his mind making him think extra hard.
You hum softly, continuing to rub at his shoulders and a little down his arms; playing with the damp curls at the nape of his neck.
It’s quiet in the room as Jack continues to massage the tension out of his leg, eyes flicking over whatever TV channel you’d landed on before he came out. You press a soft kiss to his nape.
“Am I bigger?”, He asks suddenly.
Your eyes widen, a surprised laugh escaping your lips; “W-What?”
“Am I bigger?”, He repeats; “Have I put on weight?”
You soften immediately, realizing by the scrunch in his brow; he’s insecure about this.
“Baby, no”, You coo, slipping around to settle into his lap.
His hands come up to your waist, immediately steadying you.
“You’re just eating good”, You assure him.
His brow stays furrowed, a slight pout on his face and lips; eyes not looking at you.
“I mean maybe you’ve put on a few pounds, but with your job and SWAT; it’s all muscle, my love”, You say, letting your fingers comb through his hair.
He doesn’t answer yet, but his brow softens, eyes flicking towards yours now as you move your face in front of his.
“You’re so broad”, You whisper, hands roaming his shoulders again; “So strong.”
“Yeah?”, He asks, eyebrows raising a bit.
You nod, bottom lip between your teeth; “Yeah.”
You giggle softly when you feel his fingers flex at your waist, the way he shivers when you let your hands drift under his shirt—palms pressing flat against his torso. You let them settle there for a moment, fingers tapping against skin before you pull them back—tugging upwards at the hem.
His ears are pink now, but he doesn’t hesitate; pulling the shirt up and over his head with one pull at the back of the collar. It lands somewhere on the floor, but your attention remains on him.
Pale skin with a slight farmers tan disappearing by his elbows; laid out bare in front of you. His eyes flicking around the room, hands back at your waist.
With a soft hand on his jaw, you force him to look at you.
“You’re so thick”, You murmur, pressing a kiss to his bare shoulder.
His grip of your waist tightens, a breath leaving his nose.
Your kisses travel over his skin, trailing over his shoulders and torso; leaving no spot unmarked.
“So full and filled out.”
Kiss.
“So muscular.”
Kiss.
“So handsome.”
Your compliments start drifting elsewhere as you let your kisses trail over him.
“So kind.”
Kiss.
“So caring.”
Another kiss.
“So good to me.”
A kiss to his neck.
Your hands stop at the bottom of his torso, just below his belly button where the slightest bit of softer skin sits just above his waistband. You smooth your hands over it, feeling the muscle below it tense.
You look up, finding Jack’s cheeks the same color as his ears—his eyes wide and waiting. You pinch his skin once, before letting your hands roam back up his freckled arms to his shoulders; cupping his nape in your hands.
“You’re so beautiful, Jack”, You murmur.
A shaky breath leaves him, your lips against his cheeks and nose. He pulls back, eyes searching yours.
“God, I love you”, He huffs, pulling you in for a kiss.
His lips press firm against yours, hands traveling up your back and settling on your ribs. Jack’s forehead stays against yours when he pulls back, eyes still closed.
“It’s your fault, ya know”, He smirks.
You shrug; “I know, and I’m gonna keep feeding my man good.”
He lets out a noise between a groan and something of disbelief when you move off his lap, finding your way back to your spot on the bed. He follows you, rolling over to lay on his stomach; arms framed around his head and tucked under his pillow.
“Besides”, You say, mischievous smile growing; “Your ass looks ridiculously good.”
He yelps when your hand comes in contact with his ass, eyes wide as pink practically runs up his neck.
“Baby!”
“M’not even sorry”, You say, leaning in to capture his lips before he can protest any further.
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
Something in Jack settles after that, most of the insecurity gone. He takes all the comments from Robby and Dana in stride. He still eats what you pack him, still keeps your notes.
He frowns when he goes to get his lunchbox out, finding it missing with a note in its place.
‘No lunch today, baby. Got a surprise for you!’
He can’t help the way his lips turn up at the corner, curiosity taking over when the door behind him swings open.
“Abbot! We got a MVA coming in”, Dana’s voice cuts him out of his thoughts.
“How long?”
“About two minutes.”
Jack sighs once, putting his bag away and following Dana out the door; the part of him trying to figure out what you were up to slipping to the back of his mind.
About two hours later, the bay doors open around you; boxes stacked in your hands as you wander towards the hub.
“You need help there, hon?”, Dana’s voice comes.
She’s standing at the hub, brows quirked in amusement and confusion.
“Oh hi!”, You chirp; “I just brought some lunch for my boyfriend and his co-workers. Not really sure where to put it though.”
Dana’s smile grows; “Well why didn’t you say so? Follow me, we’ll put those in here.”
She shows you to the break room, holding the door open as you slip in.
“So boyfriend huh? Which one of our lucky med students gets all this food?”, She asks, leading you back to the hub.
“Oh! He’s not a med student, he’s a doctor! Uh, Jack?”, You say.
Dana’s smile widens even further; “So you’re the one who’s feeding our grumpy guy?”
Robby’s head whips up from the other side of the hub, Ellis and Shen slowing to a stop behind him.
You can’t help the laugh the slips out; “He looks grumpy sometimes, but he’s actually not. It’s all a ruse.”
It’s Dana’s turn to laugh; “Huh.”
“He thinks he’s got everyone fooled, but he’s just a big—“
“Sweetheart?”, Jack’s voice breaks through.
Your eyes light up immediately, rushing to meet him halfway; “Jack!”
You meet his chest with a soft thud, arms wrapping around him as you lean up and press a kiss to his lips. He’s frozen for a moment, but immediately melts into the kiss once your lips meet his. His strong hands find your waist, smoothing over them; keeping you both grounded.
Nothing else around him matters in that moment—not whatever trauma he’d just stepped out of, not the fact that his leg was a little sore, not the fact that the ED had fallen almost silent around you; and not Robby or his coworkers bewildered gazes.
He’s melted into you as you wrapped your arms around his torso, tucking yourself under his arm; hand rubbing softly over his ribs.
“Baby!”, You hum; “I missed you.”
Jack’s eyes wander over you; “I missed you too, sweetheart.”
There’s a moment where his brain catches up, and he’s suddenly tilting your head up to look at him; worried eyes checking over your features.
“What’re you doing here? Are you ok? Are you hurt?”, His questions come rambling out.
You giggle, squeezing his side; “I’m fine! I brought you and your friends some lunch. It’s in the break room.”
Jack softens, a small graze of his lips against your head; “Sweetheart, you didn’t have to do that.”
“I know”, You shrug; “But I wanted to.”
The gazes around you narrow, mouths agape at this Jack.
Jack Abbot was a lot of things in the ED; assertive, leading, confident, level-headed, kind, always looking out for everyone in his own quiet way; but he wasn’t soft.
But with you? Jack crumbled under your gaze, the strong-willed and grumpy looking attending was a smiling and sweet puddle in your arms.
“I got that coffee that you like”, You hum.
Jack dips his head down closer to hear you; “From the deli?”
“Mhm, it’s at home on the counter. Where do you think I got the sandwiches from?”
Something sparkles in his eyes; “That’s what you brought us for lunch? Baby, that’s too much.”
But the glint of excitement stays in his eyes.
You tsk and wave him off; “Not for you.”
His face goes unbearably fond, eyes and smile soft. His lips brush against your ear.
“You’re gonna spoil us”, He says, voice low and raspy.
“Let me”, You smirk.
Behind you, Robby finally clears his throat; “Jack you gonna introduce us or do we all just not exist now?”
“You don’t”, Jack rolls his eyes, smirking as Robby feigns hurt.
Jack introduces you, pointing to each of his colleagues that have gathered around; “That’s Robby, he’s annoying.”
You smack his chest; “Be nice!”
Jack doesn’t falter; “That’s Dana, she makes this place run smoothly. Behind her are Ellis and Shen.”
“Oh! You’re Dana!”, You smile; “I’ve heard so much about all of you.”
“Oh really—“, Robby starts before Dana stops him with a flick to the back of his neck; “Ow!”
Jack takes that as an opportunity to steer you away from the crowd and into the break room; Whitaker slipping out the door with a mouthful of sandwich from one of the boxes.
“Well it seems like they like the sandwiches”, You say, watching as Jack himself digs into the boxes you’d left on the counter.
“I labeled yours”, You add.
Jack finds his as the words leave your mouth, unwrapping it as he lowers himself onto the small couch—patting his lap; “‘Cmere.”
You drift towards him with a magnetic pull you’ll never be able to explain, finding your spot on his good leg. Hands drifting up to play with the curls on his head; a little sweaty now from working.
He hums around another bite of sandwich, his free arm resting at your back; “Thank you for this, really sweetheart.”
“You don’t have to thank me, Jack. I like taking care of you”, You tell him.
The smile on your face matches his as he presses a kiss to your temple, offering you a bite that you gladly accept.
“Your friends seem nice”, You add; “Kinda quiet though.”
Jack scoffs, smirk crooked; “Give them a chance.”
“We should have them over sometime, for a barbecue or something.”
Jack hums, palm circling your lower back; “Whatever you want, baby.”
You reach out and grab his chin, catching him off guard; his mouth still half open as he went in for another bite—brows in his hairline.
“I love you”, You coo, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
He chases after your lips; “I love you too, sweetheart.”
You let his lips take over yours, warm and present. You jump when you pull back, checking your watch; “Oh! I gotta get going, I’m gonna be late.”
Jack pats your bum as you press another kiss to his lips, slipping out of his lap and heading towards the break room door. You turn back when you get there, smiling at Jack whose eyes have never left you.
“See you at home?”, He asks, not really wanting you to leave.
You nod, bottom lip between your teeth; “With dinner and a hot bath ready.”
Jack groans, already aching to be cuddled up with you and unwind from his shift. You blow him a kiss with a soft wave, that he happily returns before you slip out the door; leaving him alone in the break room.
He can still feel your weight on his lap, your fingers in his hair and your lips against his—a blush and smile creeping up on him as he leans forward for another bite of his sandwich;
“So ‘baby’, huh?”, Robby’s voice comes.
“Shut up, Robinavitch”, Jack juts.
The sound of a clipboard hitting the floor and Robby yelping as he jumps out of the way are all that Jack hears as the door swings shut; humming softly to himself—more than ready to come home to you.
summary: you've always kept things casual. it's just easier that way. you've got a roster, a routine, and absolutely no intention of changing—until you realise you've made one very inconvenient mistake: falling in love with dr. jack abbot.
notes: okay, this took way longer than it should have because i burnt out trying to make all the "medical stuff" absolutely perfectly, then when i picked it back up i feel like the rhythm changed a little? hopefully for the better? i'm not sure if it's worth the wait, but i really hope y'all still enjoy! and as always, please let me know what you think!
warnings: swearing, blushing, italics, fwb type situation, jealousy, implied age gap, reader is in serious denial, medical descriptions, medical procedure descriptions (not graphic), most definitely incorrect medical information, sexual references, implied sexual relationships, making out (on shift), and one irritatingly handsome and unreasonably reasonable night shift attending.
word count: 15620
“Hey—oh, thank God.” You kick the door shut behind you. “Can you wait for me? I just need, like, five minutes.”
Ellis sighs. “Really? I was just about to leave.”
“Five minutes,” you say again, already moving toward your room.
You don’t bother shutting the door. You just drop your bag at the foot of your bed, pull the faded old U.S. Army shirt over your head, and shove your sweatpants down. Then you grab a fresh set of scrubs and pull them on, tying the drawstring quickly before opening your bag to check for your badge and stethoscope.
“Aren’t you gonna shower?” Ellis calls from the living room.
“We showered before I left,” you say, “but I didn’t have a clean pair of scrubs.”
Ellis gags. “Gross. Why’d you have to say ‘we’?”
You sling your bag over your shoulder as you step out of your room, grinning.
“Because we had some really great shower sex too.”
Ellis makes a dramatic vomiting noise as you both head out the door, her keys jingling as she turns to lock it.
“I thought Deran was your usual Thursday morning appointment,” she says.
You shrug. “Scheduling conflict.”
She turns and starts down the hall, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. “You are the schedule.”
“I’m restructuring,” you say lightly, falling into step beside her. “Don’t think Deran’s making the cut.”
Ellis doesn’t say anything else. She just watches you for a second—eyes narrowing, brows drawing a little tighter—before shaking her head and turning toward the fire stairs door. You both make your way down to the parking garage in silence, crossing the dimly lit basement until you reach Ellis’ car.
The drive to the hospital isn’t long. Ellis fills most of it complaining about a patient she handed off to McKay this morning who insisted his diagnosis was wrong because he’d googled it—and she’s still muttering angrily by the time she pulls into the hospital parking lot.
“I swear,” she says, yanking the parking brake a little too hard, “if I hear the words ‘but I googled it’ even once tonight, I’m going to lose my mind.”
You snort softly as you climb out of the car, slinging your bag over your shoulder before shutting the door. You both head inside through the ambulance bay, keeping out of the way of an arriving trauma as the paramedics wheel the gurney through—something about chest pain, you overhear.
“Trauma one’s open,” Dana calls.
“Dr. Toomarian, with me.”
Your head snaps up at the sound of Jack’s voice, your gaze landing on him beside the gurney as he guides it through the trauma bay doors, that familiar mask of focus already in place.
Then he looks at you, something flickering across his face.
“Hey—don’t disappear. I need to talk to you after this.”
You lift your hand, pointing a finger at yourself. “Me?”
He nods once before turning into the trauma bay, the glass door swinging shut behind him.
“Ooh,” Ellis murmurs as you both turn down the back hall. “You’re in trouble.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, right.”
“Maybe he’s restructuring,” she adds, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Think you’ll make the cut?”
You shoot her a flat look. “Very funny.”
Ellis smirks as she opens her locker, shrugging her bag off her shoulder and shoving it inside. You do the same—moving on autopilot as you sling your stethoscope around your neck, clip your badge at your hip, and stuff your backpack in your locker before shutting the door.
You head back toward the hub side by side, both peering into the trauma bay as you pass. The patient is stable now, half-conscious on the bed while Jack gives orders and Jesse preps for transfer to a room for monitoring. Dr. Robby is in there too now, looking as tired as always with his arms folded and protective glasses pushed up on top of his head.
“Evening, ladies,” Lena says from behind the nurses’ desk. “Get a good sleep?”
“Always,” Ellis replies as she grabs a tablet from the rack.
“Good enough,” you mutter, tipping your head back to read the board.
“Mm.” Lena peers at you over the top of her glasses. “Well, maybe you should start prioritising sleep over extracurriculars.”
Ellis snorts beside you.
“Lena,” you gasp, voice thick with mock offence. “I don’t—”
You stop short as Jack steps up beside you, offering Lena a polite nod before looking back at you.
“You have my badge.”
You frown. “What?”
“My badge,” he says again, already reaching for the badge at your hip.
He unclips it from your scrub pants and holds it up, brows lifting just slightly.
“Attending physician, huh?”
You shrug. “Thought it was time I got a promotion.”
He huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head as he fastens the badge to his scrub top and fishes your badge from his back pocket. Then he steps in closer, his fingers grazing your hip as he tugs on the waistband of your pants and clips the badge where his had been.
“Try to keep track of it,” he mutters, already turning away.
You don’t respond. You just roll your eyes and turn back to the nurses’ station, where Lena is still watching you over the rim of her glasses, utterly unimpressed.
“You didn’t even notice?” Ellis asks.
You lift one shoulder. “I just grabbed it off the floor.”
“Okay,” Lena mutters, glancing back down at her chart. “I’m choosing not to know.”
Ellis shakes her head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I know,” you say, tipping your head back again to read the board. “But you love me.”
She snorts, not even looking up from her tablet.
“Come on.” You bump your shoulder against hers. “Let’s go check out the elbow dislocation in One.”
“Fine,” she sighs, “but I’m not doing traction.”
You roll your eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time as you start moving, heading toward the North corridor with Ellis at your heel. When you pull back the curtain at North One, the man lying there is exactly what you expected—mid-twenties, gym shorts, red with embarrassment and trying not to wince even though the shape of his shoulder is very wrong.
“Alright, Mr. Donovan,” you say, pulling on a pair of gloves. “Let’s have a look at that shoulder.”
His eyes flick up to your face, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Are you a doctor?”
“Sure am,” you reply as you step closer to the bed. “And with me is Dr. Ellis. She’s going to help me get that bone back in place, but first you’re going to have to tell us how you did it.”
He grimaces as you gently prod his upper arm.
“Yeah—uh—I was just at the gym,” he starts, voice strained.
“Benching?” Ellis asks.
He nods. “Yeah.”
“Let me guess—personal best?”
He nods again. “Yeah. How did you—”
“Happens more often than you think,” you cut in, your fingers finding the pulse at his wrist. “Move your fingers.”
He wriggles them slowly.
“Any numbness?”
He shakes his head.
“I was just putting the bar back,” he says. “My arm twisted a bit and it just… popped.”
You glance over your shoulder at Ellis, and she nods.
“Okay, Mr. Donovan—”
“You can call me Chase,” he interrupts, the corner of his mouth lifting a little higher.
You nod once. “Alright, Chase. We’re going to give you something for the pain and a muscle relaxant so it’s easier to get it back into place. Then Dr. Ellis and I are going to do the reduction.”
“Will it hurt?”
“Not much,” Ellis replies. “Maybe a little discomfort, but it’ll be quick.”
“Okay,” he mutters, wincing again as he tries to shift in the bed.
You look at Ellis. “Fentanyl and midaz?”
She nods, already turning away to find a workstation.
“We’ll be back in about five minutes,” you tell Chase. “Just as soon as a nurse administers the medication and it has enough time to kick in.”
“Five minutes, huh? That’s just enough time for me to figure out how to ask for your number.”
You snort. “Let’s just get your shoulder back in first, then see how you feel.”
“Ouch,” he chuckles. “Is that your subtle way of saying you have a boyfriend?”
You hesitate, taking half a step back from the bed.
“Uh—no,” you mutter. “No boyfriend.”
He smirks. “So I have a shot?”
You shake your head as you turn away, a faint smile pulling at your lips. “Like I said—let’s see how you feel after I manhandle your humerus back into its socket.”
He doesn’t say anything else—just lets out a quiet breath of laughter as you turn and step out of the room.
Your gaze flicks up as you reach for the curtain, and only then do you notice Jack standing there—arms folded, shoulders set, his hazel eyes fixed on you like he’s waiting for something.
“Oh—hey,” you say. “Need me?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. Just doing the rounds. Want a hand with the reduction?”
“Nah, I’ve got Ellis,” you reply, starting back toward Central. “But you’re more than welcome to supervise.”
He scoffs, falling into step beside you. “You don’t need supervising.”
“I know.” You glance at him from the corner of your eye, a smirk tugging at your lips. “But I know how you like to watch.”
His mouth quirks, like he’s trying not to laugh.
“Careful,” he murmurs.
“Or what?” you tease, stopping just before the nurses’ station.
His eyes are a little darker now, the tops of his cheeks dusted pink.
“You don’t want to find out,” he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear.
Something twists low in your belly—and you get the sudden, distinct feeling that you do, in fact, want to find out.
“Abbot,” Lena calls before you can say anything else. “Trauma inbound—cyclist versus vehicle, ETA three minutes.”
Jack pauses for a half a second—then nods. “Alright, let’s prep Trauma Two.” He looks at you. “You in?”
You pull a face, all mock disappointment. “Oh, I wish I could, but I’ve got that reduction…”
He gives you a flat look, the corner of his mouth pulling just slightly. “Mm. Tragic.”
“Good luck, though,” you add, flashing him a grin.
You turn away before he does, moving around the hub to grab a tablet and find your next patient. It isn’t long before the paramedics come crashing through the ambulance bay doors with a groaning patient on the gurney—and you take that as your cue to get back to the shoulder dislocation.
“Alright, Chase,” you say, pulling back the curtain. “Let’s do this.”
He gives you a lopsided smile. “I was hoping I’d see you again.”
Ellis snorts. “Midaz is working.”
You laugh softly as you step up beside his affected arm, adjusting the bed slightly before pulling on a pair of gloves. Ellis does the same, moving into position on the other side and bracing one hand against his good shoulder.
You look at her. “Ready?”
She nods once.
“Okay, Chase,” you say, one hand wrapping gently around his wrist. “Stay loose for me.”
You place your other hand at his elbow and bring his arm out from his body, easing it into position.
“Hey—relax,” Ellis says. “Don’t fight it.”
He lets out a breath, the tension in his body easing.
“That’s it,” you murmur, starting to pull his arm outward.
You feel the resistance from the dislocation, holding his arm steady until—his shoulder drops.
Ellis nods. “Good. Now rotate.”
You carefully rotate his arm out, slow and controlled, until you feel a small shift—the soft clunk of the bone slipping back into place. Chase flinches, inhaling sharply, then—
“Oh—” He blinks. “Oh, that’s—that’s way better.”
You give him a small smile as you guide his arm back in, keeping it supported while Ellis grabs the sling.
“Move your fingers,” you tell him.
He does.
“Any numbness?”
He shakes his head.
“Good.”
You move aside as Ellis steps in with the sling, fastening it over his shoulder before adjusting the bed again.
“Comfortable?” she asks.
Chase nods slowly. “‘M tired.”
“Then have a nap.”
You peel your gloves off and drop them in the waste bin, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm as you turn back toward Chase.
“We’re going to keep you here for a bit, okay? Just to monitor you and get an X-ray to make sure everything’s back in place.”
“You’re leaving me?” he mumbles, eyes half-lidded.
You shake your head, letting out a quiet laugh. “I’ll be back in a bit to see how you’re feeling, alright?”
He mutters something else as his eyes slip shut, but it’s too soft for you to hear.
Then, after a beat, Ellis looks at you. “Gonna give him your number?”
You roll your eyes. “Um, no.”
“Why not?”
“Because I'm not—”
“Roster’s looking a little thin,” she says as she turns and steps out of the room.
You follow her, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She shrugs. “Not that I’m keeping track, but… by my count, you’re down to one.”
You let out a short, disbelieving scoff. “Okay—well, not that it’s any of your business, but Andrew moved to Canada, and Craig got back with his ex.”
She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “And you dropped Deran, so—”
“Like I said,” you cut in, lifting your chin just slightly. “I’m restructuring.”
“Restructuring,” she repeats mildly, “or retiring?”
Before the words have even landed, she’s gone—slipping into North Five with her tablet in hand and that stupid little smirk still curled at the corner of her mouth. You can faintly hear her greet the patient as the door eases shut, leaving you confused and alone in the middle of the North corridor.
Retiring?
You blink, your brows drawing tighter.
Retiring?
What the hell is that supposed to mean? Retiring from what?
From having fun? Having casual sex? Blowing off a little steam in the most enjoyable way you know how?
It’s not like you’re some irresponsible party animal—you barely go out, you only drink on occasion, and the hardest drug you’ve done since starting med school is ibuprofen. In fact, you’d argue that you’re the opposite of irresponsible. You take your casual sex roster very seriously. You don’t take risks, you make sure every single one of your partners has regular sexual-health check-ups, and you make sure to actually get to know them before you even sign them up.
Which is exactly why you’re not going around giving out your number to random patients.
You need to know someone before you start something casual. You need to know that they’re not going to ask for more, that they’re going to be mature and understand exactly where you both stand.
You need to know that you can trust them not to be irresponsible.
Because the last thing you need is some trigger-happy idiot who isn’t wearing a condom getting caught up in the moment and finishing inside you. Not that you ever go without a condom.
Except for...
Well—except for Jack.
But that’s different. He knows what he’s doing. You trust him—and you’re on birth control.
So it doesn’t really matter if, occasionally, he finishes—
“You good, or are you just going to keep staring into space?”
Your head snaps up, heat flooding your cheeks as you meet Henderson’s gaze.
“Uh—yeah, sorry, I was just—”
He chuckles. “No need to apologise—but if you’re bored, I could use an extra set of hands in Eight.”
You tilt your head. “Worth it?”
“Forearm lac. Exposed tendon.”
You nod. “I’m in.”
The next few hours blur together in a steady stream of night shift weirdness—a woman with a mystery rash whose story evolves from laundry detergent to poison ivy, someone who decided Gorilla Glue was a reasonable substitute for hair gel, a fish hook through a hand with the fish still attached, and a DIY dentistry job with half the tooth left and a lot of blood.
You barely catch a break until your patient in Central Twelve—when you and Ellis absolutely have to leave the room before you both burst out laughing at the mortified man who insists he slipped and fell on a Buzz Lightyear action figure. Because how else would it get stuck up there?
In your defence, you had managed to maintain some semblance of professionalism right up until Ellis muttered under her breath, “To infinity and beyond, I guess.”
That’s when you lost it—muttering the first excuse you could think of before slipping out the door and doubling over with laughter.
“Oh my God,” Ellis says, wiping the corner of her eye. “I love the night shift.”
You press a hand to your stomach, still aching from the laughter.
“Stop—” you gasp, shaking your head. “I can’t go back in there.”
“In where?” Shen asks, appearing in front of you.
You and Ellis both go still for a second, the laughter dying down as you exchange a look.
“Actually,” Ellis says, turning back to Shen with a smirk. “I think this case might be perfect for you, Dr. Shen.”
You nod. “Oh, absolutely. We could really use your expertise on this one.”
Shen frowns. “What’s the case?”
“It’s hard to explain,” Ellis says quickly. “You’re better off seeing it for yourself.”
Shen isn’t stupid, obviously, but he is incredibly curious—as most doctors are. So despite the fact that both you and Ellis are doing a terrible job of hiding your amusement, he takes the tablet from your outstretched hand and opens the door to Central Twelve.
Ellis’ eyes go wide, but before either of you can say anything else, someone calls your name across the department.
“Trauma One—get in here,” Jack says, waving a hand.
You let out a sigh, tipping your head back for a split second before jogging across Central to meet the paramedics.
“Twenty-four-year-old male—fell onto a plastic prop sword,” the first paramedic says, guiding the gurney into Trauma One. “Penetrating injury to the left thigh, object still in situ. Bleeding controlled, pulses intact, GCS fifteen. Fentanyl given en route, vitals stable.”
You almost snort when you realise the man is dressed in a pirate costume, his plastic cutlass wedged about four inches into his anterolateral thigh.
“Alright, we’ll take it from here,” Jack says. “Can you tell us your name, sir?”
“Josh,” the patient replies, his voice strained.
“Stabilise the leg,” you tell Mateo, moving into position opposite him. “On my count—one, two, three.”
You shift the patient from gurney to bed, and the paramedics clear out.
“Josh!”
A young woman rushes into the room, clearly from the same party—wearing what can only be described as a very short, very inaccurate interpretation of a nurse’s uniform.
“Oh my God. Is he bleeding out?”
Jack glances up, his lips twitching when he spots the woman. “I don’t remember approving that uniform.”
You shoot him a look. “Very funny, Dr. Abbot.”
His eyes linger on you for a beat too long.
“Not that I’d object,” he murmurs.
You arch a brow. “The nurses might.”
“I’m not a nurse,” the woman says, indignant. “I’m a sexy doctor.”
You look her up and down again, your gaze catching on the small, laminated name badge pinned to her chest with ‘Dr. Feelgood’ printed in bold pink letters.
You hum. “Right.”
“Still not the sexiest doctor in the room,” Jack mutters as he moves around the bed.
Your eyes flick up, meeting his for half a second, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly before you catch yourself and turn back to Josh.
“Have you had anything to drink tonight, Josh?” you ask.
Somewhere behind you, Dr. Feelgood starts to answer for him, but Bridget quickly steps in and guides her out of the trauma bay.
“I’ve got a dorsalis pedis pulse,” Jack notes.
Josh groans, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath.
“We’re going to get you something for the pain, alright?” you say, watching Olive insert the IV. “But first, I need to know what happened and how much you’ve had to drink.”
Mateo carefully cuts up the leg of Josh’s pants, fully exposing the entry site.
“I—ngh—I fell on it—” Josh manages. “It’s not even—not even real—fuck—”
Mateo turns away quickly, hiding his amusement.
“What about alcohol?” you ask again.
“Like—two beers,” he replies.
“Any drugs?”
“No—ah—no drugs.”
You nod. “Okay. Let’s give another twenty-five of fent.”
“Can we get surgery down here?” Jack asks as he steps back from the bed.
Mateo moves to grab the phone. “Calling now.”
Jack nods, folding his arms and lifting his head to look at you. “Alright. What’s next?”
“Repeat neurovascular exam, stabilise the object, don’t remove it, and get imaging before anyone touches it.”
He nods again. “Good.”
You try to ignore the way he’s watching you as you move to the foot of the bed, going through the motions of the neurovascular checks a little slower than he had just a minute ago.
“Pulses still intact. Cap refill under two. No numbness,” you report.
“Good,” he says again. “Keep checking. If that changes, we move faster.”
You nod once before turning back to Josh.
“Do you know when your last tetanus shot was, Josh?”
He shakes his head faintly. “No.”
“Okay, tetanus booster—” you glance up at Jack, “and antibiotics.”
“Which antibiotic?”
“Cefazolin?”
He watches you for a beat, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly—then he turns to Olive. “You heard the doctor. Get him some cefazolin.”
You drop your head, biting back a smile as you watch Mateo start to clean the entry site.
“Let’s flag contamination risk for surgery,” Jack says, pulling off his gloves. “And X-ray for—”
“Position and fragments,” you cut in, finishing for him. “And CTA left leg to clear the vessels before removal.”
He tosses his gloves in the bin and turns back toward you, brows raised.
“Alright,” he says, mildly amused. “I can see I’m no longer needed in here.”
You flash him a small, smug smile before turning back to the wound.
“Entry looks clean, bleeding’s controlled—let’s pack around it and get him to imaging.”
Mateo nods and moves to grab more gauze, helping you pack carefully around the plastic blade so it doesn’t shift during transport. Jack lingers just long enough to make sure you’ve got everything under control before he steps out of the room, slipping back into the quiet chaos of the night shift.
You and Mateo quickly finish stabilising the leg before the nurses prep him for imaging. They’re just about to wheel the bed out when Walsh arrives from the OR, fighting a smile when she sees the pirate impaled by his own sword. You give her a brief rundown as you pull your gloves off and squirt a pump of sanitiser into your hands. She nods along, asks a few questions, then mutters something about prepping an operating room while they wait for imaging.
When you finally step out of the trauma bay, you spot Jack standing with Lena at the nurses’ station. You don’t quite catch all of their conversation as you walk past to grab a tablet, but you do hear something about ETA three minutes and decide to make yourself scarce before you’re dragged into another trauma.
You scan the board briefly, pick your next patient, then head toward the South corridor, already pulling up the chart for South Twenty on your tablet. You’re halfway through the patient’s intake when—
You stop—then take two steps back, turning your head toward South Seventeen.
“Deran?”
The man in the bed glances up, blowing a lock of dark blond hair out of his eyes.
He smiles. “Hey, doc.”
“What’re you doing here?” you ask, despite the obvious.
He’s got his left hand cradled in his lap, wrapped loosely in an oil-stained rag that’s already soaked through in places, blood seeping into the fabric and drying in dark blotches. His knuckles underneath are split and swollen, his pinky finger sticking out at an odd angle, the rest of his hand already blown out around it.
“I was helping a friend with his truck,” he says, glancing back down at his mangled hand. “The prop rod slipped, and the hood came straight down.”
“Ouch,” you murmur, stepping forward.
He huffs out a short laugh. “Yeah. Ouch.”
“Mind if I take a look?”
“Go for it.”
You set your tablet at the foot of the bed and step up beside him, leaning in as you gently lift the rag to get a better look at what’s underneath. It’s not that deformed—just swollen, and his pinky finger is obviously broken, but otherwise it’s mostly just bruising and superficial cuts. At least he won’t need stitches—maybe some steri-strips and a splint—but you’re more concerned about the dirty rag he’s got wrapped around it.
“What d’you think?” he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Am I going to make it?”
You tilt your head. “Maybe. If we act fast.”
He laughs softly, the sound ringing almost too familiar in your ears.
You straighten quickly, clearing your throat. “Do you—uh—have you seen a doctor yet?”
He shakes his head. “No. Just you.”
You nod once and pick up your tablet, flicking out of South Twenty’s chart.
“Cool. I’ll be your doctor—” You pause, glancing back at him. “Unless you think that’s a conflict of interest?”
His smile widens. “You mean the prettiest doctor in Pittsburgh’s gonna fix me up?”
You roll your eyes. “Just Pittsburgh, huh?”
“Well, I couldn’t say the world—that’d be way too cheesy.”
You snort. “All your lines are cheesy.”
He gasps. “All of them?”
“All of them,” you echo, keeping your eyes fixed firmly on your tablet.
“Wow,” he mutters. “Tough crowd.”
You shake your head, trying not to smile as you pull up his chart and make a quick note, effectively assigning yourself as his physician. Then you set the tablet back on the bed and turn to grab a pair of gloves.
“Alright, I just need to have a closer look before I can get you some pain relief.”
You nudge the stool closer to the bed and sit down, leaning in as Deran gingerly shifts his hand. You peel the rag back properly this time, murmuring an apology when he winces, and set the dirty thing aside before reaching for gauze and saline.
“This might sting a bit,” you say, already starting to clean the dried blood from his knuckles. “Let me know if you want me to stop.”
“Do I need a safe word?” he asks smugly.
Your gaze flicks up, unamused—then back down to his hand without a word.
“I’m gonna go with meatball,” he decides. “Because—”
“—your favourite thing in the world is a meatball sub from that deli on Carson,” you cut in. “I know.”
His brows lift. “Wow.”
Your eyes flick up again. “Wow what?”
He shrugs, wincing slightly as you turn his hand. “Nothing. I just… didn’t think you paid that much attention.”
You don’t look up this time, unsure what you could possibly say that wouldn’t turn this into a deeper conversation than you’re willing to have right now.
After a beat, Deran hums. “Still doing the whole unavailable thing, huh?”
You roll your eyes. “It’s not a thing, Deran. I work fifteen hours a day with hardly any phone reception, and my days off are spent catching up on paperwork and sleep. I am unavailable.”
“Yeah, I know,” he says, glancing back down at his hand. “I guess I just figured since I hadn’t heard from you in a while, maybe some lucky guy finally managed to sweep you off your feet.”
You scoff, focusing a little too hard on wrapping fresh gauze around his hand. “Yeah, well—you’d be wrong.”
He grimaces when you turn his hand again, being careful not to bump his pinky finger as you finish dressing the cuts. Then you gently set it back in his lap and start cleaning up, swivelling on your stool to toss the oily rag and all the bloodied gauze into the waste bin.
“Alright,” you say, turning back. “Lift your hand for me.”
He lifts it slowly.
“Can you move your fingers?”
His eyes go wide.
You give him a flat look. “Just try.”
His expression twists as he slowly flexes his fingers, letting out a low, pained groan.
“Okay, that’s enough,” you say, scooting forward again. “Any numbness or tingling?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
You reach out and press gently against the tip of his pinky—until it turns white—then watch the colour return beneath his nail.
“Cap refill’s good,” you mutter, more to yourself.
He winces again as he lowers his hand back into his lap.
“So, what’s the verdict—is my weekend ruined?”
You snort. “Not entirely. I’ll get you some pain relief and order an X-ray. We might have to reduce the pinky, but I want imaging before I touch it—I need to see exactly where the fracture is first.”
“Well then,” he says, smirking as he lifts his right hand and holds up just the index and middle finger. “Good thing I’m right-handed.”
It takes a moment for the joke to land. You tilt your head, frowning faintly as you stare at his fingers.
Then it clicks.
“Oh my God,” you laugh, grabbing his hand and forcing it back down. “What is wrong with you?”
He grins. “What? You said it yourself—my weekend isn’t entirely ruined.”
You shake your head. “I didn’t think you meant that.”
“Well,” he says slowly, leaning in, “I don’t have plans yet, but if you’ve got time between paperwork and sleeping, maybe we could—”
“Everything alright in here?”
You turn to see Jack stepping past the curtain. He stops at the foot of the bed and clasps his hands behind his back, eyes flicking curiously between you and Deran.
You straighten a little and nod. “Yep. All good.”
“Except my hand,” Deran adds, lifting his injured hand.
“Right.” You shake your head once. “Deran, this is Dr. Abbot—he’s the senior attending on shift tonight.”
Then you glance back at Jack.
“Crush injury to the left hand after a truck hood came down on it. Significant swelling through the fifth digit with an obvious deformity at the pinky, plus some superficial lacerations across the knuckles. Neurovascularly intact—cap refill’s good, no numbness or tingling. I’ve cleaned and dressed the cuts, and I was just about to send him for imaging before we decide if the finger needs reducing.”
Jack nods once. “Good. Any pain management?”
You stand and nudge the stool back, picking up your tablet from the end of the bed.
“I was just about to order some ibuprofen and Tylenol.”
He nods again. “Sounds like you’ve got everything under control.”
You give him a small smile before turning back to Deran. “Hang tight—I’ll come find you once I get your X-ray results.”
He pouts. “You’re just going to leave me here?”
You roll your eyes, already turning away. “Unavailable, remember.”
Jack slides the curtain shut before following you out, falling into step beside you as you head back toward Central.
“You know him?”
You glance up from your tablet. “Uh—yeah. Old friend.”
He lifts a brow. “Friend?”
You give him a look. “What do you want me to say?”
He shrugs, letting out a quiet laugh. “Friend works.”
“Good,” you mutter, stopping at one of the workstations and setting your tablet down.
Jack pauses beside you. “Meet me in Central Twelve once you’ve put the orders in.”
You frown. “Why?”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
“Because I’m your boss, that’s why.”
Then he’s gone, moving through the department with that faint hitch in his stride and an ass that absolutely should not look that good in scrubs.
You shake your head and turn your attention back to the computer in front of you, swiping your badge to log in. You quickly pull up Deran’s chart, make a few notes, and order the ibuprofen and Tylenol. Then, just because you can, you try to pull up Central Twelve’s chart—if only to annoy Jack by getting a head start—but there’s nothing in the system.
Great. Must be a brand-new patient.
You let out an irritated little sigh before logging off and grabbing your tablet again.
The door to Central Twelve is shut when you get there, which isn’t unusual, but immediately makes you fear the worst for whatever case Jack has waiting for you inside.
You take a breath, turn the handle—and freeze when you spot the empty bed.
“Shut the door,” Jack says, without looking up from the supply drawer he’s rummaging through.
You hesitate. “Am I in trouble?”
He sighs. “Do you ever just do what you’re told?”
You finally step into the room, shutting the door behind you before setting your tablet on the room cart.
“Sometimes,” you say. “Depends what’s in it for me.”
Jack straightens, turning toward you. “That’s a remarkably transactional approach to life.”
You shrug. “I believe in reciprocation.”
He takes a step closer. “That’s not what reciprocation means.”
“Really?” you ask. “Because last time I checked—in the shower, by the way—you were getting a pretty good deal.”
His mouth quirks. “Are you saying I owe you?”
You step forward. “Who’s keeping count?”
“Maybe I am,” he murmurs.
Before you can say anything else, his fingers catch the hem of your shirt and he tugs—just enough to pull you off balance. Then his mouth is on yours. Slow, deep, unhurried. As if there isn’t an entire emergency department waiting on the other side of that door.
He presses closer, his hand moving beneath your shirt, rough fingers digging into your hip as his mouth parts lazily against yours. His tongue slides along your bottom lip, pulling a breathy little sigh from the back of your throat as your fingers curl into the front of his scrub top. You tilt your head, leaning in, chasing more—and for a second it almost feels like he’s going to give it to you.
Then he pulls away.
Your lips follow instinctively, and he chuckles, taking a deliberate step back.
You blink. “What was that?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
He steps toward the door.
“Dr. Toomarian’s got a patient to present.”
You stare at him. “Seriously?”
He reaches for the handle.
“South Sixteen.”
Then he’s gone, and you’re left watching the door swing shut with something strange and unfamiliar stirring beneath your ribs.
That was weird.
Not unpleasant. Not by any means. Just... unusual.
It takes you a little longer than it should to remember how to move. How to suck in a full breath, pick up your tablet, and head back out into the chaos of the night shift past midnight.
The department is exactly as you’d left it. Patients complaining about pain that could have been prevented with a little common sense. Doctors running on nothing but caffeine and questionable protein snacks. And Lena in the middle of it all, her glasses perched low on her nose as she scans the tablet in her hand.
“Hey,” you say, stepping up to the nurses’ station. “Got anything easy for me?”
Lena glances over the top of her glasses. “Easy left three hours ago.”
You sigh. “Come on. There’s got to be something.”
Her eyes flick back down. “I’ve got a Ms. Callahan in Central Nine. Migraine, vitals are fine.”
“Perfect. I’ll—”
“I’ve got this one,” Jack says, appearing beside you. “Dr. Toomarian needs a resident in South Sixteen.”
You frown. “But I—”
“Now.”
You stare at him for a second, wondering how the hell a man can kiss you breathless one minute then start barking orders at you the next.
“Fine,” you mutter, gripping your tablet a little tighter. “But when I’m admitted for emotional whiplash, I want it documented that you’re the reason why.”
Then you turn and head for the South hall before you’re tempted to say something even less professional.
You don’t normally snap like that—especially not at an attending—but something about the last fifteen minutes has crawled beneath your skin and stayed there, impossible to ignore. Your pulse still hasn’t settled properly. Your cheeks are still warm. And every time you think about Jack’s stupid little half-smirk after he’d kissed you, you’re annoyed.
You just can’t figure out why.
He doesn’t normally kiss you in the middle of a shift.
He doesn’t normally order you around like you’re a lost med student.
And he definitely doesn’t volunteer to see migraine patients.
But you don’t normally get this irritated. Especially not at Jack. The two of you are always messing around. Playing games. Flirting. It’s what you do. So what’s so different about tonight?
“Hey.” Ellis grabs your arm, stopping you just outside of South Sixteen. “You good?”
You blink. “Yeah. Why?”
“You look like you’re contemplating homicide.”
“And if I am?”
“I’d be obliged to remind you that we’re here to save lives, not end them.”
“Damn. Guess I’ll just have to wait until after my shift.”
Her eyes narrow, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly. “Is this about who I thought I saw being taken up to imaging?”
You frown. “Who did you think you saw?”
“Deran.”
“Oh.”
You glance over her shoulder at the empty bed in South Seventeen.
“That was fast,” you mutter.
Her brows lift. “Wait. You’re his physician?”
You shrug. “Yeah.”
“Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”
“Isn’t my life a conflict of interest?”
She stares at you for a moment, amusement tugging at her mouth. “It’s one of those nights, huh?”
You sigh. “Yep.”
She puts a hand on your shoulder. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
Then she gives you a brief nod and continues down the hall, humming a tune you don’t recognise as if to rub it in that she’s having a far more pleasant shift than you are.
You spend the next half hour alongside Nazely, talking her through a chest pain workup and reassuring the patient who’s convinced every twinge in his left arm is the beginning of the end. By the time you’ve reviewed the ECG for the third time and convinced him that googling symptoms at two in the morning isn’t a substitute for medical advice, you’re finally able to move on.
The shift settles back into its usual rhythm after that. Patients. Notes. Consults. A never-ending stream of questions from the new med student stuck on nights and equally never-ending complaints from people who should have gone to bed instead of doing dumb things that landed them in the ED.
It isn’t until two a.m. that you finally find yourself back at the nurses’ station with Ellis, sipping a vending machine energy drink she’d forced into your hand while the department enjoys a rare moment of relative calm.
“Shen said the Butt Lightyear guy went up for surgery.”
Lena tilts her head. “Butt Lightyear?”
“You don’t want to know,” you murmur into your drink.
“They tried removing it manually but were worried about the wings,” Ellis explains.
“The wings?”
She smirks. “Yeah. You press a button and the wings pop out.”
You shut your eyes. “Ouch.”
“Let me guess,” Lena says, peering over the rim of her glasses. “He slipped?”
Ellis nods. “Yep. Total accident.”
“Yeah, and the toy just happened to be completely covered in lube too,” you add.
Lena sighs. “Every day I learn something new against my will.”
You and Ellis both laugh as Lena turns away, seemingly done with this conversation—and the people of Pittsburgh judging by the defeated look on her face. You’re about to reach for your tablet to pull up the X-ray images off poor Butt Lightyear when a bright laugh cuts through the quiet hum of the department, drawing your attention toward Central Nine.
You narrow your eyes. “Why is he still in there?”
Ellis shrugs. “Not sure. I thought it was just a migraine.”
“Laughing pretty hard for someone with a headache,” you mutter.
Ellis glances at you. “Do you know who she is?”
“Nope.”
“Huh.”
You look at her. “What?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing.”
“I have no idea who she is,” you say, grabbing your tablet. “And frankly? I don’t care.”
Ellis nods. “Okay.”
“Good.”
Then you turn away before she can say anything else, heading toward the North corridor even though you have no idea which patient you’re actually on your way to see.
It isn’t long before you find yourself passing through Central again, peering into Ms. Callahan’s room to see if she’s been discharged yet. Which she hasn’t—but at least Jack’s not in there anymore. Not that it really matters to you, but you can’t imagine the rest of the department is thrilled about an attending wasting half the night on a migraine patient.
Ten minutes later, you walk past Central Nine again. Not because you’re looking this time—you’re genuinely just passing on your way to find a free workstation—but she’s still in there. And she certainly doesn’t look like she’s in pain anymore.
If you were her, you’d be demanding discharge papers by now.
The third time you glance at Ms. Callahan, she catches your eye, and you offer her a small, awkward smile before quickly glancing back down at your chart. The same chart you’ve been pretending to work on for the better part of fifteen minutes without writing a single coherent sentence.
“You know that’s Abbot’s ex, right?”
You blink. “What?”
Shen nods toward Central Nine. “Ms. Callahan. She’s Abbot’s ex.”
You glance back at the gorgeous blonde woman scrolling through her phone, not at all looking like someone suffering from a migraine.
“Oh.”
Shen nods slowly. “Anyway. He’s looking for you.”
You frown. “Who?”
“Dr. Abbot.”
“Why?”
Shen shrugs. “Didn’t say.”
You sigh. “Great.”
He watches you curiously as you log out of the computer and push your chair back.
“Did he say where?” you ask.
“South.”
You nod once. “Thanks.”
Then you turn and head toward the South corridor, but not without one last glance at the woman in Central Nine. The woman who apparently used to date Jack. The woman who, for reasons you still don’t entirely understand, is suddenly very difficult to stop thinking about.
You spot Jack standing beside the workstations in the middle of the South hall, frowning at something on his tablet. He looks tired now, his curls standing at odd angles thanks to the way he drags his hand through them after every stressful trauma patient—and he’s leaning his left hip against the side of the desk, shifting the weight off his right leg because three a.m. is always when it starts aching. Not that he’ll admit it.
“Shen said you wanted to see me.”
He glances up. “Your friend’s imaging came back.”
“And?”
“Hand surgery wants him,” he says, offering you his tablet.
You take it, glancing down at the X-ray images. “Fracture and tendon damage. Fantastic.”
You flip through the images and skim over the surgeon’s review.
“Okay. I’ll send him up.”
Jack takes the tablet back, his brows pulling together slightly.
“Have you eaten?”
You frown. “What?”
“Have you eaten anything tonight?”
“I had an energy drink.”
He stares at you. “That’s not food.”
You shrug. “I haven’t had time.”
“Make time.”
You roll your eyes. “Fine. I didn’t bring anything.”
He lets out a quiet sigh, glancing down at the tablet as he flicks out of Deran’s X-rays and brings up another patient’s chart.
“There’s a container in the fridge.”
You blink. “What?”
“Top shelf. Left side. Blue lid.”
Your brows lift. “You brought me food?”
He glances up again. “I brought extra food. It’s that pasta you like.”
As if on cue, your stomach grumbles. Loudly.
“Go eat,” he says. “I doubt surgery’s coming to collect your friend in the next twenty minutes.”
You want to argue. You really do. Because you don’t need to be looked after. You don’t need him to bring you food and make sure you eat and be all quietly caring like this. But God is this man a good cook, and you’d have to be an idiot to turn down free pasta at three o’clock in the morning.
“Fine,” you mutter, already turning away. “I’ll eat.”
“You’re welcome.”
You don’t look back. Because if you do, you might see the stupidly smug look on his face and it might make you smile. Then he’ll know he was right, and you absolutely cannot give him that satisfaction. So instead, you drop your gaze and watch your shoes move against the speckled linoleum until you reach the break room door.
You don’t even notice that someone else is in there until you reach the fridge and finally glance up.
“Oh. Hey.”
Ellis waves her fork. “Hey.”
You pull the fridge door open and immediately spot Jack’s blue-lidded tupperware.
You don’t answer. Not explicitly, at least. You just glance over your shoulder with what could be considered a very brief nod, then turn back toward the microwave and set the container inside.
“She’s his ex, by the way,” you say without thinking.
“Huh?”
You press the start button on the microwave before turning to face Ellis properly, leaning back against the kitchenette counter.
“The woman in Central Nine. Shen just told me she’s Jack’s ex.”
“Oh. Yeah.” Ellis stabs a piece of broccoli with her fork. “I know.”
You tilt your head. “How do you know?”
“I asked Dr. Abbot how he knew the patient,” she says, as if it were obvious.
“Oh.”
You glance back at the microwave, still humming, Jack’s container rotating slowly inside.
“What’d he say?”
Ellis sighs, stabbing a piece of carrot this time. “Just that they dated about a year after his wife passed, but he realised he wasn’t ready to move on yet, so he ended it. It was amicable. Now they’re friends.”
You frown. “Friends? He’s never mentioned her to me.”
Ellis finally looks up, something sharpening in her expression. “Why would he?”
You hesitate. “Because we’re—well, you know…”
Her mouth twitches. “I thought it was casual.”
“It is,” you say quickly. “I just thought he would’ve mentioned—”
“Does Abbot know who Deran is?”
You blink. “What?”
Ellis smirks. “You know, the guy currently sitting in South Seventeen? Mr. Thursday mornings, or—” she tilts her head, “I guess it’s former Mr. Thursday mornings now.”
“Well—not exactly, but that’s—”
The sharp beeping of the microwave cuts you off, and you turn quickly to silence it.
“That’s different?” Ellis offers.
You grab the container out of the microwave, shut the door, then yank open the cutlery drawer to grab a fork before turning back to face her.
“Yes,” you say firmly. “It’s different. Jack knows we’re not exclusive, but he doesn’t need to know who the other guys are.”
Ellis snorts. “Or were.”
You glare at her.
“Alright,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “Then why do you need to know who she is?”
You stab a piece of pasta. “I don’t. I’m just... curious.”
“You mean jealous.”
Your head snaps up. “I’m not jealous. I don’t care what he does when he’s not with me. He can sleep with whoever he wants. He can sleep with every bottle-blonde in Pittsburgh for all I care.”
“I am not,” you protest. “It’s casual. We both know that. If he wants out, he can just say so. I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone. I mean, sure, it’s fun when they’re good, but I am perfectly fine on my own. I don’t need someone interfering with my life. With my routine. I’m happy exactly the way things are.”
Ellis nods slowly. “Okay, Miss Independent. I get it.”
“Thank you.”
“Just to be clear,” she says, pushing her chair back, “you’re standing here eating his food because he told you to. Right?”
You open your mouth to argue, but she keeps going.
“Your hair smells like his shampoo. You walked into our apartment this morning wearing his shirt, and I’m pretty sure those are his socks.” Her gaze drops briefly to your feet before returning to your face. “You haven’t slept in your own bed once this week and, unless I’m forgetting somebody, you haven’t seen another guy in...” She pauses, pretending to think. “Wow. Almost four months now.”
You stare at her.
“And when you got that stomach bug last month,” she says, grabbing her container as she stands, “he called out of work just to sit on the bathroom floor with you for eight hours.”
She steps up right beside you, dropping her container in the sink.
“That’s not casual.”
The water runs for a few seconds as she rinses the container beneath the tap, then she sets it beside the sink and turns toward the door.
“Anyway,” she says lightly, reaching for the handle. “Let me know when you’re ready to admit you’re in love with him.”
Then she’s gone, leaving you alone with your pasta and your rapidly fraying nervous system.
You don’t move. You just stare at the door, trying to remember how to breathe. Trying to think about anything that isn’t that strange and unfamiliar feeling lodged beneath your ribs, insistent on being felt.
No.
It’s not—
It can’t be—
You would know if you were in—
Fuck.
You turn quickly and drop your container of food beside the sink before it ends up on the floor. Then you press both palms into the edge of the counter, as if that might somehow ground you.
This is ridiculous.
Ellis is just messing with you. She has to be.
You’re not in—
God. You can’t even think about that word.
You drag in a deep breath and grab the fork again, lifting it to your mouth.
It’s almost annoying how good it is. Infuriating, really. Because apparently being an emergency doctor, a SWAT physician, offensively attractive and unfairly charming isn’t enough. No. Jack Abbot just has to be an excellent cook too.
Jerk.
You finish the rest of the pasta as quickly as you can, trying not to be disappointed when the container is empty. Then you rinse it beneath the tap and set it beside Ellis’ tupperware.
Your heart is still beating a little too fast when you step out of the break room, and you have to shove your hands into your scrub pockets to keep them from shaking. You keep your head down as you make your way back toward South Seventeen, trying to focus on what you’re going to say to Deran and not how you may or may not feel about your attending.
“Hey,” you say, pulling the curtain back. “How are you feeling?”
Deran glances up. “Hey, doc. Long time no see.”
You squirt a pump of sanitiser into your palm and rub your hands together as you step up beside the bed.
“Been busy,” you say. “Are the painkillers working?”
He lifts his hand, wincing. “A little.”
You glance at the clock on the wall. “You could probably get some more soon.”
His brows pull together slightly. “Is that your way of saying I’m not heading home any time soon?”
You sigh quietly, dragging the stool closer to the bed and dropping down onto it.
“Not tonight, no. I’m sorry.”
He groans, tipping his head back against the pillow.
“I know,” you murmur, leaning in. “But one of our hand surgeons reviewed the images, and you’ve got a fracture right here.” You gently tap the base of his little finger near the knuckle. “I was expecting a break, but it’s lower than we’d like and close enough to the joint that this isn’t something we can safely reduce and splint in the ED.”
He lifts his head.
“There’s also some concern about the tendon around it,” you continue. “The finger was pulled pretty hard out of position, and the surgeon’s worried it may have damaged one of the tendons that helps it move properly.”
“What does that mean?”
“They’ll take you upstairs, get better imaging if they need it, and most likely repair everything at the same time rather than risk you losing function later.”
His brows draw tighter. “Repair?”
“The fracture. The tendon. Anything else they find once they’re in there.”
He lets his head fall back again. “Great.”
“You’ll be okay.”
“I know,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Just not exactly how I pictured getting to spend more time with you.”
You roll your eyes. “Really?”
“Will you be here when I wake up?”
You snort. “Hopefully not. If all goes well, I’ll be at home asleep.”
He sighs. “Damn.”
You push the stool back and stand. “Any other questions before I sign you off to surgery?”
He lifts his head, frowning slightly. “Yeah, actually. I wanted to ask you about that guy.”
You tilt your head. “What guy?”
“The one that came in here before. The attending.”
Your stomach drops.
“What about him?”
“I thought he was your boss.”
You fold your arms. “He is.”
“Huh.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s just—” He hesitates. “I don’t know. You just don’t usually look at your boss like that.”
You stare at him for a moment, trying to ignore the rush of your pulse in your ears.
“You sure you didn’t hit your head?”
His brows lift. “Wait. Did I hit a nerve?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
Your eyes narrow. “Why don’t you just focus on the fact that you need surgery? Do you need me to call anyone?”
He shakes his head. “I already called my mom.”
“Good,” you mutter, already turning away. “Good luck in surgery.”
“Tell your boss I said hi.”
“Bye, Deran.”
His laughter follows you out into the hallway, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking back as you yank the curtain shut.
You shake your head as you start down the corridor toward Central, as if that might somehow knock your errant thoughts back into place. You can still hear your pulse, still feel the heat crawling beneath your skin, your scrub top suddenly too warm and too tight.
The lights overhead are almost painfully bright now, the way they always get in the late hours of the night shift—but tonight their glare feels personal. Offensive, even. As if those buzzing fluorescent bars are shining brightly on everything you’ve worked so hard not to acknowledge. Not to feel.
Not that you’re feeling anything.
At least, not whatever it is Ellis thinks you’re feeling.
You just need a minute. One minute of quiet to come up with perfectly reasonable explanations for every stupid little thing she pointed out. Then your mind can stop running circles and you can finish your shift, go home, and get some much-needed sleep.
By tomorrow, all of this is just going to feel ridiculous.
Because that’s exactly what it is.
Ridiculous.
“Dr. Abbot,” Bridget calls from behind the desk. “Can you take a look at this for me?”
You stop short halfway between South and Central, watching as Jack moves from one end of the nurses’ station to the other. Bridget is already holding up her tablet, pointing at something on the screen while Jack leans in, brow furrowing just slightly as he squints at it.
He needs to wear his glasses. You’ve told him this countless times. Yet for some reason, he insists on reserving them exclusively for news articles, novels, and recipes.
Apparently, the PTMC emergency department isn’t worthy of his clear vision.
Your stomach lurches as your traitorous thoughts remind you of the time he’d worn them during sex. The time he’d insisted on keeping them on as he settled between your legs because he wanted to see you properly. He wanted to see everything.
You shake your head again, trying to push the memory away.
Jack leans a little closer as Bridget starts explaining something you can’t quite make out. Not that you really care to hear what she’s saying. You’re too busy watching the way Jack’s left hand grips the edge of the desk, his weight shifting toward it, lessening the load on his right leg.
It must be really sore tonight.
He nods along, murmuring something low as he taps on the screen. You know what comes next before he even does it. He lifts that same hand and it drags across his jaw, tilting his head just slightly as he tries to concentrate on whatever it is Bridget’s asking—but he’s tired. You know he’s tired. From the set of his shoulders to the way he’s shifting almost all his weight off his right leg, you just know that he’s counting down the hours to the end of shift.
Maybe you should feel guilty for not letting him get enough sleep yesterday.
His left hand adjusts its grip, the tendon in his forearm flexing as it does and for some stupid reason, you forget how to breathe. Just for a second.
“You alright?”
You blink. “What?”
Henderson frowns slightly, suddenly standing beside you with his tablet in hand. “That’s the second time I've caught you completely zoned out tonight. What’s going on?”
“Uh—”
You glance back at Jack just as he looks up, his gaze meeting yours briefly, a small smile tugging at his lips—and your treacherous heart leaps. It actually leaps.
What the fuck?
You clear your throat. “Yeah. No. I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
Henderson—the perceptive bastard—glances toward the nurses’ station, and his eyes widen.
“Oh, shit. Did something happen between you two?”
Your stomach flips. “What?”
He gestures vaguely toward Jack. “You and Abbot. Did you break up or something?”
“What?” you say again, louder this time. “Why would you even—I mean, we’re not—we’ve never dated. Why would you think that?”
He tilts his head. “Really? I thought Ellis said—”
“Ellis?”
“Not just Ellis.”
Your eyes go wide. “Who else?”
He shrugs. “Everyone assumes you guys are together.”
“Together?”
He frowns. “You’re not?”
“No,” you say, almost too fast. “No. We’re not together, we’re just—it’s… casual.”
His brows lift, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Casual?”
“Yes,” you mutter, dropping your head into your hands. “Are you telling me the entire ED thinks Jack and I are dating?”
Henderson laughs. “Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Shen mention it.”
Your head snaps up. “People talk about it?”
Henderson shrugs. “It’s gossip.”
You open your mouth, ready to deny everything, when—
“Trauma inbound,” Lena calls. “Male, twenties. Motorcycle crash. Hypotensive in the field. ETA two minutes.”
“Shit,” Henderson mutters. “That’s not gonna be fun.”
Jack glances over at you again, calling your name across the floor. “Trauma Two. Let’s go.”
You hesitate, taking a step back. “I—I can’t. Sorry.”
“It’s alright,” Henderson says quickly. “I can jump in.”
He’s already moving before he’s even finished speaking, weaving through the growing rush of staff converging on Trauma Two. You watch him for a second, taking another slow step back, then another—and just before you turn away, you glance at Jack.
He hasn’t moved. He’s still standing by the nurses’ station. Watching you.
Your stomach twists.
Then you turn away and keep walking down the corridor.
And fortunately for your rapidly deteriorating grip on reality, it isn’t long before Dr. Toomarian pulls you into a room to present a patient and you’re forced back into work mode.
The distraction helps, at first. You focus on the patient, answer questions, review scans, place orders, and for a few blessed minutes your brain remembers how to function. Then someone says Jack’s name and your pulse jumps for no reason. You hear a voice that sounds vaguely like Jack’s and your head snaps up. Someone calls for an attending and you catch yourself looking.
By the time you’re halfway through reviewing another chart, your pulse still hasn’t settled and you’re no closer to understanding what the hell is wrong with you, only increasingly certain that whatever it is, it’s getting worse.
Eventually you find yourself moving back through Central, your nose buried in your tablet as you scan the next patient’s intake form, determined to stay distracted. You’re just about to turn down the North corridor when you finally glance up—and there he is.
His brows lift, just slightly. “A word?”
Shit.
“Um. Sure.”
You tuck your tablet under one arm as you follow him around the corner toward the ambulance bay. Not quite all the way outside, but far enough from the nurses’ station that no one nosy can overhear.
When he finally stops and turns to face you, you’re reminded—quite aggressively—just how unfairly attractive Jack Abbot really is.
“What was that?”
You take a small step back. “What was what?”
He nods vaguely toward Central. “You completely dodged that trauma back there.”
“Yeah. Sorry.” You look away. “I just—I had a patient I needed to get back to.”
“We’ve all got patients,” he says, folding his arms. “But this is the ED. We treat the most critical patients first. That means traumas—you know that.”
You glance back at him, then down at your shoes. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just... a little distracted tonight.”
“Distracted?” he echoes. “Is this about your friend?”
Your head snaps up. “My friend?”
“The one you just sent up to surgery.” His jaw tightens, just briefly. “If I’m being honest, I’m not even sure you should’ve been his physician.”
You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s a conflict of interest.”
You scoff. “A conflict of interest? Seriously?”
He folds his arms a little tighter, making the sleeves of his scrub top strain around his stupidly thick biceps in the most distracting way.
“Yes.”
You lift your chin. “Alright. How’s Ms. Callahan, then?”
He blinks. “Who?”
“Central Nine. Your ex.”
He stares at you for a second.
“Who told you that?”
“It doesn’t matter,” you say quickly. “What matters is if you can treat your ex without it being a conflict of interest, then I can treat some guy I used to sleep with.”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
“So he’s not just an old friend.”
You tilt your head. “You knew that, Jack.”
For a brief moment, neither of you says anything. You can feel your pulse in your throat now, fast and uneven, and judging by the way Jack’s looking at you, you’re not doing nearly as good a job of hiding it as you’d hoped.
“Look,” you say, desperate to end this interaction. “I’m sorry I ducked the trauma. Really, I am. But Henderson was right there—it’s not like I left you hanging. I knew he’d jump in.”
Jack rubs a hand across his jaw, looking away for a second before glancing back at you. “You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry. Henderson was there, I could have called either of you.”
You nod once, the knot in your stomach finally easing slightly.
“Guess I should stop playing favourites, huh?”
You frown again. “Favourites?”
He lifts a shoulder. “You’re always the first person I look for when I need a second set of hands.”
Heat rushes up the back of your neck, but you refuse to let him see it.
“What about Dr. Robby?” you ask, shifting your tablet against your chest.
He leans in slightly. “I’d still choose you.”
The words hit you square in the chest, settling somewhere deep behind your ribs. For a second, your lungs forget how to work entirely, and by the time you finally figure out how to breathe again, Jack is already gone.
You stand there for a moment, staring after him, waiting for your brain to catch up with whatever the hell just happened. Waiting for those words to make sense. But they don’t. Not entirely. They stay lodged in your chest even as you clear your throat and press a hand against your sternum, turning slowly back toward the chaos of the ED.
Whatever.
Maybe they don’t mean anything.
You shake your head as you glance down at your tablet, pulling up the chart you’d been focused on before all this. Before Jack told you he’d still choose you over his own best friend, who also happens to have more experience, more qualifications, and significantly better judgement than you.
Ridiculous.
You spend the next half hour cleaning gravel out of a drunk college student’s knee after he fell down the porch steps at a house party. Then you help Henderson with a nine-year-old girl who split her forehead falling from the top bunk of her bed, distracting her while he does the sutures. After that, you work through a mild pneumonia case with Nazely before treating a middle-aged man with a kidney stone. The orders, pain meds, scans, and paperwork all blur together, and by the time you finally check the clock again it’s almost seven.
“Shit,” you murmur, dropping down at desk near the nurses’ station.
You need to catch up on your charting if you plan on getting out of here any time soon.
“Hey.” Henderson sits at the computer across from you. “Little girl with the forehead lac just got discharged.”
You glance over at him. “Oh. Nice.”
“Her mom wanted me to thank you for helping her.”
You snort. “Between the drunk college kid and the old guy coughing up half a lung, it was my pleasure.”
Henderson huffs a laugh. “Apparently she’s been saying she wants to be a doctor since she was six.”
Your brows lift. “Really?”
Henderson grins. “And now she wants to be a doctor just like you."
“Yeah? Did you tell her not to go into emergency medicine if she values her soul?”
“Assuming you had one to begin with,” Robby cuts in.
You glance up just as he walks past, wearing that familiar half-smile of weary amusement with a coffee in one hand and his bag slung over his shoulder.
“And here I was worried you’d be in a good mood this morning,” you say, smiling sweetly despite your words.
His eyes narrow, but the corner of his mouth lifts a little higher. “Careful.”
You roll your eyes playfully, turning back to the screen in front of you as he continues through Central.
It takes exactly eight minutes before you’re interrupted again. Bridget taps you on the shoulder asking for your signature on a prescription, and just as you hand it back to her, the red phone rings. You watch Lena answer it with a tired sigh, both Jack and Robby looking up to hear what kind of chaos is inbound.
“Alright,” Lena says as she hangs up the phone. “Male, forties. Single-vehicle MVC. Hypotensive in the field, positive seatbelt sign. ETA four minutes.”
“I’ll take it,” Robby says, setting his coffee down. “Let’s prep Trauma One.”
He glances around the unusually empty floor.
“I’ll jump in,” you offer, pushing your chair back.
Henderson shoots you a look as you stand and turn toward the nurses’ station, pulling a pair of gloves from a box. It’s not that you really want to jump in on another case ten minutes before the end of your shift, but you haven’t had a trauma since Captain Stabby and his sexy doctor friend, and you’re starting to feel a little guilty about it.
“See,” Robby says, pulling on his own gloves. “There’s hope for you yet.”
You roll your eyes again as you follow him out to the ambulance bay, and it isn’t long before you hear sirens.
The ambulance careens in and pulls up right in front of you, the back doors flying open as the first paramedic climbs out, holding a tearful young girl in his arms. She couldn’t be older than four.
“Thirty-eight-year-old male, restrained driver in a single-vehicle MVC versus a tree,” the paramedic says. “Positive seatbelt sign, abdominal pain, hypotensive on scene, improved with fluids. GCS fifteen. Two IVs in place. Daughter was restrained in the back seat and appears uninjured.”
The second paramedic circles the van from the driver’s side and starts helping Robby lower the gurney.
Robby nods toward the daughter. “You check her out?”
“We did a quick assessment on scene, but we’ve been focused on Dad,” the paramedic says, still holding her.
“Alright. We’ll get somebody to take a look at her.”
The young girl starts crying harder as Robby and the other paramedic begin wheeling the gurney inside. You stay beside them, one hand on the man’s forearm as you watch his eyelids droop.
“Stay with me, sir,” you say, squeezing his arm. “Can you tell me your name?”
“Barry,” he murmurs.
“Where does it hurt, Barry?”
He winces. “My—my stomach.”
The gurney rolls through the second set of doors, and suddenly you’re back under the bright fluorescent lights.
“Abbot,” Robby calls. “Can you take a look at the kid?”
Jack appears before you can even glance over your shoulder.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, his voice soft as he gently takes the daughter from the paramedic’s arms. “Your dad’s in good hands. Come on, let’s get you checked out too.”
You continue moving with the gurney into Trauma One, where Jesse and Olive are already prepping monitors and equipment.
The paramedics help shift the patient onto the trauma bed before clearing out, making room for Jesse to start attaching monitors.
“Pressure one-oh-four over sixty-eight,” he reports.
Olive quickly cuts Barry’s shirt open.
“Seatbelt sign across the lower abdomen,” you say, pressing gently along his stomach.
He grimaces when you reach his left side.
“Left’s worse.”
Robby holds out a hand. “Ultrasound.”
Jesse hands him the probe as you squirt gel onto Barry’s abdomen.
“RUQ,” Robby says.
You glance up at the ultrasound screen. “Clear.”
“LUQ.”
“Clear.”
“Pelvis.”
“Nothing obvious.”
“Good,” Robby says. “FAST negative. He’s stable enough for CT.”
You turn to Olive. “CT chest, abdo, pelvis with contrast.”
She nods, moving toward the phone as the whole room finally takes a breath. The negative FAST isn’t a guarantee, but it’s a promising start.
Barry groans, trying to lift his head. “Where’s my daughter? Where’s Ellie?”
You press a hand against his shoulder.
“Hey, don’t try to sit up. Your daughter’s okay—she’s just outside with another doctor.”
“She’s okay?”
You nod. “She’s okay.”
He lets out a strained breath, settling back against the mattress and tipping his head back.
“Hold on.”
You move closer, gently pushing his hair back.
“Forehead lac,” you tell Robby. “About three centimetres.”
He glances over. “Alright. We’ll close it up before he goes to imaging.”
He strips off his gloves and reaches for a new pair while Jesse preps the suture tray. Olive is already cleaning up around Barry as you reach for some gauze to start cleaning the cut, gently pushing his bloodied locks of hair out of the way.
“Lidocaine,” Robby says.
You grab the syringe from the tray and hand it to him, more than happy to let your attending do the work while your adrenaline wanes and that familiar end-of-shift exhaustion sets in.
“Stay still for us, Barry,” you murmur, cupping the crown of his head. “This might sting a little.”
He winces as Robby injects the anaesthetic.
“Saline,” Robby says.
You hand it over before carefully plucking the last few stuck strands of hair away from the wound.
“How’s the pain?” you ask.
“‘S okay,” Barry mumbles.
“Forceps.”
You hand Robby the forceps, then the needle driver before he can even ask.
“Light,” he murmurs.
You reach up and adjust the luminaire until he raises his hand, signalling that it’s in the right spot. Then he pinches the edge of the laceration with the forceps and slides the needle through the skin. Easy. Effortless. Boring.
You glance up at the monitor, noting that Barry’s heart rate has finally dropped below a hundred.
“Scissors,” Robby says.
You grab the scissors from the tray and hand them to him, then go back to reading Barry’s vitals.
“You with us, Barry?” Robby asks.
“Yeah,” Barry murmurs.
“Can’t feel the needle, can you?”
“No.”
“Good.”
You let your eyes move slowly around the room, already holding gauze for Robby before he can ask for it. You feel him take it from your hand just as you turn your head toward the glass doors, gazing out at the beginning chaos of morning handover.
But it isn’t Ellis and Langdon arguing about God knows what that gets your attention.
Just outside the trauma bay, perched on the edge of a bed parked beside the nurses’ station is Barry’s daughter. Ellie, apparently. Her eyes are still red and puffy, but she’s not crying anymore. She’s got a pink hospital gift shop teddy tucked under one arm and her other hand wrapped around the tubing of a black stethoscope.
Jack is sitting on a stool in front of her, gently helping put the earpieces in her tiny ears with a soft smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Her little hands grip either side of the headset, adjusting it with a very focused look on her face.
Jack hands her the chest piece as he scoots a little closer to the bed, then points to his chest. You can’t hear what he’s saying, but you can make an educated guess.
Ellie’s tiny hand grips the bell as she presses the diaphragm against Jack’s chest, a small crease forming between her brows. Jack is watching her with that amused little half-smile, his gaze soft, one hand braced lightly on the mattress beside her so she doesn’t topple backwards.
Ellie says something, and Jack nods, schooling his expression.
She’s taking her job very seriously right now, and Jack is taking her very seriously.
“Doctor.”
You blink, glancing back at Robby.
“Yeah?”
He gives you a look. “Scissors. For the third time.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
You hand him the scissors and watch him snip the tail on the second-last suture, then you turn your attention back toward Jack and Ellie. She’s giggling now, with the diaphragm pressed to Jack’s cheek as he gently shakes his head, laughing too.
“Forceps.”
You grab the forceps and hand them to Robby.
His eyes flick up. “You alright?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“You’re smiling.”
“No, I’m—”
Oh my God.
You are smiling.
You turn back toward Jack, and your stomach drops.
Oh my God.
You’re in love with Jack Abbot.
“Alright, Barry,” Robby says, peeling his gloves off. “We’re gonna send you upstairs for some imaging now, make sure we didn’t miss anything.”
You take one unsteady step back from the bed.
“Can someone call my wife?” Barry asks, his voice strained.
Robby nods. “I'm sure somebody already has, but I’ll check.”
Your hands shake as you pull your gloves off.
“What about Ellie? Can I see her?”
“Of course,” Robby says. “She’s right outside.”
Barry lifts his head slightly. “Am I okay?”
“Well, you’re talking to me, your pressure’s holding, and your FAST was negative. Those are all good signs.” Robby looks at you. “Isn’t that right, doctor?”
Your head snaps up. “Hm?”
He frowns. “You sure you’re alright? You seem—”
“I’m fine,” you snap, tossing your gloves in the waste bin. “I just—I have charting to do.”
Then you turn and march right out of the trauma bay, keeping your head down as you take an immediate sharp left. Ignoring the familiar voice that calls your name and makes your pulse scatter.
You don’t stop until you reach the picture wall. Only then do you drop down onto the bench, squeeze your eyes shut, and bury your face in your hands. You can’t scream. Can’t shout. Can’t drop to the floor and have a panic attack right here in the middle of the ED. So you just… breathe.
Okay. Maybe you’re being a little dramatic—but can anyone blame you?
You don’t want this. You can’t want this. You don’t have time for this.
Casual sex is easy. No strings, no stress, no reason to worry about anything other than saving lives and finishing your residency. That’s all you want.
Or… all you wanted.
Now?
Now you’re not sure what you want.
Of course you still want to save lives and survive your residency, but now you can’t imagine doing either of those things without Jack.
You can’t imagine another shift without knowing Jack is somewhere in the department. Or getting a difficult case and not being able to talk through it with him. You can’t imagine going home and not immediately texting him. Or having a bad day and not being able to talk to him about it.
You can’t imagine anything without Jack.
Which is terrifying.
Because it isn’t just sex anymore. It isn’t flirting or late-night texts or teasing glances across the floor. It’s the way he’s somehow worked his way into every part of your life without you even noticing. Every shift. Every conversation. Every stupid little story you save up to tell him later. He’s just there. Everywhere.
And now... he matters.
You sit up and drag in a deep breath.
You need to pull it together. This isn’t the end of the world. It’s not even a thing. It’s only a thing if you let it be a thing, which… you’re not going to do.
With another deep breath, you push off the bench and start heading back toward Central. All you have to do is finish your charting, then you can leave. You can go home, turn your phone off, and talk yourself off the ledge.
You just need a little space. A little time away from the hospital, away from Jack, and all these ridiculous feelings will—
“Hey. You okay?”
Your heart lurches, but you don’t stop.
“I was going to come over there,” he says, keeping his voice low, “but I didn’t want to—”
“I’m fine,” you murmur, without even looking at him.
His hand closes gently around your wrist, and your stomach flips so hard it’s almost nauseating.
“You sure?”
You finally stop, glancing up at him. At the concerned crease between his brows and the little downward quirk at the corner of his mouth.
“I’m fine,” you say again, pulling your arm out of his grip. “Seriously.”
He gives you a look. Not one that says he’s offended or at all upset by your attitude, but one that says he doesn’t believe you. A look that makes you feel far too seen. Far too known.
“I need to finish my notes,” you mutter, turning away before he can say anything else.
You turn down the North corridor and don’t stop until you reach the desks just outside the break room. Then you drop into a chair, swipe your badge to log in, and force your trembling hands to steady themselves over the keyboard.
It takes a significant amount of effort to focus on your charting. You stare at the blinking cursor for minutes at a time before finally managing to squeeze out a few—mostly coherent—sentences. You type Jack’s name at least five times without meaning to, and every time you do, your heart thuds obnoxiously hard beneath your ribs.
Fortunately, no one tries to interrupt you this time, and after forty painstaking minutes of glaring at that computer screen and forcing your wayward thoughts to stay on track, you finally finish.
Now you just need to handover your patients.
You find Langdon by the nurses’ station, standing just below the workboard with his hands in his pockets as he reads through the list of patients and their ailments.
“Hey.” You step up beside him. “You got a minute for handover?”
He glances at you. “Oh. Hey. Didn’t know there were still any night crawlers left.”
You frown. “Everyone’s gone?”
“Everyone but Dr. Abbot,” he says. “And you.”
Your eyes go wide. “Ellis is gone?”
He nods. “Saw her head out about fifteen minutes ago.”
You scramble to grab your phone out of your pocket, unlocking it to find two new notifications from Ellis. Seventeen minutes ago.
Ellis: Abbot said he’s giving you a lift, so I’m headed out.
Ellis: Need anything from the store?
Your stomach drops.
“Everything alright?” Langdon asks.
“Uh—yeah. Fine.”
You tuck your phone back into your pocket.
“I’ve only got two patients. Can you take them?”
He nods. “Of course.”
“Alright. Central Twelve came in with chest pain. Trops negative, ECG’s clean, waiting on the repeat. If that’s negative too, he can go home.”
“Mhm.”
“And South Nineteen’s the pyelo. Got fluids, ceftriaxone, feeling better. Medicine said they’d come see her, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
Langdon snorts. “Got it.”
You nod. “Great. Thanks.”
“Anything else?”
“Nope.”
He smiles. “Great sign-out.”
“I try,” you mutter, already turning away.
You hurry across the floor toward the lockers, pulling your phone back out of your pocket to type a reply to Ellis as you walk.
You: You’re dead to me.
You: And toothpaste.
When you finally reach your locker, you quickly key in the code and pull the door open. You don’t bother removing your stethoscope or badge, or taking time to actually put your jacket on—you just gather everything into your arms and slam the door shut again. Then you turn and make a beeline for the ambulance bay.
Maybe you can catch a bus home. Or—hell—you’ll pay for an Uber if you have to.
“Hey, slow down,” Dana says as you rush past the nurses’ station. “What’s the hurry?”
“Sorry,” you call over your shoulder. “Just—really need to get home.”
You’re moving too quickly for her to press you any further. Thank God. Because the last thing you need right now is Dana and her infuriating habit of knowing things she has absolutely no business knowing.
You keep your head down until you make it all the way outside, and only then do you finally feel like you can breathe. You nod to a patient having a cigarette by the garden bed before turning the other way, pulling your phone out to order an Uber.
Only, you can’t remember the last time you ordered an Uber. Do you even have the app?
“You ready?”
You flinch. “Jesus Christ.”
Jack huffs a laugh. “Not quite.”
You glance back down at your phone, clutching it a little tighter.
“I’m this way,” he says, nodding toward the other side of the parking lot.
You hesitate. “I—uh—I was just going to grab an Uber.”
His brows lift, but he doesn’t look all that surprised. “You were?”
You nod. “Yeah. I’m good. Thanks.”
“You sure?”
“Yep.”
You turn away, but he doesn’t leave. He just stands there, waiting, one hand holding the strap of his backpack that’s slung over his shoulder, the other buried in his pocket.
“Is there something going on that I should know about?” he asks finally.
“Nope,” you reply, too fast.
Then, for some ridiculous reason, you start walking.
“Where are you going?”
“The bus stop,” you say, without looking back.
He follows you. Because of course he does.
“You’re going to catch a bus?”
“Yep.”
He laughs again, but this time it’s more disbelief than dry amusement.
“I’m offering you a perfectly good, no strings attached ride home, and you’d rather catch a bus?”
That makes you stop.
You turn around. “No strings attached?”
He lifts a shoulder. “If that’s what you want.”
“What I want?”
“If you want me to just drop you off, I’ll just drop you off.”
You stare at him for a second, your pulse pounding in your ears.
“Just drop me off?”
He nods slowly, his brow creasing slightly.
“And then what?” you ask.
He tilts his head. “What do you mean?”
“Then you just leave?”
“If that’s what you want.”
Your throat tightens. “Stop saying that.”
He frowns. “Saying what?”
“If that’s what I want.” You drag a hand through your hair. “You keep saying it like this is entirely up to me. Like none of this has anything to do with you. Like it’s my choice and you don’t get to say anything or—or feel anything, and that’s not fair.”
He studies you for a moment, folding his arms across his chest in the most irritatingly distracting way.
“What are we talking about here?”
“I don’t know!” You throw your hands up. “This. Us. Whatever this is. I don’t know what we’re doing anymore, Jack. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with any of this, and you just keep showing up being completely reasonable all the time, which is really fucking annoying.”
His eyes narrow. “I’m... too reasonable?”
“Yes! God—” You laugh once, sharp and humourless. “Why are you always like this? Why are you always so calm about everything? We never talk about what you want. We never talk about how you feel. We just keep pretending everything’s fine and maybe that’s worked up until now, but I don't think it’s working anymore.”
“Okay,” he says evenly. “Tell me what’s not working, and we can talk about it.”
“Talk about it?” You stare at him. “Talk about what? There’s nothing to talk about, because this—this isn’t anything. This is casual, Jack. It’s supposed to be casual. And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe we’ve spent too much time together. Maybe we just need some space or—or something.”
His brows lift. “Is that what you want?”
You fold your arms, trying to reclaim some semblance of control. “Yes.”
Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face, but he schools it quickly.
“Okay,” he says again. “If you want space, I can give you space.”
“Seriously?” You let out another sharp laugh. “Of course that’s your answer. Do you see what I mean? This is exactly what I mean. I stand here and tell you maybe we need some space, and you’re just... okay with it? Just like that? No questions, no argument, no nothing.”
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Do you want me to argue?”
“Maybe!” You throw your hands up again. “I don’t know, Jack! Maybe I want something. Anything. Just some indication that this means something to you. Because every time I say something, you just... accept it. You just nod and go along with it like none of this affects you at all. Like if I said I wanted space, you’d give me space. If I said I wanted to end this, you’d end it. If I said I never wanted to see you again, you’d just stand there being completely calm and reasonable and tell me that’s okay too.”
You let out a shaky laugh, shaking your head as you look away.
“And don’t tell me that’s not true, because you spent half the night in Central Nine with your ex and I spent the rest of the shift pretending I wasn’t paying attention to that, which is insane, by the way. Completely insane. She was a patient. You’re a doctor. I know that. I know I’m being irrational.”
You tip your head back, squeezing your eyes shut for just a second before looking back at him.
“And that’s the worst part, because I know none of this is actually about her. That’s the problem. It’s not about her at all. It’s about the fact that you’re always fine. You’re always so calm and so reasonable and so completely unbothered, and I don’t know how you do that.” You let out an unsteady breath. “It's like—like none of this matters to you. Like you don’t care. Like you could just walk away from everything, from me, and be completely fine.”
Your chest is rising and falling too fast now, your heart is beating so hard you’re almost sure he can hear it.
He doesn’t say anything right away. He just watches you, the corners of his mouth softened by something that looks suspiciously like fondness. And suddenly you’re struck by the horrible suspicion that he understands exactly what you’ve been trying so hard not to say.
“You think I could just walk away from this and be completely fine?” he asks, his voice soft. “You think I could walk away from you?”
He steps closer, the toes of his boots barely inches from yours now.
“When this started, it was casual. I knew that. I knew you were seeing other people. I knew you didn’t want a relationship—and if that’s still not what you want, then okay. I’m not going to pressure you into something you’re not ready for. I’m not trying to be overly reasonable, and I’m certainly not trying to make you feel like you’re losing your mind.”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
“When I ask you what you want, it’s not because I don’t care what happens. It’s because I do. It’s because I’d rather be patient than push you into something before you’re ready for it. And if space is what you need right now, then I’ll give you space.”
His gaze holds yours.
“But don’t mistake that for indifference. Because there’s no version of this where walking away from you is easy. There’s no version of this where I don’t care. And if one day you tell me that’s what you really want, then I’ll respect it. Not because it’s what I want. Not because what I feel doesn’t matter. But because I respect you.”
His expression softens again.
“Do you understand?”
You nod slowly, your throat suddenly too tight for words.
“Now listen to me.”
He lifts a hand and pinches your chin gently between his thumb and forefinger.
“I know you’ve had a long shift. I know you’re exhausted. I know you’re standing here trying to convince yourself you haven't completely lost your mind, and I’m not trying to make your day any harder than it already is—but I need you to hear this.”
His eyes search yours, earnest and unguarded.
“I love you too.”
For a moment, all you can do is stare at him. With your breath caught somewhere in your chest, your mouth slightly open, and your heart trying to punch its way through your ribcage.
His lips quirk. “You alright?”
“No,” you breathe.
And then you grab the front of his shirt and kiss him.
His hand drops from your chin to your neck, fingers pressing in just slightly as he kisses you back. Firm, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world and has decided, without hesitation, that he only wants to spend it on you.
He steps closer, tilting your head back as his mouth parts against yours. A soft, helpless little noise breaks at the back of your throat, and you can feel his lips curl in satisfaction. Then he kisses you harder, deeper, his other hand finding your waist as his tongue presses past your lips.
You step in until there’s nothing left between you. Nothing but hospital scrubs and the fact that you’re standing in the middle of a public parking lot right now.
And for a second, neither of you seems to care.
The hand at your waist slides higher, pulling you closer as his mouth moves slower. Not because he wants less, but because he knows he’s got you. Because after months of patience and uncertainty, he knows he can finally take his time.
Your fingers bunch tighter in the front of his shirt, and he smiles again.
“Don’t,” you murmur against his mouth.
He doesn’t say anything. He just kisses you again, gentler this time. A lingering press of his mouth against yours. Then another. His thumb brushes against your neck as he tilts his head, stealing one more kiss that feels almost unfairly tender after the way he’d just been holding you.
Then he pulls back completely.
You stare at him.
He stares back.
Your lips are still tingling, your hands are still fisted in the front of his shirt, and your heart is still beating hard enough to crack a rib.
The corner of his mouth lifts a little higher.
“Still catching the bus?”
You immediately let go of his shirt. “Shut up.”
He laughs properly then, letting you turn away and start marching toward one end of the parking lot.
“My car’s the other way,” he calls.
You stop, close your eyes, then slowly turn around.
Jack is still standing exactly where you left him, with his hands in his pockets and looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“Shut up,” you say again.
His smile only widens.
You roll your eyes and start walking again, brushing past him with as much dignity as someone can reasonably muster after having a complete emotional breakdown and then immediately making out with their boss.
You don’t need to look back to know he’s following you.
You just know.
And by the time you finally reach his car, you realise you’re smiling.
summary — everyone has an ex that they’d rather forget about. yours is just more persistent than most. however, when he takes the initiative to show up at your place of work, demanding a second chance, it’s time for you to shut it down once and for all—and to show that you have standards now. (based on this request)
featured — dr. jack abbot / fem!nurse!reader, nurse lena handzo, dr. john shen, ahmad zidan
content — no spoilers for s1 or 2, fluff and angst, talk of drug abuse (not by reader or jack), past emotional abuse/manipulation, your ex is a possessive asshole, you and jack stand on business, dr. shen being iconic as per usual
(cross-posted on ao3) (the pitt masterlist)
The first call comes as you are walking into the PTMC that morning, your bag slung over your shoulder and one hand in the pocket of your jeans.
The frown comes with immediacy across your face as you realize you are unsure of who would be calling so early in the morning. You step to the side of the emergency room floor and brandish the vibrating mobile from your pocket. It is not a saved number in your phone, so you silence it without thinking twice about it. Spam calls these days have become so common that you average at least one a shift.
Crisis averted, you head to the nurse’s station and get changed into your scrubs. Even at three in the morning, the ER is already buzzing with life. You greet a few of the frequent fliers you pass on the way, an unshakable grin on your cheeks.
Once you’re dressed, the day officially begins. Despite yourself, you find your eyes jumping from person to person, eagerly looking for one doctor in particular.
But he finds you before you do him. You jolt when his arm brushes against yours as you stand near the charge station. You angle your head in his direction and you feel your heart skip a beat as you focus fully on him.
“Hey,” you say to Jack, trying—and failing—to refocus on the schedule in front of you.
He doesn’t even try to look busy as he drags a hand through his silver curls, eyes twinkling despite their exhaustion. “You’re starting early.”
You half-shrug, flipping the page over, scanning quickly through the patient list. “Lena needed another nurse on deck… something about Jacob’s paternity leave. So, here I am.”
“Here you are.”
You look at him fully then, an affectionate smile creeping across your face. “How’s the shift been? Chaotic?”
Jack shakes his head. He rubs his temple as if doing so would release every worry from his head. “Uh, it’s been about the same. So, catastrophic on every level. I had—“
Your Apple Watch suddenly buzzes twice in quick succession and your attention is unintentionally diverted. You frown, again confused why you were receiving nonessential notifications. When you open the screen, two text messages are there from an unknown number. You can’t preview the messages from your watch before the screen goes black, so you have no idea what they might contain.
“Everything okay?” Jack reminds you of his presence when he asks this, and you briefly look up at him to let him know you heard his question.
“Yeah, not sure what’s going on today.” You push and hold to silence the watch. “Spam callers are having a field day, I guess. Bet they just texted to let me know I have to click this sketchy link to prevent my nonexistent car from being repossessed.”
“Better get on that,” your boyfriend says with a light chuckle, “you know the United States government has an invested interest in your nonexistent car and those nonexistent toll fees.”
You grin at his sarcasm. Finally dissuaded from checking your notifications, you look up at him. “Now if only they could adjust their pitch to match Pittsburgh public transportation.”
“—Yo, lovebirds,” Lena’s voice commands attention from every corner of the room, and you feel your spine immediately go ramrod from her tone. “I got patients back here that would love an ounce of your undivided attention.”
Despite her tone, you know she’s not truly angry. You place a quick kiss on Jack’s cheek, then head over to your charge nurse. The text messages, phone call, and even Jack migrate to the back of your head as you get sucked into work.
You haven’t thought about your ex in a long ass time. It’s hard to reconcile that at one point in your life, he’d been all you thought about.
You had met in nursing school. He was the sweet, handsome, charismatic guy who sat next to you in pharmacology. It was hard to see in your young, 20-something-year-old brain the glaring red flags. Or perhaps you had ignored them in favor of the relationship.
You had the habit of focusing on the positives more than you did the negatives of any situation, especially regarding relationships. You focused on the fact that he always brought you a coffee when he got himself one, the fact that he would wrap his arm around you and tug you to his side when talking with friends, how he’d always make up for arguments with gifts and affection.
But as time wore on, his negatives only became more pronounced. He was not used to working hard for his degree in college—that is what happens when daddy pays for you to have good grades in undergrad—and flunked out. He blamed you for being a distraction to his schooling, but never dared breaking up with you. He started getting too adventurous with his drug usage, to the point finding his next fix took priority over everything else.
You broke up with him a year ago. Six months ago, you started dating Jack.
Jack is everything that he wasn’t. He’s responsible. Everything he has he’s had to work for. He loves you, and does not put you on the back burner when life gets messy, instead, he tries to make it work. Most importantly, though? He doesn’t fucking blame you for all his problems.
You stare at the phone in a stunned silence.
All it takes was two texts for you to remember why you hated being single those six months you were. The audacity of some men was truly astounding.
???: did you really just ignore my call? who the hell do you think you are?
And then, literally, seconds later:
???: are you in town, babe? maybe we could grab some drinks?
One might wonder how you knew it was him, but it’s just so obvious. No one else would be texting at five in the fucking morning looking to get drinks after a year no-contact. It’s the kind of insane behavior one could only expect from him.
You shake your head after a few moments of staring blankly at your phone and stand. You throw the last bits of your meal away and drop your phone back off into your locker. As you step out of the nurse’s area, you notice Lena waving you over from across the room.
You make it over to her in two quick strides, eager to get your mind the hell away from whatever those texts were.
Those dreams are dashed the second you notice Lena giving you a concerned look.
“Hey hon.” Hon? She never calls you that. “We have a man in North 2 asking for you by name. Want to take it?”
You cock a brow, mind moving a mile a minute as you try to quickly go through who that could be. But the texts still linger in your mind from moments before and you get stuck on one thought. Would he really be so stupid… so deplorable… to get himself admitted to your ER?
You sigh and nod, straightening your scrub top nervously as you approach the patient room door. You pause for a moment, trying to will yourself to just knock on the door. When you finally do, a smiling brunette answers it—not exactly what you’d been expecting.
“Are you the doctor?” she says, entirely too caffeinated and hyper for being in a hospital at five in the morning.
“I’m the nurse,” you tell her, smiling tightly. “Can I come in?”
“Oh, right.” She lets out a laugh. “Sorry, I see that on your badge now.”
She steps aside and you take at most two steps before your stomach drops to your feet. There he is, in all his glory. Considering the fact that you haven’t seen him in a year and he’s gained at least thirty pounds, you applaud yourself for recognizing him so quickly. He’s got one arm covered in gauze, and blood seems to have already soaked through.
The woman who’s with him goes to his side, stroking his unhurt arm gently. Poor girl, you think, if only she knew what she was getting herself into.
“I’m just going to take your vitals.” Strict professionalism. That is your aim for working with him. You grab the blood pressure cuff and loop it around his upper arm.
“Babe, how about you go get me a coke?” His voice is just as dry and grumbly as you remember. Once upon a time, you’d found it attractive. Now it was just grating.
You squeeze the cuff as the girl nods cheerily and practically skips out of the room. He lets out a quick breath through his teeth when you maybe squeeze it one time too hard. An honest mistake, really. You type down his blood pressure dutifully in his patient chart.
You gesture toward the door where the woman just slipped out. “Where’d you pick a girl like that up at?”
“Eh, she’s just some squeeze.” He shrugs. “Nothin’ compared to you, babe.”
“I see your limitless assholery has remained the same.” You type a few more numbers into his chart, refusing to give him the eye contact he so desperately searched for. “So, what? You just so happened to cut yourself after texting me for the first time in a year?”
He winces as you reach over to pull back the bandage. It’s not too bad. You probe the edges of skin once, twice, then pull the bandage back over it. It looks like it might need stitches, which means, unfortunately, he will have to stay longer.
“Would you respond to me otherwise?” He makes a good point. You would never answer the phone if you knew he was on the other line. However, faking an injury and taking the bed of a person who might actually need it? Now that’s just wrong.
You snap your gloves off and go to add one more note to his file. Do not administer Oxycodone-based medications. That last bit of information comes from personal experience.
“Well, do you want the good news or the bad news first?” you ask, leaning up against the door of the room.
He doesn’t have to think on it for long. “Good.”
“The good news is that you will not be seeing me much more for the rest of your stay here. The bad news is you will have to stay a little longer. A doctor will need to come assess your wound.”
“How’s the good news good? I came here specifically to see you,” he says, his tone annoyed.
You give him your best attempt at a smile. “Oh right–that’s good news for me, not you. Have a good day.”
You leave the room quickly after that, ignoring his protests as you do. You pass the brunette on your way to the charge station, and you offer her a pitying smile. Poor girl really has no idea who she’s getting involved with, does she?
Leaning across the charge desk, you pinch your nose bridge in between your fingers and attempt to take several deep breaths.
Of all the things you’d seen in this profession; all the people that had been lost along the way… somehow, the hardest struggle was having to face your ex. How ridiculous was that?
“You good?” The sudden question is punctuated by a loud slurp of a drink, and you know who it is before you even turn your head.
“Hey Shen,” you greet him curtly. He shakes around the Dunkin’ drink in his hand, the ice cubes clinking together.
“You and Jack having some trouble in paradise?” Shen says before taking another loud sip of his drink.
You can’t help the short laugh from snorting out of your nostrils. “No, no,” you tell him, “if only it were that.”
Shen narrows his eyes. He looks you up and down as if trying to discern the issue.
You sigh. “My ex. He’s in North 2. He faked an injury to see me.”
“No way.” Shen laughs. “Listen, I have some pretty crazy exes, but even they haven’t done anything that crazy.” His tone shifts when he realizes you aren’t in the same jovial mood. He steps forward, expression drawn tight. “You need help?”
You look off to the side, pondering. It would suck if Jack had to meet him. It wasn’t so much that you didn’t want Jack to know as it was that you didn’t want to have to deal with the embarrassment of having dated that thing for a brief point in your life.
“You free? Think you could inspect his wound? Maybe put in some stitches?”
Shen cocks a brow. “You sure you don’t want Jack to do that? Need him to go all macho on him?”
“I’d rather Jack not be involved.” You shift uneasily on your feet. “Not because he’s possessive, but because I worry my ex might get… unruly.”
Shen nods, then puts his drink down on the counter, even though Lena had explicitly requested he not do that. “Give me fifteen. I’ll meet you back here for consult.”
You watch for a few seconds as he strides away, then you avert your eyes to your hands. They’re shaking, but you’re not sure why. You aren’t scared of your ex—but that doesn’t mean you aren’t upset by his reappearance in your life.
You hadn’t been one of those couples that said “let’s just be friends!” even once they broke up. You’d been more so the type that you blocked each other’s numbers and you moved your entire career and livelihood to get away from him. It felt like two worlds colliding, him being here, where you were now a successful nurse and not his overly-reliant girlfriend.
As you continue to stand by the desks, you notice Jack stepping out of a patient’s room down the hall. You turn your back and attempt to look busy in sorting paperwork, but you know he’s seen you.
His voice breaks through your thoughts just as you begin to think he’s not coming over. “Working hard or hardly working?”
You smile despite yourself. “Hey,” you say, turning your head.
His eyebrows furrow as he gets closer to you, able to see you more clearly. He leans beside you on the counter, chewing the inside of his cheek. He’s worried about you—he always does that when he is. “You alright?”
You knew he was going to ask this, but it still catches you off-guard.
You don’t want to lie to him, but you don’t want to tell him the truth either. Subjecting Jack to your ex was not high on your to-do list. If all went well, no one would have to deal with him other than Shen. Besides, you don’t need a man to stick up for you. You could handle him just fine on your own.
You shrug. “Sometimes I forget how chaotic the night shift can be.”
He leans forward, voice soft. “If you’re struggling, I’m sure Lena will be understanding…”
You put your hand on his bicep and give it a squeeze. “I’m okay, Jack. I promise. Besides, your shift is over in, what, an hour and a half? Don’t worry about me.”
“I’ll try,” he tells you, “but you have a way of making it into my head whether I want you to or not.”
You let out a breathy laugh. “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
“—You ready to go, my favorite nurse?” you hear Shen say from behind you. He reaches between you and Jack to grab his drink, taking a long sip. The seriousness of the conversation he just interrupted is completely lost on him. He turns to Jack. “Oh, hey man. Didn’t see you there.”
Your boyfriend cocks a brow at you. “What’s going on?”
“A consult,” Shen replies simply.
Jack looks at you like he’s expecting a more in-depth explanation. You smile teasingly and pat his arm. “Back to work, doc. Patients won’t save themselves.”
Jack rolls his eyes affectionately as you step away, but once your back is turned, the expression falls away.
You clutch the suture kit cart as Shen knocks on the patient door then uses his hip to push it open. He stands to the side as you enter. Your ex’s new girlfriend shoots to her feet as you push the cart in, her eyes wide. You offer her what you hope is a comforting smile.
“Hello, hello,” Shen says as he takes a seat on a rolling stool next to his bed. “I’m Dr. Shen and I’m going to be taking care of you today. I hear you have a cut on your arm?”
Your ex doesn’t look at him as he replies, his eyes on you and the suture kit. “I slipped.” He reaches over to remove the gauze on his arm.
“Is it going to need stitches?” The girlfriend asks from behind you.
Shen inspects the wound carefully, eyes moving slowly across the ripped skin. He pulls away and nods. “Yeah, I think a few stitches. It’s pretty deep and jagged along the edges. What was it you slipped on?”
He moves out of the way so you can begin flushing the wound. You ignore the fact that your ex is flexing his muscles as you grab the cleanser, completely locked into your work.
“My damn hunting knife,” he says, “it’ll leave a pretty nice scar though, huh?”
You roll your eyes without even really meaning to, and you feel your ex’s glare on you.
“Go ahead and put some lidocaine in,” Shen tells you. He turns to your ex. “Don’t want you to feel your skin being pulled together with a needle, do we?”
Your ex goes pale as you grab the syringe and fill it with the liquid. “Uh, could I… does it have to have stitches?”
“Trust me, honey, you do not want sepsis,” his girlfriend says, “my cousin got it and—“
“—Just be quiet,” your ex snaps at her. You flinch at the tone, and accidentally spill a little bit of the liquid on the table.
Shen steps up behind you, crossing his arms in front of his chest. You know he wants to comfort you, but you’re glad he keeps his distance. “Your girlfriend is right,” he says, “lots of nasty things can happen if you let a cut like that not heal properly.”
You gently guide the needle into the skin above his wound and push the liquid inside. You turn to your ex as you pull the needle away. “It should be completely numb in a few minutes.”
You step back to let Shen take the seat again. You turn to look out the window of the room only to lock eyes with Jack. He’s talking to Lena, but his eyes are on you. You look away. You nervously shift on your feet, clutching your hands across your front.
“So, uh.” Your ex’s eyes are on you as he starts to speak. Your lips draw into a thin line. “You guys get out much? Have boyfriends, girlfriends?”
Shen knows who the question is aimed at, yet he answers anyway. “Eh, it’s kind of difficult,” he says, poking and prodding the arm. “I’m not much for commitment.”
You refuse to reply.
“Okay, I think it’s numbed up, I’m going to go ahead and start,” Shen tells him. “Maybe try not to look at it. I find my patients who don’t usually have the best time with this.”
You hand Shen the threaded needle and help clamp the skin together with forceps.
“And you?” His fucking mouth.
You barely look up from his wound as your ex says this. “What?”
“Are you dating anyone?”
“Honey, I think they’re concentrating right now,” his girlfriend butts in. You shoot her an appreciative smile and keep your hands steady as Shen guides the needle through the first point.
“Surely she can answer a question,” he huffs, “I mean she’s just holding a clamp. I can do that.”
You shake your head and barely murmur, “I’m not doing this here. Not now.”
Shen goes through the third point, drawing the skin together tightly.
A few moments pass and you think he’s given up. Then, he says, “I just don’t understand what the big deal is. Why can’t you answer the question?”
You clench your jaw, barely able to conceal your irritation. Shen shoots you a look, but then goes back to sewing.
“Cmon, really?” he continues.
“I have a boyfriend—is that what you so desperately want to hear?!” your voice is unexpectedly loud, and you immediately regret the outburst after it leaves your lips.
The girlfriend looks shocked—hurt, probably realizing that your connection with her boyfriend goes beyond a normal patient-nurse relationship. Your ex looks equal parts annoyed as he does satisfied with your outburst. Like he’d just proved some point in his head about how you weren’t all perfect.
Shen turns his head and says, “scissors.”
You hand him the utensil and he pulls the thread taut before snipping it.
Your ex lets out a short laugh. You cock a brow, worried that someone had slipped him something.
“I don’t believe you.”
You roll your eyes. “Good thing I don’t care if you do or don’t.”
Shen turns to you. “I can wrap up here if you need to step out.”
You’re already halfway out the door by the time he says this. You move quickly to the stairwell, passing concerned nurses and doctors as you do. Once you are out the door, you have to bend over to catch your breath. Pressing the palms of your hands hard against your eyes, you will yourself not to get upset.
Only he could get you that flustered with hardly a word. And you fell for his bait every single time. You lean against the wall and try to steady your breathing.
A few minutes pass. More than you are sure that Lena would allow. The doors to the stairwell open and you turn to the side, hoping the person there can take a hint.
Unfortunately, Jack is persistent.
He gently grabs your arm and pulls you to his side. You allow him, and the stress of the day flows out of you with your muffled tears. You cushion your head against his chest, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He strokes the top of your head while the other arm holds you just as tightly.
Once you’ve released all the emotion you can handle, you pull back a little, wiping your eyes. Jack doesn’t let you get far, keeping you close to his chest.
“Shen told me you were upset,” he says, “what’s going on?”
You sniffle, trying to look away. He gently guides your head back to meet his eyes with his thumb on your chin. His fingers slide up to cup your cheek and you melt into his grip. “Talk to me, love.”
A fresh set of tears escape your eyes at the sweetness of his voice. The caring, affectionate man in front of you was so much better than anyone you’d ever been with. It makes you feel silly for crying, silly for complaining.
“This morning, when my watch buzzed.” You hiccup. “It wasn’t a spam number. It was my ex-boyfriend.”
You watch Jack’s face carefully as you say this, trying to predict his next words before he says them. You thread your fingers in his scrubs, anchoring yourself to him.
“Then, he showed up as a patient. He intentionally hurt himself to see me. And he’s been rude and crass, sure, but that’s not even what bothers me the most.” You wipe your eyes with the palm of your hand, knowing you must look a mess. “I don’t want him back in my life. Never. He… just doesn’t belong here. It makes me sick thinking he’s trying to worm himself into my perfect life that I’ve built without him.”
You pause, taking a panicky breath in. “I don’t want him to come between us. I don’t want you to think… I don’t want you to think less of me because of him. I mean, I can’t believe I ever dated him. He’s awful.”
Jack strokes your cheek, letting you get it all out. When he’s sure you’re finished, he speaks.
“First of all,” he says, “I’m never going to judge you for people you no longer have in your life. If you chose to get rid of them, I know there’s a hell of a good reason. And, personally, I think you’re a great judge of character. I don’t want to hang out with someone you don’t like.” You avert your eyes bashfully, but Jack angles your head so you’re still looking at him.
“Secondly, don’t blame yourself for the choices of stupid people. Just because you once associated with him, doesn’t mean you still stand by his choices today,” he says. “I love you. I mean that. And that means I trust you, implicitly. I wouldn’t have tried to get in the way—well, let me rephrase that. If you weren’t in imminent trouble and I thought you had it handled, I wouldn’t intervene with your issues.”
You let out a soft laugh at that last part.
For a moment longer, the two of you stand there. He strokes your hair, you clutch his scrubs. Finally, you release him.
“I’ve got thirty more minutes left before the day shift inevitably arrives,” he says, “so, what do you want to do?”
You shake your head. “Honestly? I hope he disappears.” You push open the door with your hip. “But if he doesn’t, then I’ll let you know.”
You step into the buzzing ER and let out a deep breath. You start to head to the bathroom, when your eye gets caught on a figure quickly headed in the other direction. Her dark hair bounces against her back as she jogs away, her hand covering her face. The girlfriend. You imagine that their conversation didn’t go over well.
Your ex steps out after her, clutching his now-bandaged arm. He looks at her retreating back for a moment before he rolls his neck back, peeved. As he turns to go back in the room, he halts. Then his eyes lift and immediately lock onto yours.
A rehearsed grin spreads across his mouth. You turn your back, but he reaches you before you can push open the door to the bathroom.
He grabs your shoulder and you spin around, pushing him away disgustedly.
“Don’t ever touch me,” you say through gritted teeth.
“Woah, woah,” he says, raising his hands in surrender. “Easy there, tiger.”
He jumps in front of you when you go to push open the bathroom door.
“Hey, just listen to me.” His eyes are like a weasel’s, predatory and conniving. “Just let me say my piece.”
“I’m not interested,” you tell him. “What part of that can’t you get through your thick skull?”
“Is this about the cheating thing? Are you really still mad about that?”
“You really are oblivious, aren’t you?” You roll your eyes. “You can stick your dick in any hole you like. It’s none of my business. Why? Because we aren’t dating.”
You turn your back when you remember you have makeup wipes in your bag. But you can’t get far before a hand wraps around your wrist like steel. You don’t have a moment to think, your body reacts before your mind can. You turn and punch him squarely in the jaw.
He releases you immediately and lets out a loud groan, falling back against the bathroom door. He clutches his jaw with a fury in his eyes unlike you’ve ever seen.
“I said, don’t touch me, asswipe.”
He comes toward you, as if to retaliate, but then you feel an arm pushing you behind a sturdy body and your view is cut off.
“Who the hell are you?” your ex says, gesturing to Jack with a foul expression.
You look down at your hand and realize it’s bleeding. Your thumb might be sprained—you aren’t sure. It throbs painfully, but you can move it at least.
“I’m her boyfriend.” You peer around Jack’s shoulder and realize that your ex looks about ready to piss himself. “But that doesn’t matter. When someone asks for space, that’s when you back the fuck off.”
“—What’s going on here?” A voice cuts in. You turn your head to see Ahmad there, his hand resting on his holster.
You step forward. “Ahmad. Could you escort this patient out? He should be ready for discharge. I’ll fill out all the proper HR paperwork—this is all just a big mistake.”
“Hey, hey,” your ex says, waving his hand toward Ahmad, “I’m not taking the fall for this.”
Ahmad grabs your ex’s shoulder before he can reach out and grab you. You look back and see Jack and Shen are there, both willing to corroborate.
You look back at your ex. “It’s time to go. And don’t come back.”
“Unless you get seriously injured in the vicinity of our hospital, then you can—“ Shen starts to say, but Jack elbows him in the side.
Your ex stares at you for a full second. Then he turns his head. You think he’s given up, then he mutters a very clear, resounding bitch underneath his breath and Jack is stepping forward before you can stop him.
“What the fuck did you just say?”
“Jack,” you call out.
Your ex looks at him square on. “She heard me.”
Jack clenches his fists. You reach forward to grab his shoulder. You look over at Ahmad, who then forcefully turns your ex around and leads him away.
“Jack, it’s okay,” you say. “I’ve heard worse, believe it or not.”
“He can’t just…” he starts to say, then shakes his head.
“I love you,” you tell him softly. “And I’m okay.”
Shen gets drawn into an incoming trauma and hurries away. You clutch your still-bleeding hand to your chest, which draws Jack’s attention.
“Shit,” he curses. “Why didn’t you say you’ve never punched someone before? I could’ve done it.”
Your hand is still shaking as you follow him to an empty exam room. He opens the door and you shuffle in.
“It’s really not that bad,” you say, “it’s mostly the adrenaline making me shake.”
Jack keeps his back to you in the room, looking through cabinets quickly. You sigh.
“Really, Jack, I needed to punch him. For my own mental well-being. I’d be kicking myself later if I hadn’t,” you say with a soft laugh.
Jack retrieves some bandages and disinfectant. He takes a seat on a rolling stool in front of where you sit perched on an exam bed, swinging your feet back and forth. Jack gently grabs your hand and looks over your injuries.
“How are you so calm right now?” he asks, unfolding a disinfectant swab. “Your ex just verbally assaulted you in front of the entire ER floor.”
You hiss through your teeth as he dabs the swab against your torn knuckles. He gives you an apologetic look, but doesn’t let up.
“I’m sure I’ll start panicking later, once everything settles in.” You wince again as he wraps your knuckles.
“Can you move your thumb?”
You move it side to side, then up and down. Confusion washes over you as he inspects it. “How’d you know I hurt my thumb?”
He laughs. “I haven’t seen a fist that bad since I was sixteen. You can’t tuck your thumb inside your fist when you punch—you’re lucky you didn’t break it.”
You pout. “I thought I did good.”
He lets go of your thumb to cup your cheeks together in his palms. “I didn’t say it was terrible. You still packed a pretty mean hook.”
You can’t resist. You lean forward to give him a kiss. He returns it wholeheartedly, angling your head with his palm.
You pull away before it can devolve into something inappropriate for a hospital setting. He strokes the back of your neck even as you pull apart, his eyes soft and heavy-lidded.
“You better go brief the day shift,” you tell him, “I’m sure they’ve already heard plenty about your eventful night. You know Shen loves to gossip.”
He bites his lip and throws his head back with a groan. “God, all I want to do right now is go to sleep.”
“At least you don’t have to do HR paperwork with a hurt hand.”
“You got me there,” he says, gently tugging you to his side as he heads to the door. “You’re off tomorrow, right? Want to come over to my place?”
summary: Jack hates the way Robby treats his residents, especially you, a neurology fellowship applicant who Robby is secretly sleeping with.
pairings: younger!fem!resident reader x jack abbot, younger!fem!resident reader x michael ‘robby’ robinavitch
contains: angst/comfort, situationship from hell, heavy power imbalance, toxic!mentor!robby, savior complex!jack, lot of praise, discussions of burn out, implied smut but nothing explicit, medical inaccuracies, love triangle, coercion? dubcon (cuz of possible coercion)
word count: 5.4k
note: when the fic got questionable power dynamics and a love triangle #NEEDDAT i was initially planning on writing smut into this but felt it didn’t really fit with the flow of things. if anyone is interested though, i would love to write a separate outtake/drabble/whatever u wanna call it!
Jack doesn’t understand what goes through any of the dayshift resident’s heads. with all due respect to Robby, his best friend, he simply doesn’t understand how his approach works with his team, especially with you. Robby was already constantly on edge. sure, he always had good intentions in the way he taught his residents but his execution could sometimes come off as passive aggressive or condescending. Jack swears he’s witnessed Robby snap at you but for some reason you won’t tell Jack what’s going on or anyone else,
“Have you ever thought about swapping to the night shift?” Jack asks as you walk together to your next patient,
“Uhm… I don’t know. I’ve never really thought of it actually.” you’re unable to read Jack’s face as he pulls you to the side,
“You should really consider it, I think you’d be great on the team.” he says quietly, trying to keep the conversation between the two of you. your brows furrow in confusion at his sudden approach, sensing an ulterior motive behind,
“Look, he’s my best friend but I see the way he talks to you. I’m not trying to make up shit to excuse whatever's going on with him, but you know how he is. I just think maybe you need a break, a change in teams, y’know.” you flash Jack a sympathetic smile as he speaks,
“Doctor Abbot, I’m fine, really. I appreciate your concern though.” you say as you hold the tablet out to pass to him. he takes a deep breath as he takes it from you, letting you walk away to finish your handoffs.
Jack wants to throw a lifeline to you. change your shifts without your permission, let you see what you’ve been missing out on firsthand and ask for forgiveness later. he doesn’t care about whether you might resent him for it or not, he just knows that you’re too ambitious, too smart and too keen to let it be diminished by the other attending.
as you type out your final chart of the day, Robby taps your shoulder,
“Mind if we chat?” he says, tilting his head to indicate he wants to pull you aside. Dana stands nearby, watching carefully. her and Jack have talked about it numerous times and not even Dana can get through to you or Robby. though, neither of them really understand, and you know that they wouldn’t,
“I trust my residents, all of them. I trust that whatever undergrad program you’ve done has taught you the value of thorough charting and why we do it,” you nod as Robby starts, “So, I would love an explanation on why I see that your charts from earlier this morning are half done. They’re sloppy, disorganized and there are typos that could lead to wrong prescriptions.” he has that same slight condescending smile on his face that Dana recognizes even from afar.
“I got caught up with helping on a peds case, then that overdose came in and then Langdon asked me to help in triage— I’m sorry —they’ll be fixed before I go.” you tell your attending with your head low.
“They should be done properly after every single patient. I expect better from you, not excuses.” he says, arms crossed. you stare at the lines of the beige coloured floor, waiting for this to be over so you can get back to work. it goes quiet between the two of you and you miss seeing his eyes softening suddenly after scolding you,
“Hey,” Robby says softly, grabbing your attention. when you look up, his expression is entirely different. he no longer looks at you as your attending but with a face pleading with desperation. it’s the kind of face only you get to see in private and no one else.
“Same time tonight?” he says. If Jack was around, he’d argue that Robby sounds like he’s borderline begging,
“Of course.” you reply with the smallest of smiles. he nods, silently dismissing you from the room. Jack sighs as he watches you leave the room, quickly walking back to your station to continue your charts. Dana stands beside him, putting her hand on his back
“I tried talking to her again today. Still isn’t budging.” Jack says in disappointment
“Some people just don’t wanna be helped. You know that better than anyone.” Dana says sympathetically. Jack however strongly disagrees with her and is newly motivated by his need to prove Dana and Robby wrong about you. he might finally follow through with his idea of changing your shifts and begging for forgiveness later, for one week at least.
your arrangement with Robby happened fast and out of nowhere. it started the way all messy, casual relationships do; at a bar, drunk, and with a little bit of playful flirting.
you stared at the other residents scattered across the bar. some were in line for more drinks, some playing pool and others even dancing on a nonexistent dancefloor. you always like people watching and it was sweet to see them let loose after work. you sat quietly, and close beside Robby, knees brushing against one another every so often.
“So, have you applied to any fellowships for next year?” he starts as he takes a casual sip of his beer,
“I’m thinking of neurology right now and I know what you’re gonna say, it’s competitive, it’s for the best of the best and—” Robby cuts you off,
“I think it’s great, it’s perfect for you,” Robby looks at you smiling. No caveat, no sneaky comments, he stops with that. “You’re incredibly good at what you do in the ER, I think neuro would be very lucky to have you.” you smile at the praise from your attending, feeling yourself getting shyer by the second.
“Thank you,” you say, trying to ignore the lustful way Robby looks at your lips, then back up to your eyes. maybe it’s the liquor but the words continue spilling out of you, “You’ve taught me a lot over the years and I don’t think ‘thank you’ will ever be enough. I never take anything you teach me for granted.”
Robby thinks of closing the distance between the two of you, kissing you right then and there in front of everyone and dealing with the consequences tomorrow. he’s so damn close to it but before he can make a move, you check the time on your phone,
“Fuck, it’s late. I should head home.” you shuffle around to grab your bags and chug the last bit of your drink down. you know you might regret it later, but getting your money's worth from the last bit of alcohol outweighs the potential hangover or bad decisions you’ll make,
“Let me drive you.” Robby offers, desperate to keep you longer.
“Oh, no. Please, it’s okay!” you plead.
“I’ll drive you, it’s okay. I’ll sleep better tonight knowing you’re home safely.” Robby is already standing up from the booth with his hand reaching out to help you stand. neither of you say goodbye to the rest of the day shift and quickly slip out the bar doors.
the car ride was a comfortable kind of quiet. the radio played at a low volume, and you’d hum some bits of a song you heard one too many times. he parks his car outside your apartment building, leaving the engine running. Robby still wants to kiss you, but feared that he’d come off too strong or like he’d been expecting something if he turns the car off,
“Thank you, Doctor Robby, I really appreciate it.” you say turning to look at him. he smiles softly, acknowledging your thank you with a nod. he looks at your lips again, then back at your eyes, similar to what he did in the bar before leaning in slowly. you don’t stop him, if anything you lean in to meet him halfway over the center console. he kisses you softly and with hesitation, as if he’s testing to see if what he’s doing is okay. when you don’t pull away, he puts his hand on your cheek, pulling you closer and kissing you deeper and deeper. your lips taste like a mix of vodka and the cherry lipgloss he always sees you wear, tempting him constantly. he’s always wanted to taste it and now he’s dizzy with lust and only continues to kiss you harder and deeper. he can’t hold back any longer and pulls away for a second,
“Can I come upstairs?” he asks with his hand still on your cheek making small circles. you hesitate for a second before nodding. Robby shuts the engine off before the two of you head up to your apartment.
in hindsight, you should have said no. you should have told him that what you two were doing violated pages worth of HR guidelines and that your medical career wasn’t worth putting on the line for him. but the way Robby praised you earlier that night, the mentorship he’s given you for years, confiding in him felt natural to you but it wasn’t necessarily love.
you could argue that you wanted him just as bad but in a different way. Robby was infatuated, desperate to feel your love, call you his and only his. on the other hand, you craved his validation, his leadership, his guidance. his desire for you to be wanted and needed by him was so strong, it made for a horrible combination. you, highly ambitious but docile, combined with his overbearing mentorship, your relationship or whatever you wanted to call it, was made to crash and burn.
he towered over you, looking down at you as you stared up with big eyes, waiting for instructions. he always found that you were especially pretty to him like this; waiting for his instructions, only acting when he commanded. even in the bedroom, he naturally fell into a leadership role for you,
“So pretty.” he purred as he put his hand on your cheek again, leaning down to kiss you again.
you never addressed your arrangement to each other but sleeping together became a routine most days after work. Robby only ever came over to your place, never his, and part of you is convinced that because of that, you have control over your arrangement; that you have the control to stop it whenever you want.
you laid in bed with your head on his bare chest, unable to rid your mind of the conversation you had with Jack that day. it replayed over and over in your head. maybe it was a ploy to poach you and have you join the night shift, or maybe he was genuinely concerned about the way Robby spoke to you. now that Jack mentioned it, you have noticed Robby has been a bit meaner to you than usual, and unfortunately it only made his rare praises more desirable,
“You were a little mean today.” you blurt out, not thinking your words through. there's a small moment of silence while Robby processes your sudden thought,
“You understand why I have to though, right?” Robby responds calmly. of course you know the answer. it was something he reiterated to you only ever in the privacy of your bedroom.
“I know.”
“Say it.” there’s a tinge of Robby’s usual condescending tone.
“You’re pushing me to do my best and you want me to be the best. Better than you.” your voice suddenly goes monotone, as if you’re reading from a memorized script.
“And?” he says with no change in tone.
“And because it’s not fair to everyone else if you’re easy on me.” you say increasingly quieter.
“That’s right,” Robby says. the lack of an apology leaves you feeling empty and he can tell that’s exactly what you were looking for,
“You know I started on your letter of recommendation for your fellowship next year,” your eyes look up at him with a sudden new sparkle, something he hasn’t seen in a while. it was close enough to an apology that was never coming, and you were taking what you could get.
𝜗ৎ
the following week, you noticed a change in your schedule. for the first time during your residency, you were working nights. something about the change made you nervous; would Robby be upset? would it affect your letter of recommendation? you silently reminded yourself the schedule change is out of your control, but you can’t help but feel at fault for it.
as you walk into PTMC, Jack and Shen stand together at the workstation,
“Here comes our newest Nightcrawler! How does it feel?” Doctor Shen says with a smile and his usual iced coffee in hand.
“Really weird, I think it’s gonna take me a sec to adjust to the sleep schedule.” you say a bit on edge. even though you know everyone on the night shift, it still feels like you’re in unknown territory,
“I’m surprised you managed to almost avoid being on nights your entire residency,” John says as he passes you an energy drink,
“As a welcome gift.” you smile as you take it, cracking it open before heading to your locker.
as you put your things away, Robby approaches from behind, putting his hand on the small of your back to grab your attention. you turn to see him with slightly worried eyes,
“So you’re working nights, huh?” he starts.
“I didn’t ask anyone to swap me to nights.” your defensiveness catches him off guard.
“I know. And I know you’re smart, just don’t forget everything I’ve taught you,” he says, shaking his head slightly,
“I would hate for this to affect your recommendation letter.” Robby feels ashamed to hold the letter above your head, but how else could he remind you where you belonged and who taught you everything you knew? Jack rounds the corner suddenly, seeing Robby speaking with you. there’s a notable shift in your energy from the way you were speaking with Shen minutes ago,
“Hey,” Jack’s voice grabs both you and Robby’s attention,
“Why don’t you catch up with Lena? We’re gonna huddle in a few minutes.” you scramble to lock everything away and head back towards the central area of the ER. Robby stays back, expecting Jack to confront him on the sudden shift in your energy,
“Did you ask to have her on nights?” Robby starts before Jack can say anything,
“Because she was doing perfectly fine on the day shift.”
“She’s in her last year of her residency and hasn’t worked a single night shift. Don’t you think she should have an opportunity to see what it’s like?” Jack avoids his question but Robby already knows the answer. he’s too tired to fight, the day was already gruelling and exhausting enough on him,
“Just don’t go easy on her. She’s talented and she’s got a real shot at this neuro fellowship she wants for next year.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t fuck up your protégé.” Jack says with his sarcastic flair. though he fails to mention that he’s serious on planning to show you what proper leadership looks like to him.
𝜗ৎ
Robby leaves PTMC right as he hears the usual HOOAH! from the nightcrawlers. he thinks the way Jack leads them is too laid back and filled with too many opportunities to bend the rules. he silently prays it doesn’t rub off on you. months worth of progress he’s made with you would all go to waste.
“Eric Lake, twenty nine years old, had a bottle hit over his head at a bar tonight. multiple lacerations on the skull, possible skull fracture. BP, one thirty over seventy, heart rate, one twenty.” the paramedics call out as they pull the gurney towards trauma two. you look up to see Jack waving you over towards the room.
as you enter trauma two, Jack is already working to get a gown on you,
“You’re going to need to make an incision on his skull. Neuro is on their way but there's a larger piece of glass that’s too deep. If we don’t do it now, it might press into his frontal lobe.” Jack says calmly as he can sense your panic set in.
“Doctor Abbot, I don’t think it’s a good idea.” you say with a shaky voice.
“I’ll walk you through it,” he says decisively. you walk over and he passes you a scalpel,
“Deep breath, go slow and gentle.” you take a deep breath in and follow his instructions exactly. once you make the incision, Jack takes the scalpel from your hand and passes you a set of tweezers next. you carefully remove the piece of glass and it feels like you can finally breathe properly again,
“Atta girl, let’s get him up for a CT scan next.” Jack says as he moves to take his gown and gloves off. you feel your cheeks heat up at his praise, following the same motions as him and removing your disposable gear.
there’s a noticeable difference in the way Jack walks you through traumas. Robby was much less gentle, he would have reminded you of your neuro fellowship application a dozen times before you got to making an incision. he would’ve probably scolded you for taking your time, whereas Jack was calm, he trusted you and in turn you trusted yourself.
the rest of the shift goes by as smoothly as possible. by the last hour or so, you’ve managed to finish most of your charts with your shaky, over caffeinated hands,
“You got a second to talk?” Jack says as he passes by you, waiting for you to follow. anxiety begins bubbling in your stomach, it’s a usual routine for Robby to put your mistakes on blast but it never fails to make you uneasy. Jack pulls you aside in one of the empty trauma rooms,
“You did good today, really good. You should be proud of how you handled that head laceration,” Jack starts. you look up at him nervously waiting for whatever caveat he has. he can see the nervousness in your eyes and something about the way you look at him makes him feel a sense of pity,
“Mind if I give you some advice? Nothing bad, I promise,” you nod at his request,
“You’ve got all the answers in you. All the right ideas and you need to own them more. Your technique, your approach with patients, it’s all great, but you need to be more confident in yourself.” you nod again at his advice. you’ve got all the answers in you repeats in your head like a new mantra,
“Thank you, Doctor Abbot. I appreciate it.” Jack nods in acknowledgement.
from afar, Robby watches as Jack and you leave the trauma bay. he turns to Lena who is already carefully examining his every move,
“How’d she do tonight?” Lena already knows who he’s referring to,
“She did perfectly fine without you, Robinavitch.” Robby laughs dryly in response to Lena, shaking his head. perfectly fine without him sounds like an exaggeration. he wants to ask you how your first night went; were you pushing yourself hard enough still? are you learning better things from Jack than what he could’ve taught you? did you miss him? the questions continue popping up as he watches the way you interact with the night shift attending from afar.
𝜗ৎ
the end of your first week on nights was merciless– a mass crowd crush at a concert forced some of the day shift to come back in early, including Robby,
“He’s experiencing hyperkalemia, let’s administer nebulized albuterol now please!” you call out. Jack watches close by, nodding in agreement with each order you make. as Jack passes you by he quickly says,
“You’re doing great, keep calling orders just like that.” Robby watches as your eyes squint slightly, indicating a smile coming from under your mask. Jack leaves the crowded trauma room and heads towards the ambulance bay, Robby is quick to follow, grabbing his arm as the automatic sliding doors open,
“She should’ve seen those hyperkalemia symptoms earlier, she didn’t deserve that win.” Robby says in a low and firm tone. Jack stops to face the other attending fully,
“But she still ended up identifying it, and that man is alive because of that,” Jack defends you quickly. Robby stares back with a deadpan expression,
“Just because she doesn’t do it the way you would, doesn’t mean she’s not capable, Robby. A win is a win, and I’m still her attending on shift.” Robby is taken aback by Jack’s response, leaving him to walk back to the ambulance bay.
you watch the two interact from afar as your patient is pushed out of the trauma room. you can’t make out their exact exchange but can only assume it’s about the way you’ve handed trauma after trauma tonight.
as Robby turns to head back inside the ER, your eyes briefly meet. neither of you have spoken since you started on nights, nor has he tried to come over. Robby’s eyes have a familiar softness to them as you look at each other. part of you is torn between feeling guilty about not seeing him, but the other half is relieved to have your space, even if its temporary. you quickly look away, tearing your gown off and heading out of the trauma room through the rear door. there are silent prayers in your head hoping he isn’t following after you.
the ER finally slows as the majority of the crowd crush patients either rest or head up to surgery. Jack watches as you type quickly to get through each chart. he can sense your fear of falling behind and having to pick up another patient so he rolls his chair beside you, casually looking at his watch,
“Down to the last hour,” you smile at his comment, still typing relentlessly. it had felt like there was no end in sight to today and you didn’t want to stop until then. Jack puts his hand on your forearm, finally putting a stop to your typing, “I’m really noticing improvement in your confidence especially in your verbal orders. Keep it up.” for the first time all day, you feel your shoulders drop and body begin to relax,
“Thank you, I’m really trying.” you say as your turn your body towards him.
“And I see it.” Jack holds his eye contact with you as he tries to continue emphasizing his praise to you,
“If you want, we could go for breakfast to celebrate your first week on nights?” heat spreads across your face quickly before you start frantically nodding. he flashes a smile, unable to hide his overwhelming excitement.
the way Jack looks at you and treats you feels different than what you’re used to. you feel like a deer in headlights whenever he compliments you and this time, it felt genuine, authentic, like there isn’t some trick behind his words. the walls you put up to protect yourself from getting hurt are slowly coming down around him and you’re fucking terrified.
he doesn’t tell you where you’re going, except that he knows you’ll enjoy it. the car ride together is quiet, he doesn’t push for conversations nor do you. it’s comfortable, there’s no pressure to talk about work or anything else, it’s a mutual space to silently decompress. Jack pulls into the parking lot of a small breakfast diner, looking over at you as he pulls the keys from the ignition,
“You okay?” he says with raised eyebrows, waiting on confirmation. you nod and head in together.
it’s your traditional breakfast diner, a time capsule stuck in the 60s with posters reminiscent of those times. the floors have the usual black and white checker print with contrasting bright red booth chairs and tables. Jack guides you to a seat as a server passes you both menus,
“Did you pick this place ‘cause it reminds you of when you were a teenager?” you tease. it’s the first time he’s heard you make a joke in a while and he doesn’t care it’s at the expense of his age,
“Yeah, and sometimes I like to go to those renaissance fairs to remind me of my childhood.” he replies, smirking. you let out a laugh and he’s willing to do or say anything to hear it again.
you both place your orders and it’s quiet again. you stare out at the window, still trying to decipher what him and Robby were talking about earlier,
“What’s on your mind?” Jack says, grabbing your attention away from the passing cars on the road. you stare back at him in hesitation,
“Can I ask you something?” Jack lets out a hum, opening the floor to you,
“What were you and Robby talking about earlier? When we were dealing with the crowd crush.” Jack breathes in deeply, shifting in discomfort,
“We just disagree sometimes on how we approach things.”
“Approach… Me?” you ask, still hesitant to continue.
“Yeah, sort of.” Jack answers. it goes quiet again between the two of you,
“I heard you’re applying for a neuro fellowship next year?” he says, trying to steer the conversation away from Robby. he knows he’s failed when you’re suddenly the one shifting uncomfortably,
“I’m trying, yeah.”
“Good for you. You’re great at what you do, neuro would be very lucky to have you.” Word for word, Jack repeats the exact same thing Robby said when you first told him about your plans to apply. something about hearing it again from Jack instead makes it sting,
“Is Robby writing your letter of recommendation?”
“He’s trying to apparently. Not sure he’s happy with me being on nights though so I haven’t really heard much about it.” Jack hums at your response, not pushing further.
“Y’know for a while, I thought about changing to something else. I don’t know, maybe I felt burnt out but I just didn’t feel like I was good enough for it anymore.” there’s another small pause, Jack knows you aren’t finished yet,
“But that kinda changed recently, after being on the night shift. It reminded me why I’m here and that I’m good at what I do.” you say, looking at Jack. he tries to keep a straight face, feeling his chest swell with pride.
“You’re more than welcome to stay on nights.” he replies. you might just take him up on that.
𝜗ৎ
Can I come see you tomorrow? Saw you’re off.
your half awake eyes scan over the text from Robby again. it’s been a few weeks since you’ve started on the night shift and neither of you have really spoken to each other outside of the usual patient hand offs. it was too early (or too late now that you worked nights) to be thinking about Robby and what your relationship meant.
when you enter PTMC that evening, Robby is quick to follow you to your locker,
“Didn’t know we were ignoring each other now.” he starts with a slight bitterness,
“I haven’t had a chance to respond to anyone, Robby.” you say as you struggle to clip your badge to your scrub. it’s a half truth, you’ve been tired from the sleep schedule change but he didn’t need to know that.
“I get it, you’re busy, I just didn’t—” he stops mid sentence to gently grab your badge and clip it on you. your arms drop as a click noise confirms that he’s secured it,
“I didn’t think you swapping to the night shift would mean I wouldn’t see you anymore.” he says a bit quieter. you’re not sure how to respond to him. it’s not that you didn’t want to see him, you just didn’t want to deal with all the criticism and baggage that came with seeing him. Robby can tell you’re at a loss for words,
“How about I come over tomorrow, cook some dinner for you and show you the first draft of the recommendation letter I wrote?” before you can respond, Parker rounds the corner,
“Hey, that patient with dementia from last night is here again. She’s asking for you.” your attention is brought back to reality suddenly, remembering the events of your previous shift,
“Right, Mrs. Williams, I remember her. I’ll be there in a second.” you start to walk back towards the ER but Robby is quick to stop you,
“Let me know, okay?” you nod, trying to hurry back.
𝜗ৎ
the rest of the night passes by quickly. it’s a friday night and you learned quickly that weekend night shifts mostly included stitching up frat guys or tending to bar hoppers who drank too much.
by the time the morning rolls around, you’ve already forgotten about Robby asking to come over. you had been preoccupied with whatever assignment Jack was throwing your way and for some reason that night, he was insistent on putting you on as many as possible.
“Can we talk?” Jack says, interrupting you mid-chart. you follow Jack to a vacant room and there’s suddenly a familiar anxiety in your stomach that never goes away when you’re singled out by either attendings.
“Here,” Jack says as he pulls out an envelope and hands it to you,
“Open it.” he steps back with his arms behind his back, watching you carefully open the PTMC branded envelope up, eyes quickly skimming across the paper inside,
“To whom it may concern,
… A fantastic fit for a neurology fellowship…
… Extremely detailed in her work, highly competent, all while approaching every case with kindness and empathy…
… Knows all the answers within herself…
… I highly recommend her… she would benefit the team greatly…
Signed,
Dr. Jack Abbot
Attending Physician, Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Centre”
“Whatever you choose to do, I just hope you get to stay in Pittsburgh.” Jack says with a quieter voice, filling the silence. you stare in awe at the letter,
“You didn’t have to.” you managed to get out,
“I wanted to. It’s the least I could do.” the ‘least he could do’ had possibly changed the trajectory of your medical career.
you’re not sure what to do with yourself but your body naturally goes in to wrap your arms around Jack’s neck. he holds you close, putting his chin on your shoulders. the smell of your light perfume mixed with your skin consumes him. you pull away first, your hands still around his neck and his hands suddenly on your waist.
neither of you have spoken but the longer you look at one another, you swear you can hear each other's thoughts.Jack just hopes he isn’t misreading anything as he slowly leans closer to your face kissing you hesitantly but softly. you don’t move, you don’t pull away, instead letting him pull away first,
“Jack, I don’t wanna mess this up.” you say in an almost whisper. it’s the first time you’ve called him by his first name and he wants to hear it again and again,
“I know.”
“And I need you to know I’m not doing all of this because you gave me that letter.”
“I know,” he reiterates again. “We can take it slow.” you look at him before awkwardly leaning up to give him a small kiss. Jack smiles,
“We can start with breakfast again?”
outside in the ER, Robby walks in starting every shift the same way; staring at the portrait of Doctor Adamson. his need to continue his legacy and be half as good of a mentor is constantly consuming him and the portrait was a reminder of it. Dana walks in a few minutes later, standing next to Robby.
“He woulda been proud of what you’ve done with the place.” Dana starts.
“Yeah, I don’t know about that.” Robby huffs shaking his head.
“A bit of advice?” Robby looks over at Dana before reluctantly nodding.
“Some of the best mentors I’ve had are the ones who trust their mentees to make the right decisions. I know he did with you,” Dana says, motioning at the portrait. she leans in a bit closer, “It also helps when there are no feelings attached.” Dana leaves Robby with her thoughts and heads towards the nurses station.
in the corner of his eye, you and Jack exit a room and Robby immediately notices the bright smile on your face. it looks out of place for someone who just worked a twelve almost thirteen hour shift. he watches you walk together and notices a bright white envelope in your hands that he can only assume is your letter of recommendation. the two attending’s eyes meet and Jack gives Robby a sly smile— a smile that reads you’re too late. Robby sighs as he looks back up at Adamson’s portrait for one more moment. Jack, on the other hand, has you both exactly where he wants; Robby feeling sorry for his mistakes and you on the night shift with him for the reminder of your residency.
summary: several years have passed since Steve and you have fought monsters side by side. now, you got the house with the white picket fence, a ring on your finger and the love of your life raising a little nugget with you.
everything is perfect, but old wounds and traumas are resurfacing when your little daughter starts to behave strangely.
warnings: set after season 5 (slight spoilers for the finale), a little nugget, domestic fluff, making out, (they might be parents, but they still got it, okay?), anxiety, past trauma resurfacing, allusions to Mr. Whatsit/Vecna but no real danger, a child’s imagination, angst, vomiting, emotional hurt/comfort, talks of pregnancy and Steve’s everlasting wish to have his six little nuggets, happy ending
a/n: can't believe we got the best ending ever for Steve, yet here I am writing angst for him! but anyways, I'm very excited to post this and hear your thoughts! (Steve Harrington masterlist)
🌼
Sundays were for fruit smoothies, puppet theater and Steve’s ridiculous disguised voice and the shrieking laughter of your daughter that sounded like sunshine and echoed through the house like a storm.
You closed your eyes against the sun, soaking up the warmth of a nice spring day while Steve was chasing your four year old around the garden.
“Woah Lea, when did you get so fast?” Steve called, playfully slowing his run so the little girl would actually have a chance against him. “If you keep this up, mommy and daddy have to eat their hot dogs all alone.”
“Nooo, I want some too!” Lea spun around, tackling her dad in the process and making you laugh. Together, they fell into the grass and Steve lifted her up over his head, groaning in defeat as she wiggled on top of him.
“I gotcha, now come on, let’s eat with mommy.”
This was what life was supposed to be like.
Steve kissed your cheek as he slid down on the seat next to you after plating dinner straight from the grill, your daughter singing a happy tune in her chair. You had known for half your life that Steve was the one for you; you just hadn’t dreamed that it was actually going to be this perfect.
“Do you want some ketchup, honey?”
“Nooo.”
“See?” You grinned at Steve. “Your daughter knows what’s good, there’s way too much sugar in it anyway.”
Steve sighed dramatically, plating Lea and you some potato salad as well. “Alright, I’m outnumbered, I see. How about some salad?”
“Yes!”
Steve snorted, winking at you before he ruffled Lea’s hair in affection. “Truly your kid through and through.”
Over the past years, Steve had transformed in front of your eyes into the most wonderful dad. From the moment he first held her in the hospital with tears running down his face, he had taken an oath to protect you and her for the rest of his life.
He was also just a really fun dad.
And every day, you kept falling more and more in love with both him and your little mini-me.
Later, dishes were washed and clothes were changed and it wasn’t long until Steve and you snuck out of Lea’s room after bedtime story time. Maybe it was the way your sundress had flown into the wind outside today or just Steve being insanely in love with you, but before you even reached the living room, you found yourself pressed against the wall, gasping in surprise against his lips.
“God, you’re so beautiful, you drive me insane.” Steve muttered between kisses, his hands all over you as you threw your arms around his shoulders and stood on your tiptoes to reach him better. “Been thinking all day about loving you. In class, grading papers, listening to the other teacher’s boring stories…”
“Really?” You hummed, head falling back blissfully as Steve’s mouth latched onto your neck and suckled. “It’s not very exemplary to be distracted at work, Mr. Harrington.”
Steve growled, his hands reaching underneath your thighs and lifting, still very much busy with spoiling your neck with kisses as he walked you over to the couch.
Oh, he looked hungry as he slid over you, your fingers disappearing into his hair and pulling him down into a searing kiss that promised so much more than bucking your hips up into him and chasing the delicious friction.
“I’m gonna show you exemplary, baby.” Steve murmured, letting his hands wander over you like he was trying to map out every inch, although you already belonged completely to him.
Your kisses turned messier until gasps and moans were echoing through the living room and soon, clothes littered the floor and the rest of the evening blurred together in pleasure and the love you shared…
It started small.
If your late teen years hadn’t been filled with monsters and horror, other dark dimensions and heartbreak, maybe you would’ve simply walked past your daughter’s room that night. After all, little kids – especially only children – were more than creative when it came to playing.
But all rationality inside of you simply seeped away when you walked down the hallway, a basket of fresh laundry on your hip and a happy tune on your tongue, when you heard her mumble.
Your steps slowed, the sudden quietness of the house creeping up your spine in a chill. Your daughter’s door was barely ajar. But then, just when you thought you might’ve imagined it, you heard her quiet laughter, followed by another whispered sentence. Quietly underneath her breath like it was a secret no one else understood.
The laundry basket fell to the floor.
You barely even blinked before you threw open the pink door and burst into Lea’s room.
Instantly, you threw your head back, frantically scanning the ceiling, the corners, stalking over to rip away the softly flowing curtains by the windows. There were no thoughts in your head, just pure instinct, and while it was like a déjà vu, it was nothing like what you experienced in your youth.
This time, you had a daughter.
So much more to lose. And protect from danger.
“Mommy?”
Your eyes finally landed on Lea, still sitting criss-cross apple sauce on the fluffy play carpet. Around her was a wild assemble of dolls and colorful bricks, some items from her play general store booth in the corner too. She looked up at you with big, confused eyes, one of her beloved plushies staring back at you accusingly from her lap.
She was alone.
Completely unbothered and perfectly safe.
You took a very deep breath.
And when you could still feel your heart pounding like crazy, you took another before you sank onto the floor in front of her, trying your best at a genuine smile as you smoothed your hands over her soft, brown hair. In moments like these, she looked so much like Steve it made you want to cry with gratitude for the life you had been given.
“Hi baby.” You said, a little shaky. “Is everything okay? I heard you talk?”
“I was just telling a story!” She told you conspiratorially and despite it all, you found yourself nodding, at a loss for words as you shifted closer and pulled your little daughter into your lap. She went effortlessly, snuggling into your front while squishing her teddy between you and her.
“You want to let me in on the joke?” You asked her, the tension seeping out of you at her giggle and when she did, you silently scolded yourself for freaking out like this. God, what must you have looked like for her, storming into her room like a lunatic?
“You’re not a lunatic.” Steve told you in the evening, his hand on your back rubbing comforting circles into your skin having stopped to gently lift your chin so you would look at him.
You were sitting on the couch together, two abandoned glasses on the table in front of you. Down the hall, Lea was already asleep and in dreamland. You had chewed on these thoughts all day long, but now with Lea out like a light and your Steve listening to you, there was nothing holding you back from sharing your anxieties.
“I feel like one though.” You bit your lip and leaned into his touch, playing with your hands in your lap. “It was just so- the moment I heard her talk to no one, it just- It all came back. And I saw all these kids and the vines and I couldn’t…I haven’t thought about it in so long, Steve. What if it’s-“
“Hey, hey, no no no, baby, don’t even go there, okay?” Steve interrupted you softly and you closed your eyes in defeat, your entire body going slack as Steve pulled you into his arms and his unique scent hit your nose. He smelled of freshly mowed grass from the baseball field and chalk, his usual cologne having almost disappeared over the course of the day.
You closed your eyes while resting your cheek over his heart, gladly letting yourself be held by him like this and clinging to his shirt like a lifeline. “I feel so bad…I probably scared her, but I also can’t stop worrying.”
The unspoken levitated over both of you like a dark cloud.
It had been years since the last fight, since that day where Mr. Whatsit – Vecna – had come to steal the kids. But you still remembered the helpless feeling of having to watch the military take away the kids, the same kids you used to play with during your internship at the school. The first time you had seen Holly Wheeler stand at the fence and talk to thin air.
“I know, baby.” Steve soothed you, still holding you and not letting go anytime soon. He felt you tremble, the anxiety from earlier still shooting through you like lightning. “I understand, believe me. But I bet it was probably just a game she’s been playing. Hell, I’m an only child and I remember chattering to myself all day long when my parents weren’t there. I think it’s only normal.”
“Really?” You looked up at him, feeling miserable and guilty.
Steve nodded and tenderly kissed your forehead, his lips lingering a moment before he drew back just enough to echo you. “Really.”
The next time it happened, you and Lea were visiting the playground.
It was one of the nicer ones in Hawkins and Lea’s favorite, lots of green and a big wooden castle standing in the center. There were lots of benches and none of the other moms you had gotten to know were here today, so you opened your book and smiled at the old polaroid of you and Steve, a silly snapshot of you kissing his cheek on his first day at Scoops Ahoy. He got the whole outfit on, smiling dreamily at the camera.
Looking up, you saw Lea play with a few kids by the slide before you decided to read some pages.
The next time you looked for her, she was gone.
The sand toys were still laying by the slide, little footsteps in the sand showing you the way as you left your bag behind. Your mind was completely silent, only the sound of your own unsteady breath accompanying you as you took a look inside of the play castle.
Empty.
A few kids were laughing by the swings, but not a trace of that sunshine laughter.
The wind rustled through the apple trees by the edge of the playground and just as you were about to call for her, you heard her. Saw her.
Lea was standing in a corner of the playground, giggling as she reached for something that you couldn’t see, something that wasn’t there. She chattered the same way she did when telling Steve what she had all done at kindergarten, serious and very detailed, mixed with a little bit of endearing nonsense.
But no one was there.
No one you could see, at least.
You started to run before you even knew what your feet were doing, the world narrowing down to the little girl in dungarees and ponytails with cherry hair ties.
“Lea!” You didn’t even recognize your own voice, the panic laced with sudden anger scaring yourself just as much as it scared her. Two seconds later, you were with her, reaching for her with shaking hands and dragging until she didn’t stand at the fence anymore. “Lea, you know you have to stay in my eyesight, how am I supposed to know where you are when you steal yourself away like this?”
Fuck, you sounded frustrated, far angrier than anything you had ever said to her.
“But I was just playing!” Lea whined back instantly, shaking your hand off her shoulder and stomping on the ground, just as frustrated as you were. For a moment, both of you were glaring at each other, unwilling to see each other’s point.
But then, you saw a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes and something inside of you softened.
You never wanted to be the mother who’d scare her own child because you were scared.
There were several kids going on with their way right now, a bunch of rascals Steve and you knew all too well, who had taught you how to be brave and fearless.
You knew better than to take the wrong path.
I think it’s only normal. Steve’s words echoed through your mind and you blinked, snapping out of the haze that had thrown itself over you like a red veil. You took a look over Lea’s shoulder, at the flower bushes she must’ve taken curiosity in. Normal.
You sighed, bending down a little further so you and her were eye to eye and she could feel seen. “I’m sorry, Lea, I should not have snapped at you like this. But you know I like to keep an eye on you, even if you’re just playing, right? Maybe you can tell me the next time you want to explore something, just so I know, okay?”
Lea seemed to think about your words for a moment and you sat it out, letting her form her own thoughts and emotions about this. But then, Lea grinned and slid her hand into yours, already having moved on. “It’s okay, mommy. I will, sorry. Will you push me on the swing?”
“Oh of course, I would love nothing more.”
For a while, things were normal again.
There were lots of car drives, oranges and doughnuts – Steve’s and Lea’s favorite – and taking trips to the driving range and watching as Steve carefully braided her hair for the first time.
But then, Steve started to notice it too.
With a few days off work and baseball team duties, Steve relished the additional time with you and Lea more than anything else in the world. In the mornings, he let you sleep in and convinced Lea to make breakfast for the three of you, making pancakes and singing with her in the kitchen. There were trips into the forest and lots of ice cream, probably way more than a toddler should have, but how could he ever refuse his baby girl, really?
He was relieved to see you more at ease again, too, and his heart stopped every time when you smiled at him so carefreely, your happiness always being the key to his own.
But with more time he spent with Lea during his break, the more little details he caught up on.
Her hushed whispers before he would knock and ask if she was done on the potty.
Quiet laughter and mumbles when he got up from her bed with a groan to pick out another story book from her shelf.
Once, after he had put Lea in the car seat and rounded the truck to get in himself, he opened the door and she was already talking and laughing at her own joke like it was the funniest thing in the world.
On any other day, Steve would’ve laughed with her.
But he couldn’t help but let doubt creep in.
Today, you were out with your girlfriends and Lea and he had the house to themselves.
Steve had spent all morning long playing with Lea and the pretty doll house she got for last Christmas and he had fixed a ripped stitch on one of her dolls before making lunch. He had tied her shoes and made sure the lawn was not slippery anymore from the overnight rain before sending her outside.
Then, he sat down by the kitchen table to go through some grades until the sun stood high and he grabbed two glasses of fresh lemonade.
“Lea, I got some lemonade for us!” He called into the wide garden behind the house, blinking against the warm sun. “And don’t worry, this time it’s extra sweet, daddy’s learned his lesson. Where are you silly girl?”
The moment he and you had seen the house, you had instantly fallen in love with the quietness, only the rustling of the trees and the chirping birds audible sometimes. It was peaceful, the perfect place to settle down and start your little family.
But right now? Silence had never sounded so terrifying to him.
“Sweetie, where are you?”
The sandbox he had built last summer was abandoned and so was the tree house. Only the gaping endless green of the forest by the property line. And the trees…it was like they were talking.
“Lea!”
Suddenly, he was twenty again and screaming into the walkie-talkie when he had lost connection to you during a crawl. Suddenly, he was surrounded by darkness again and couldn’t breathe, not knowing, not fast enough. Not strong enough to protect the one thing he could not survive without.
A vision shot through him, buried deep in the back of his mind.
You, crying in his arms over the missing kids, inconsolable over the nightmare that had become your life.
Steve ran.
Panic shot through his system like electricity.
No.
No, no, no, no, no, no-
This couldn’t be happening. Not again, not like this, not to her. What would he even tell you, what would he tell the others, fuck, this could not be happening. It had ended and it was long over, there was no way, it wasn’t possible, what would he even do, his own little daughter, what would he tell you-
“Daddy look, I found a cool-looking st-“
“Oh my god.” Steve nearly sobbed and fell on his knees right there, breathless and shaking while Lea simply smiled at him from the raspberry bushes near the garden shed. He rushed over, falling into the soil beneath her feet and frantically looking her over.
When she was smaller, he used to count all her little fingers and toes, over and over again just to make sure. You’d laugh at him but snuggled into his shoulder as you baby-watched for hours.
“Are you okay, are you hurt?” Steve cradled her close, the horror wearing off only slowly as he felt his daughter’s weight leaning into him.
“Noo, I’m not hurt, daddy.” She seemed to be ridiculed why he’d even ask that. The precious little girl in his arms only knew scrapes and maybe a bruised knee from playing too much. Not the things Steve had gone through, the both of you had seen and suffered from.
“Why didn’t you answer me, I called for you, Lea.” He couldn’t even be stern to her, too relieved to find her still in reach and perfectly fine. “You can’t just hide and not tell me, honey. Daddy was scared.”
Lea furrowed his brows at him, not understanding. “I didn’t hear…”
A shaky sigh left him and Steve leaned back on his haunches, not ready yet to let her go.
“Do you want a raspberry, daddy?”
When you came home in the afternoon, Lea was sitting on the carpet in the living room, very concentrated on building a brick tower and letting you kiss her head with a toothy smile that reminded you of your husband’s favorite kid back in the day. Or still to this day, really.
Steve had his back to you as he worked in the kitchen, cutting up vegetables for dinner, and when you slung your arms around his waist and gave the space between his shoulder blades a loving kiss, something inside of him went slack.
“How was your day with Lea?” You asked, your smile dropping as he turned around to you.
Silent, devastating tears slid down his cheeks and it was like the floor simply disappeared under your feet. You knew Steve just as well as you knew yourself; he had kept this in for a while now, probably living with the pressure on his chest for hours until it was safe enough with you to unveil.
“What happened?” You whispered and pulled him close.
After that day, something changed.
And without even noticing at first, the two of you began to spiral.
There came a night where you woke up in the darkness, the usual warmth of Steve’s chest against your bed gone. Dazed and only half-conscious, your hand felt around on the other side of the bed, only to find the sheets crinkled and cold.
Your nightgown dragged over the floor in the hallway as you briefly peeked into the empty bathroom until you quietly opened Lea’s door. The pastel pink nightlight on her bedside table was still on, illuminating the room in a soft glow. You still remembered the day you painted the walls with Steve, sitting on his shoulders so you could reach the top corner.
Now, you froze in the doorframe at the sight in front of you.
Lea was sound asleep in her bed, all her plushies watching over her.
But there was another guardian with her.
Steve sat on the floor in front of her bed, legs spread out and circles underneath his eyes as he blinked up at you, looking as if you just had caught him doing something forbidden. A moment of silence passed between the two of you before you spoke.
“What are you doing on the floor?” You whispered underneath your breath, folding your arms in front of you to hide the tremble in them.
“I…” Steve reached up and brushed through his hair, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe himself. “I just wanted to make sure she was okay? I woke up feeling strange and- I don’t know, I’m being stupid here…”
“Hey…” You said softly, silently walking over and kneeling down before him.
Steve avoided your gaze, jaw working as he stared at his hands like they held an answer. There was a time when Lea was only a few weeks old where Steve feared she was going to choke at night and neither of you would notice and he’d stay up half of the night to watch over her.
Now, he sat in front of Lea’s bed for a whole different reason.
And god, your heart ached because- You understood.
“She’s okay, see?” The two of you looked at Lea, sprawled out on the bed with her teddy tucked into her side. “So sleepy and probably dreaming of unicorns or endless cookie jars.”
The corner of Steve’s mouth lifted, but only briefly. “I’ll just…you go to bed, okay? You had a long day, I’m just gonna stay a little longer.”
You knew if you were in his place, he wouldn’t make you leave.
And so, you gave him a soft kiss and went to bed again where sleep didn’t come.
It bled into your routine, the overthinking. The overprotectiveness.
Followed you into your dreams, even.
“Holly? Who are you talking to?” You looked at the fence in front of the school. No one there. At least no one you could see. Steve’s tense smile before a crawl, blood on kitchen tiles and Nancy’s sobbing echoing in your ears. Running and fighting, arguing along with Dustin at Steve, the latter falling. Steve, falling. The stench of rot and something foreign, closed little eyes and the pumping sound that made you want to vomit. The kids. The kids. Their little mouths attached to vines. “Who are you talking to? No one’s there.”
You shot up, gasping into the darkness of the bedroom.
There was not enough air in your lungs, your hands fisting the sheets clammy and mind disoriented.
The blanket rustled and a warm present was at your side in an instant, his arm coming to rest easy around your shoulders while the other gently pried off your hand from the sheets.
“Shh, you’ve had a bad dream, baby.” Steve whispered soothingly, his thumb rubbing steady circles into your palm. “It’s not real, I’m here with you…that’s it, nice and easy, just take deep breaths with me.”
Your eyes found him in the dark, fixated on the calmness in them and mirroring his deep in- and exhales. Slowly, your shuddering breaths became deeper and the tremble disappeared from your limbs.
But still, you were caught between your nightmare and reality, not sure yet if you were out.
“Steve-…Lea?”
“In her bed, sleeping. We’re okay, love. Everything’s fine.”
Still, your stomach churned dangerously. “I feel like I’m gonna throw up…”
Steve’s eyes widened before he scrambled off the bed, quickly looking around the room before he reached for a broad flower vase and hurried back to you. The flowers were discarded on his night stand and he was just at your side again before you hunched over.
Hot tears ran down your cheek as you threw up, Steve an ever-present source of comfort beside you. He mumbled soothing words into your hair as he held you, unbothered by the sounds and smell. Steve was only focused on you, not leaving you out of sight until eventually you resurfaced for air and took a deep breath.
“Hey…” He took your face in your hands and brushed the remaining trail of tears away for you, his expression so soft you wanted to cry all over again. “You okay? Want me to get you some water?”
You shook your head. “I’m just gonna go rinse my mouth and check Lea’s room...” You said flatly, but just as you wanted to get up, Steve touched your wrist.
“Don’t do that.” Steve pleaded with you. “I mean- not that, just…don’t pull away from me when I know you need me. And I need you. Will you sit with me, for just a moment?”
You sighed, sinking back down onto the mattress and looking down into your lap.
“This can’t go on like this, baby.” Steve sighed, his hand caressing your back grounding you in the here and now. “We’ve gotta figure out how we deal with this, I can’t stand to see you in pain…”
“I know, sorry.” You sniffled, hiding your face in his neck like you were still seventeen and in need of your boyfriend.
“No, don’t be sorry. There’s nothing to be sorry for.” Steve assured you quickly, followed by a kiss to your nose that made warmth spread through you. “I know exactly how you’re feeling. Fuck, I’m just as concerned as you are, but this isn’t good for us. And not good for Lea in the long run. She doesn’t know all of that shit has happened to us. She’s just a kid.”
That’s what broke you in the end and you couldn’t help but start to cry against Steve’s chest. “I’m just so worried. What if it’s really Vecna? I can’t- I can’t go through this again, I can’t lose her, Steve, it would break me-“
Stebe blinked up against the ceiling, still holding you as he blinked back tears and bit the inside of his cheek. “I know, I know, baby, but we’re not going to lose her. We’re gonna figure this out, okay? Together, like we always do.”
You nodded back, squeezing back his hand. “Together.”
You were restless for the whole day before the conversation came.
Steve had taken Lea to baseball practice with him, dressed in the tiniest Cubs tricot he could find for her. In the meantime, you had spoken to Nancy on the phone, sharing your and Steve’s worries and getting the advice from a girlfriend you had really needed.
A few days earlier, Robin had stopped by for two days and she had also talked to Steve about it over the bonfire he had made for everyone, little Lea asleep in her lap while everyone ate the last smores over the fire.
Once again, it was proven how sometimes you only needed your friends to think clearer and be brave.
You took a deep breath.
“Lea, daddy and I wanted to talk to you about something.”
Your daughter sat in one of the big armchairs by the window front, a big picture book Jonathan had gotten her for her birthday open in her lap. At your words, she looked up at you with wide innocent eyes. “Have I done something bad?”
“No sweetie, not at all.” You shook your head, grateful for the two chairs Steve had pulled up for you to take a seat on. “It’s just something that’s been on our minds and we wanted to hear your thoughts about it too.”
Your voice cracked at the end and Steve placed his hand on your thigh, wordlessly taking over so you could gather yourself. “Remember the day where I couldn’t find you in the garden? Or the playground?”
Lea nodded, but Steve seemed to think she was too far away so he carefully hoisted her up so she could sit comfortably on his knee. “Well, mommy and I have been noticing that you often do that lately and sometimes you…talk? Is that right, you talk to yourself and laugh but we don’t really know why and we just wanted to know if there maybe was a friend you’re making up for yourself or…if there’s just anything you would like to tell us?”
“We’re not mad, baby, we just want to know so we can understand and laugh with you the next time.” You gave her an encouraging smile and let her think about it. Her hair was down today, the same shade of brown as Steve’s, the best parts of both of you visible in her.
“I like telling stories.” Lea said eventually. “But there is no one I tell them to, just me, mommy.”
Steve and you were silent for a moment, sharing a hopeful look.
“So when you were talking to yourself, there was no one near you? Someone we don’t know or someone offering candy or wanting to go somewhere else with you without mommy and I?” Steve asked again, needing to be sure.
Lea giggled. “No, daddy. That’s silly. It’s just playing pretend, it’s not real.”
“Would you tell us if you ever see a stranger who wants to talk with you, baby?”
“Of course, daddy.” Lea nodded dutifully and you reached over and took her little hand in yours and smiled at her.
“Okay.” Steve kissed her rosy cheek, the relief so big you could feel it in your chest. “We’re really happy to hear that, Lea.”
“I’m just been telling stories, because it’s lonely.”
Steve’s hand on your back stilled, the two of you sharing a look again.
Had you not been paying her enough attention lately?
“I’m sorry, baby, I know we’ve been a little busy…” You said regretfully, but your clever little daughter was quick to interrupt you.
“Maybe daddy and you can have another baby!” Lea beamed like it was the greatest idea anyone in the whole history of humanity ever had. “I could tell stories and share my toys, it would be hella cool.”
You snorted, willing the sudden blush on your cheek away as Steve was still transfixed on his daughter. “Where did you learn the word hella?”
“Aunt Robin.”
“Of course.” Steve breathed out, just as red in the face as you were.
“So when are you gonna have another baby?”
That night, the three of you were all cuddled up together on the couch, cartoons still running on mute on the TV screen.
Lea was nestled into Steve’s side, slowly but surely drooling on his shirt in her sleep, the teddy she loved so much squished between them underneath the blanket. You were on her other side, somehow still being held by Steve with your whole world between both of you.
Steve thought to himself that this could happily be the rest of his life. Just being there for his two girls. Or…more kids?
You exhaled softly, laughing underneath your breath as Steve lovingly tucked back some hair from your hair. “Who knew she only really wanted someone to play with? I feel so silly now.”
“Yeah…” Steve was lost in thought for a moment, chewing on his lip. “About what Lea said…I just wanted you to know that there is no pressure or anything. I always knew I wanted to have multiple kids, but if that’s not something you want anymore, I’m totally fine with-“
“Steve.” You cut him off in a whisper, your heart pounding all the way up into your throat as you leaned over and softly kissed him. He instantly melted into you, a quiet moment passing between you like this. When you pulled back, you added: “I want to have more kids, too. And if Lea’s so eager to have a sibling…”
“Yeah? That’s what you want?” Steve sounded breathless, a happy grin spreading on his face and brightening the dimly lit living room. “One more little nugget?”
You nodded eagerly. “Yes. And…who knows what the future holds. Maybe even more little Harringtons running around? This house certainly is big enough.”
This time, he was the one to kiss you.
There was so much love in the devotion in it, it made your head swim with happiness when Steve rested his forehead against yours.
“I’m always going to take care of you and our family, you know?” Steve swore to you. “No matter what, I’ll always be there, making sure we’re all good and happy and safe.”
“I know. I love you. So much.”
“I love you too.” He gave you another kiss before bending down and kissing the top of Lea’s messy hair too. “I can barelywait to experience it all with my two favorite girls.”
Warnings: angst, based on the Olivia Rodrigo song.
A/N:
I'm sorry?
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
Clark noticed it before you did.
Maybe that was the cruelest part of all.
Not because he stopped loving you. God, if anything, Clark loved you too much. He loved you enough to notice the small things long before you could bring yourself to admit they existed. The tired smiles that never quite reached your eyes anymore. The way you started staring out windows during conversations, drifting somewhere he couldn't follow. The growing silence between you that neither of you seemed capable of filling.
He saw it all.
And because he loved you, he couldn't pretend he didn't.
The apartment was dark except for the lamp glowing softly on his side of the bedroom. It felt unbearably quiet.
You sat at the edge of the mattress, elbows resting on your knees, staring at nothing. Your stomach twisted painfully beneath your ribs. It had become a familiar sensation, that constant knot of anxiety and exhaustion that seemed to follow you everywhere these days.
You couldn't remember when it had started. Weeks ago, maybe. Months. Long enough that the feeling had settled into your bones and become part of your daily life, impossible to separate from yourself. It followed you everywhere now, that constant knot in your stomach, that vague sense of wrongness you could never quite name. Some mornings you woke up convinced the feeling would finally be gone. Other mornings you lay there staring at the ceiling, already exhausted by the thought of carrying it through another day.
The bathroom door opened behind you.
Clark stepped into the room with a towel draped around his neck, his dark hair still damp from his shower. He paused almost immediately when he saw you sitting on the edge of the bed. For a moment he didn't say anything. He just watched you, and even without looking, you could feel it. His attention. His concern.
That was the thing about Clark.
He noticed everything when it came to you.
Not in an overbearing way. He wasn't watching for mistakes or signs of weakness. He simply cared. Deeply. Endlessly. Sometimes you thought he carried your emotions as carefully as he carried the weight of the world itself.
"Hey."
You glanced over your shoulder.
His voice was warm and familiar, soft enough that it blended into the quiet hum of the apartment. Once, that voice had been enough to settle every anxious thought in your head. Lately, it only made your chest ache.
"Hey."
Clark's eyes searched your face for a moment before he asked, "You okay?"
A small laugh escaped you, though there wasn't anything funny about the question. It sounded tired even to your own ears.
"No."
The answer was barely out of your mouth before his expression changed. His shoulders softened. The faint smile he'd walked into the room with disappeared completely. It wasn't dramatic. Clark never made your pain about himself. But he felt it. You could always see it in his eyes whenever you were hurting.
Without another word, he crossed the room and sat beside you. The mattress shifted beneath his weight, his shoulder brushing yours for a brief second before he settled. The familiar warmth of him should have been comforting. Instead, it made something twist painfully in your chest.
For a while neither of you spoke.
You stared down at your hands while Clark sat quietly beside you, giving you space while somehow still making it clear he was there. He had always been good at that. Being present without demanding anything in return.
Eventually, the words slipped out before you could stop them.
"I don't know what's wrong with me."
The confession sounded pathetic the moment it left your mouth.
Clark shook his head immediately.
"Nothing's wrong with you."
"There is."
Your voice cracked around the words.
"There has to be."
A year ago, he would've argued. He would've wrapped you in his arms and spent the next hour reminding you of every reason he loved you. He would've listed every good thing he saw in you until you rolled your eyes and told him to stop being ridiculous.
Now he only fell quiet.
Not because he agreed.
Because he'd learned that reassurance wasn't reaching you anymore.
And the fact that he knew that terrified him.
You felt tears threatening behind your eyes and immediately looked away. Crying in front of Clark had never embarrassed you. If anything, the opposite was true. Clark had always been the safest person you knew.
The problem was that he cared too much.
Every tear felt like another weight he immediately tried to carry for you. Every bad day became his bad day. Every hurt became something he wanted to fix, even when it couldn't be fixed.
His hand found yours where they rested in your lap.
The gesture was instinctive, so natural he probably didn't even think about it. His thumb brushed gently across your knuckles, tracing the same soothing pattern he had hundreds of times before.
"You don't have to figure everything out tonight."
You let out a slow breath.
"I've been saying that every night."
The words came out sharper than you intended.
The guilt followed immediately.
You saw it register in his expression, not as hurt or frustration, but as sadness. Clark simply lowered his gaze to your joined hands, and somehow that hurt more than if he'd argued back.
Once upon a time, moments like this had felt easier. One of you would've cracked a joke. The other would've laughed despite themselves. You would've ended up ordering food at midnight or falling asleep halfway through a movie with your feet tangled together under a blanket.
Back then, the hard moments felt temporary.
Now every conversation seemed to carry the weight of something larger beneath it. Every word felt carefully chosen. Every silence stretched too long. It was like both of you were walking across broken glass, trying desperately not to make things worse while knowing neither of you could remember what "better" was supposed to feel like anymore.
You shifted backward until your head rested against the headboard. Clark stayed where he was. Close enough that your shoulders brushed occasionally, far enough that you noticed the distance.
Months ago, he would've pulled you against his chest without thinking. You would've stolen his shirt. He would've complained about it while secretly loving every second.
Now even affection felt delicate.
Not absent.
Never absent.
Just fragile.
Like something the two of you were handling with trembling hands, terrified of dropping.
The silence stretched between you again before you finally whispered, "I keep waiting to wake up feeling normal again."
Clark swallowed hard.
You saw the movement in his throat. Saw the way his jaw tightened as he stared at the floor.
"I know."
Your eyes burned.
"I keep thinking tomorrow will be different."
Tomorrow I'll feel better.
Tomorrow I'll feel like myself.
Tomorrow we'll find our way back to each other.
The thoughts stayed trapped inside your chest, but Clark seemed to hear them anyway.
"I know."
His voice was so quiet it nearly disappeared into the darkness.
And that was the problem.
He knew.
He knew you weren't happy. He knew how hard you were trying. He saw every effort, every forced smile, every attempt to recreate what the two of you used to have. He knew how desperately you wanted to fix whatever had gone wrong, and he knew that despite all of it, despite the love that still existed between you, nothing seemed to be changing.
You closed your eyes as his fingers tightened gently around yours.
Clark wasn't looking away because he was angry. He wasn't withdrawing because he cared less.
If anything, the opposite was true.
He was looking away because watching you suffer was breaking his heart right alongside yours. And somewhere deep down, beneath all the fear and denial, you wondered if he had already accepted something you still couldn't bring yourself to face.
That sometimes love wasn't what failed.
Sometimes love survived all the way to the end.
And that was what made saying goodbye so unbearable.
You tried anyway.
God, you both did.
Two weeks later, Clark came home with reservations for the tiny Italian restaurant where you'd had your first date. He was trying to sound casual when he told you, leaning against the kitchen counter while you made coffee, but you could see the hope written all over his face.
"The Italian place?" you asked.
He nodded. "I thought it might be nice."
And that was the thing. It wasn't some grand gesture. Clark had never been a grand gesture kind of person. He was thoughtful in a way that sometimes felt almost painful. He remembered things. Tiny things. The kind of details most people forgot.
He remembered that you'd ordered ravioli on your first date because you'd been too nervous to try anything unfamiliar. He remembered that you'd laughed so hard you snorted water through your nose when he knocked over his drink. He remembered that you'd stayed until closing because neither of you wanted the night to end.
He remembered everything.
So of course he remembered the restaurant.
The place hadn't changed much. The same red checkered tablecloths covered the tables. The same old Sinatra songs played softly through the speakers. Even the owner recognized you the second you walked through the door.
"Look at you two," the older man said with a grin. "Still asking for the same booth."
Clark laughed and glanced at you.
For a moment, it almost felt normal.
You smiled. The owner led you toward the back of the restaurant. Clark rested a hand against your lower back as you walked, a gesture so familiar he probably wasn't even aware he was doing it anymore.
A year ago, you wouldn't have noticed it.
Now you noticed everything.
The way he waited for you to sit first. The way he remembered to ask for the sparkling water you liked before you'd even opened the menu. The way he kept glancing at you throughout the evening, as though searching for some sign that this was working. Because that was what the night really was. An attempt. Another attempt. One more effort to find whatever it was the two of you had lost.
The problem was that neither of you had actually lost the important things.
Looking across the table at him, listening as he smiled through a story about work, you knew you still loved him. Clark loved you too. That wasn't the issue. The issue was that everything seemed to require effort now. Conversation used to flow so naturally between you that entire evenings disappeared without either of you noticing. Tonight, every topic felt carefully selected, every silence stretched a little too long before one of you rushed to fill it, and every laugh arrived half a second later than it should have.
At one point, Clark started telling a story about Jimmy. Something about a disastrous interview and a ruined cup of coffee. You remembered the version of yourself who would've been crying with laughter before he even reached the punchline, interrupting him three times because you couldn't stop giggling. Instead, you smiled and let out a soft laugh that faded almost as quickly as it came. Clark noticed. You saw it in the slight hesitation in his voice, in the way his smile faltered for the briefest moment before he continued. Neither of you acknowledged it.
What was there to say?
Sorry, I'm trying. Sorry, I miss us too. Sorry, I don't know how to get back to where we were.
The rest of dinner passed much the same way. Nothing went wrong. There was no argument, no harsh words, no dramatic moment either of you could point to and blame. If anything, that was what made it hurt. You were sitting in the exact booth where you'd fallen in love with Clark Kent. The food was good. The company was good. Clark was kind and attentive and trying so hard that it made your chest ache every time you looked at him. And somehow, despite all of that, something still felt missing.
The drive home was quiet, though not uncomfortably so. The silence had slowly become familiar over the last few months. City lights streaked across the passenger window while Clark drove, one hand resting on the steering wheel and the other lying between you on the center console, palm up, close enough that you could take it if you wanted to. You noticed it immediately. The invitation wasn't deliberate enough to be obvious, but you knew him too well not to recognize it. For years, you would've reached for him without thinking. At red lights. Walking down the street. Sitting side by side on the couch. It had always been as natural as breathing.
Now you found yourself staring at the space between your hands, wondering when something so effortless had become something you had to think about.
Clark left his hand there for several minutes. Long enough that you knew he was waiting. Long enough that you knew he was hoping. Eventually, without looking away from the road, he curled his fingers inward and returned his hand to the steering wheel. The movement was so small that anyone else would've missed it, but it settled heavily in your chest anyway. Neither of you spoke for the rest of the drive home. You watched the city pass by outside your window while Clark kept his eyes on the road, both of you pretending not to notice the growing realization that no amount of revisiting the past could recreate what had once come so easily.
Big Sur was supposed to save things.
At least, that was what you secretly hoped when Clark suggested it.
The idea had sounded so simple at the time. Leave Metropolis behind for a few days. Get away from work, from responsibilities, from the endless routine that seemed to have swallowed both of you whole. Maybe if you returned to the place where you'd once been happiest together, you could find whatever it was you'd lost along the way.
Big Sur had always felt like yours.
Not because you'd discovered it first or because it belonged to either of you, but because some of your happiest memories lived there. The winding roads hugging the coastline. The ocean stretching endlessly beyond the cliffs. The salty air that seemed to seep into everything. It was the place you escaped to whenever life became too loud, too complicated, too overwhelming.
The first time you'd come, you'd barely left each other's side. You remembered racing Clark down the beach despite knowing perfectly well that he could outrun you without trying. You remembered collapsing breathless into the sand afterward while he laughed so hard he could barely speak. You remembered staying up until two in the morning wrapped in blankets on the cabin porch, talking about everything and nothing while the waves crashed somewhere below. Back then, the future had felt impossibly large. Every conversation seemed to end with another plan, another dream, another reason to be excited about what came next.
So you rented the same cabin.
Walked the same trails.
Stopped at the same overlooks.
You even ordered from the same little café where Clark had once spent ten minutes trying to convince you to share a slice of pie before eating half of yours anyway.
You recreated everything.
And somehow, that was exactly what made it hurt.
Because every familiar place came with a memory attached to it. Every turn in the road reminded you of a different version of yourselves. Happier. Lighter. More certain. You found yourself constantly comparing the present to the past without meaning to. This is where we took that picture. This is where Clark slipped on the rocks and pretended he meant to do it. This is where we talked until sunrise.
The memories arrived so easily.
The feelings didn't.
On your final evening, you found yourselves sitting on a weathered wooden bench overlooking the ocean. The sky was awash in gold and orange, sunlight spilling across the water in shimmering ribbons. The view was breathtaking. The kind of view people traveled across the country to see.
Years ago, the two of you would've been talking over each other, pointing out shapes in the clouds or making ridiculous plans for the future. Clark would've had his arm around your shoulders. You would've been teasing him about something. There would've been laughter.
Now, neither of you seemed to know what to do with the silence.
You sat with your knees pulled to your chest while the wind tugged loose strands of hair across your face. Beside you, Clark rested his forearms on his thighs, staring out at the water. Every now and then you caught him glancing at you, only for him to quickly look away when you noticed.
The distance between you wasn't large. A few inches at most. If either of you leaned slightly to one side, your shoulders would touch. And yet it felt enormous. You sat beside each other watching the sun sink lower over the horizon, the ocean stretching endlessly below the cliffs, neither quite sure what to do with the silence that had settled between you. Eventually, you broke it.
"Do you remember our first trip here?"
Clark smiled faintly, the expression reaching his eyes for the first time all evening. "Of course."
"You said this was where you'd bring me if the world ever ended."
A soft laugh escaped him. "I did say that."
"You were so dramatic."
His smile widened slightly. "I still am."
For a moment, something almost felt normal. You could hear the familiar warmth in his voice, see traces of the man you'd fallen in love with sitting beside you. It reminded you of late nights on this same coastline years ago, when conversations seemed endless and every plan for the future felt exciting instead of uncertain. But the moment slipped away as quickly as it arrived. The silence returned, heavier this time, and neither of you rushed to fill it. You watched the waves break against the cliffs below, white foam disappearing into the darkening water, and before you could stop yourself, the question you'd been carrying for months finally escaped.
"Why doesn't it feel like that anymore?"
The words hung between you. You hadn't planned to say them. Maybe you hadn't even realized how badly you needed to. But once they were there, neither of you could pretend not to hear them.
Clark's smile slowly faded. Not dramatically, not all at once. It simply disappeared as he turned his gaze back toward the ocean. The wind moved through the grass around you. Somewhere in the distance, a bird cried out over the water. You waited for an answer, for an explanation, for something tangible you could hold onto and fix. Maybe they'd stopped making time for each other. Maybe life had gotten in the way. Maybe they'd both become so focused on holding everything together that they'd forgotten how to simply be together. You wanted a reason because reasons could be solved.
But when Clark finally spoke, his voice was quiet and tired.
"I don't know."
The honesty of it settled heavily in your chest. There was no betrayal to point to, no anger, no secret resentment, no singular moment where everything had gone wrong. You still loved him. Looking at Clark, you could see that he still loved you too. It was there in the way he looked at you, in the way he still instinctively reached for you, in the way he'd spent months trying to save something neither of you fully understood. And yet here you were, sitting in the place that held some of your happiest memories, watching the last of the sunlight disappear beyond the horizon and realizing that neither of you knew how to get back there. Not to Big Sur. To each other.
As darkness slowly settled over the coastline, neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. You simply sat side by side, grieving something that was still alive and wondering when love had stopped feeling like enough.
The conversation happened three weeks later.
By then, neither of you were pretending it wasn't coming.
The signs had been there for months. In the silences that lasted a little too long. In the conversations that felt increasingly difficult to navigate. In the way both of you kept trying to recreate old versions of yourselves and old versions of your relationship, only to leave feeling more disappointed than before. Neither of you had said the words out loud, but they had settled between you anyway, an uninvited presence neither of you could ignore.
It was nearly midnight when it finally happened.
Rain tapped softly against the apartment windows, turning the city outside into a blur of lights and reflections. A movie played on the television, though neither of you had been paying attention for most of it. You sat curled into one end of the couch with a blanket draped over your lap while Clark occupied the opposite side, his arm resting along the back cushion.
Every so often, you caught him glancing toward you from the corner of your eye. Every time you looked back, he quickly returned his attention to the screen, but it didn't fool you. Your chest had been tight all evening, not because you knew exactly what was coming, but because you could feel him gathering the courage to say it. The same way you could feel a storm building before the first drop of rain ever touched the ground.
Finally, the television clicked silent.
The sound of the rain suddenly seemed much louder.
Your heart dropped as you slowly turned toward him. Clark was already looking at you.
"Hey."
It was only one word, but it carried enough weight to make your stomach twist. You had heard Clark speak your name in a thousand different ways over the years. Teasing. Sleepy. Happy. Frustrated. Laughing. This was different. This sounded like goodbye.
"Can we talk?"
The room blurred instantly. You hated how quickly your body understood what your mind was still trying to deny. For a moment all you could do was stare at him before finally nodding. Clark lowered his gaze and rubbed his palms against his jeans, and that was when you noticed his hands were shaking.
The sight nearly broke you.
This was Clark. A man who could stop trains with his bare hands. A man who could lift collapsed buildings, fly through hurricanes, and stand between entire cities and danger without hesitation. Yet his hands were shaking because of this conversation. Not because he was afraid of you, but because he was terrified of hurting you.
"I don't know how to do this."
His voice cracked slightly on the last word.
You felt your throat tighten.
Neither did you.
"I know."
A hollow laugh escaped him. He dragged a hand down his face before looking at you again, and this time you saw the tears already gathering in his eyes.
"I love you."
The words landed with enough force to knock the air from your lungs because there wasn't a single part of you that doubted them. You knew Clark loved you. You knew it every morning he woke up before you to make coffee exactly the way you liked it. Every time he instinctively reached for your hand while crossing a street. Every time he remembered some tiny detail you'd mentioned months ago and brought it up as though it were the most important thing in the world. Every time he looked at you as though you were the only person in the room.
You knew.
"I know."
His eyes closed briefly.
When they opened again, they were red.
"You know I do."
"I know."
"And that's the problem."
The tears came immediately because you understood exactly what he meant.
Clark closed his eyes like the sight physically hurt him. You stood so quickly the blanket slipped from your lap and fell to the floor.
"No."
Your voice sounded distant.
"You don't get to say that."
"I know."
"Then why are you saying it?"
"Because it's true."
His voice cracked completely this time.
"I love you so much."
The pain in his face was unbearable.
You turned away, pressing a hand over your mouth as tears spilled down your cheeks. Behind you, you heard Clark stand from the couch. When he spoke again, his voice was closer.
"You haven't been happy in a long time."
"That doesn't mean I don't love you."
"I know."
"Then stop saying that."
The tears were impossible to stop now.
"I know things haven't been perfect. I know we've been struggling. I know I've been distant and sad and exhausted all the time."
You looked at him then. Really looked at him. At the man you'd built a life with. The man you still loved. The man who was standing in front of you crying too.
"But can't we keep trying?"
The question seemed to physically wound him.
You saw it happen.
Hope and heartbreak and guilt colliding all at once behind his eyes. Because he wanted to. God, he wanted to. If love alone could've saved this, Clark would've spent the rest of his life trying.
But that wasn't what this was anymore.
"I think we've been trying," he said quietly. "For a long time."
The truth settled between you.
Neither of you spoke for several seconds. The rain continued tapping softly against the windows. The city carried on outside while everything inside the apartment seemed to stop.
Clark took a small step closer.
"You deserve to be happy."
A bitter laugh escaped you.
"You sound like a breakup cliché."
Fresh tears immediately filled his eyes because he knew exactly how pathetic it sounded. How unfair it sounded. How impossible it was to hear. Yet he said it anyway because he believed it.
"You deserve someone who doesn't make you feel trapped."
"You don't make me feel trapped."
The answer came instantly.
Without hesitation.
Because it was true.
Clark had never trapped you. Never controlled you. Never stopped loving you. If anything, he'd spent months trying to give you space to breathe, trying to carry your sadness alongside you, trying to save something he was slowly beginning to realize he couldn't save.
"Then why are you miserable?"
The question shattered whatever remained.
You started crying harder because neither of you had an answer. Not a real one. There was no villain here. No betrayal. No broken trust. No dramatic mistake that could be fixed with an apology. Just two people who loved each other desperately standing in the middle of a living room, trying to understand why that love no longer seemed capable of making either of them happy.
And maybe that was the answer.
Maybe that was the tragedy of it all.
Not that the love was gone, but that it was still there. Still alive. Still aching. Still refusing to die even as everything around it slowly fell apart.
The next morning arrived far too quickly.
Neither of you had slept much. At some point, you had both retreated to opposite sides of the apartment, giving each other space neither of you actually wanted. You'd spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, listening to the rain against the windows and trying not to think about the fact that this was the last time you would wake up here. The last time Clark would be in the next room. The last time this place would feel like yours.
By morning, the rain had stopped, but the sky remained stubbornly gray. Thick clouds hung over Metropolis, turning the city outside into a wash of muted colors and blurred outlines. Even the usual energy of the streets seemed quieter somehow. Or maybe that was just you. Maybe grief had a way of making everything else seem distant.
The apartment was almost empty now. The photographs had been taken down. The books you'd accumulated together over the years had been divided into uneven stacks. The small traces of your life together were disappearing piece by piece, leaving behind a space that already felt unfamiliar.
Clark carried your suitcase downstairs.
Of course he did.
You'd offered to take it yourself. He'd ignored you.
Neither of you spoke much during the elevator ride. What was left to say? The important conversation had already happened. Every argument, every attempt, every desperate plea to keep trying had already been laid bare the night before. All that remained now was the part neither of you had known how to prepare for.
Actually leaving.
The taxi was already waiting at the curb when you stepped outside.
The driver glanced at the two of you through the windshield before politely looking away again. You wondered what he saw. Maybe just another couple saying goodbye. Maybe nothing at all.
Your suitcase sat between you on the sidewalk.
For a moment neither of you moved.
Clark looked exhausted. His eyes were red. His shoulders seemed heavier somehow, as though he hadn't slept either.
You probably looked the same.
For several seconds, you simply stood there staring at each other.
Then Clark crossed the distance first.
Of course he did.
The second his arms wrapped around you, something inside you shattered.
You buried your face against his chest and immediately became aware of every familiar thing you were about to lose. The scent of his laundry detergent. The steady rise and fall of his breathing. The warmth of his body. The way his hand automatically settled against the back of your head.
For one terrible moment, everything felt normal.
Not fixed. Not healed. Just familiar.
Buried against Clark's chest, surrounded by his warmth, you could almost pretend none of the last few months had happened. It felt like coming home after a long day. Like Sunday mornings spent tangled together beneath blankets. Like movie nights on the couch and sleepy conversations in the kitchen while he made coffee before work. All the ordinary moments you'd once taken for granted suddenly felt precious now that you were losing them. Your fingers tightened in the fabric of his jacket, and when Clark's arms tightened around you in return, you realized neither of you wanted to let go.
Then you felt it.
His shoulders were shaking.
The realization hit harder than anything that had happened the night before. Harder than the conversation. Harder than the decision. Harder than the sight of your packed suitcase sitting beside the curb. Clark was crying. Not quietly, not the restrained tears he'd tried so hard to hide in the apartment, but real, uncontrollable grief. His entire body trembled with it.
Because he loved you.
Still.
Enough to let you go. Enough to stand here and break his own heart because he genuinely believed it was what was best for you.
"I don't want this."
His voice was muffled against your hair, raw and broken in a way you'd never heard before.
"I know."
"I really don't."
The desperation in those three words nearly undid you.
"I know, baby."
For a long moment neither of you moved. Eventually, you forced yourself to pull back, and the sight of him almost shattered whatever composure you had left. His cheeks were wet, his eyes red and exhausted. There was no trace of Superman standing in front of you. No symbol. No invincible hero. Just Clark. Just the man you'd loved for years. The man who looked as though someone had reached into his chest and torn something vital away.
You'd seen him cry before. A funeral. A devastating loss. A few private moments he never allowed anyone else to witness. Never like this. Never so openly. Never so helplessly.
Your hands rose instinctively to his face. Your thumbs brushed across his cheeks as you tried to memorize every detail. The tiny scar near his eyebrow. The faint freckles scattered across his skin. The slight crook in his nose. The way his hair curled when it grew too long. Ridiculous things. Small things. Things that suddenly felt desperately important because you were terrified of forgetting them.
A broken laugh escaped through your tears.
Clark frowned softly.
"You know what's unfair?"
He swallowed hard.
"What?"
Your lips trembled.
"I wish you loved me less."
The reaction was immediate. His face crumpled completely, pain flashing across his features so quickly you almost regretted saying it.
"Don't."
"If you loved me less, maybe we'd still be together." Your voice cracked. "Or maybe this wouldn't hurt so much."
Because it was true.
If Clark had loved you less, maybe he would've ignored the unhappiness creeping into your lives. Maybe he would've convinced himself things were fine. Maybe he would've chosen comfort over honesty and held on because letting go was harder. But Clark Kent had never known how to love halfway. He loved completely, with every part of himself, and that was exactly why he couldn't stay. Loving you meant wanting more for you than a relationship that was slowly breaking both of you.
For a moment he simply stared at you. Then he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were shining.
"I don't think I know how."
Your breath caught.
"What?"
A sad smile appeared and disappeared almost instantly.
"Loving you less."
The words were simple. Honest. And somehow they hurt more than everything else combined.
Neither of you spoke after that. The city continued moving around you as though nothing had happened. People walked past. Cars drove by. Somewhere a siren sounded in the distance. The world remained stubbornly indifferent to the fact that yours was ending.
Then Clark leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead.
The same kiss he'd given you after nightmares. Before work. During lazy Sunday mornings. During arguments and celebrations and countless ordinary days in between. A thousand memories wrapped into one final gesture.
When he stepped back, he didn't reach for you again. He didn't ask you to stay. He didn't beg. He simply gave you room. The choice. The freedom. Even now. Especially now.
And standing there beside the taxi, watching the man who loved you enough to lose you, you finally understood the cruelest part of all. The relationship hadn't ended because there wasn't love. It had ended because there was. Enough love to recognize when holding on was hurting more than helping. Enough love to put your happiness above his own. Enough love to open the door even when every part of him wanted to keep it closed.
And somehow, impossibly, that hurt far more than if he had never loved you at all.
Summary: You finally have expectations when it comes to men.
Word count: 7k+
Warnings: fluff, based on the Olivia Rodrigo song
A/N:
And you guys thought I couldn't write fluff
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
Jack Abbot had not been on your list, which was perhaps the most irritating part of all.
Not because he wasn't attractive. He was. Anyone with functioning eyes could acknowledge that much. Not because he wasn't kind either. If anything, kindness seemed to exist in him as naturally as breathing. You saw it every day in the emergency department, in the way he remembered nurses' names, in the way he stayed twenty extra minutes to explain something to a worried family, even when his shift had technically ended. And it certainly wasn't because he lacked ambition or direction. The man was an attending physician at one of the busiest trauma hospitals in Pittsburgh. Every day, he walked into a department where lives could change in seconds and somehow managed to carry the responsibility without letting it harden him.
No, Jack wasn't the problem.
The problem was that you had finally reached a point in your life where you weren't looking for anyone.
It had taken years to get there.
Years of confusing attention with affection. Years of convincing yourself that if you were patient enough, understanding enough, accommodating enough, eventually someone would become the person they kept promising they could be. Somewhere along the way, you had developed a habit of falling in love with potential instead of reality. You would meet a man, notice one or two good qualities, and then spend months filling in the blanks yourself. You'd build entire relationships around who somebody might become rather than who they actually were.
It was exhausting.
Eventually, after enough disappointment, enough nights spent staring at your ceiling, wondering why effort never seemed to be reciprocated, something shifted.
You stopped romanticizing people who gave you the bare minimum.
You stopped applauding men for doing things that should have been expected in the first place.
You stopped mistaking inconsistency for mystery and emotional unavailability for depth.
Most importantly, you learned how to walk away.
You discovered that being alone wasn't nearly as frightening as being with somebody who made you feel lonely. And once you'd learned that lesson, really learned it, your standards began to change.
Working as a social worker in the emergency department probably accelerated that transformation. Every day you sat with families experiencing the worst moments of their lives. You helped parents process devastating diagnoses. You comforted spouses after traumatic accidents. You watched people discover, over and over again, what truly mattered when everything else was stripped away.
It gave you perspective.
After spending twelve hours helping a family navigate a life-altering crisis, listening to some twenty-eight-year-old man explain that he "wasn't ready for labels" felt almost laughable.
Your dating history suddenly looked absurd when viewed through that lens.
There had been the self-proclaimed entrepreneur whose business seemed to consist entirely of talking about starting a business. The musician who forgot your birthday and then somehow managed to make you feel guilty for being upset about it. The man who spent six months deciding whether he wanted a relationship, as though you were a job offer sitting in his inbox waiting for approval.
Six months.
You could still remember sitting across from him at dinner, listening to him stumble through another vague explanation about timing and uncertainty and needing space, and feeling something inside you finally click into place.
Not heartbreak.
Clarity.
Because for the first time you realized that someone who truly wanted you would not require six months to determine whether you were worth choosing.
You left that relationship with surprisingly little sadness.
Mostly because by then you understood something you hadn't before.
Every mistake contained information. Every disappointment taught you something. Every failed relationship clarified what you actually needed.
Past mistakes weren't failures, they were data.
And the data had led you here.
To a place where your expectations were no longer negotiable.
Nothing unreasonable. Nothing impossible.
You wanted someone who communicated honestly. Someone who worked hard. Someone who respected women. Someone emotionally mature enough to express what they wanted instead of expecting you to decipher it through mixed signals and half-hearted text messages. Someone capable of making a decision without treating commitment like a hostage negotiation.
The bar, in your opinion, remained embarrassingly low.
You weren't asking for perfection or a fairytale. You were asking for competence. Consistency. Effort.
Which was why the universe's timing felt particularly cruel.
Because roughly three months after making a dramatic declaration to your friends that you were done prioritizing men, done settling, done chasing people who weren't sure about you, Jack quietly walked into your life and proceeded to embody nearly every expectation you'd spent years developing.
And somehow that felt significantly more dangerous than all the wrong men combined.
The first thing you noticed about Jack wasn't his face, or his job title, or even the fact that half the emergency department seemed to adore him.
It was that he remembered things.
Not the big things people were expected to remember. Not birthdays posted on Facebook or major life announcements that everyone in the department had heard about. It was the small things. The things most people acknowledged in conversation and then immediately forgot the moment they walked away.
You first noticed it on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon.
The department had been relatively calm for once, which in emergency medicine usually meant disaster was quietly building somewhere. You'd been walking beside Jack toward radiology after helping arrange temporary housing resources for a patient. The conversation had been casual, the kind that happened when two people spent enough time crossing paths at work. Somewhere between discussing a difficult discharge and complaining about hospital coffee, you'd mentioned that your younger brother was graduating from nursing school that weekend.
Jack had smiled.
"That's a huge accomplishment."
Then a trauma page had gone off overhead, he'd been pulled away, and you'd assumed that was the end of it.
Three weeks passed.
Three weeks filled with twelve-hour shifts, ambulance arrivals, difficult family meetings, social work consults, endless documentation, and the particular kind of exhaustion that came from working in an emergency department. You forgot the conversation entirely.
Jack apparently didn't.
You were carrying a chart toward the nurses' station when he passed you in the hallway.
He slowed slightly.
"Hey."
"Hey."
"How'd the graduation go?"
You stopped walking.
Not because of the question itself, because it took you several seconds to understand what graduation he was talking about.
"What?"
"Your brother." Jack looked mildly confused by your confusion. "The fact that he graduated from nursing school?"
For a moment you simply stared at him.
Three weeks.
It had been three weeks. Three weeks and dozens, maybe hundreds, of patients. Endless consults. New admissions. New traumas. New crises. An entire emergency department's worth of information had passed through both of your brains since then. And yet somehow he'd remembered a single passing comment you'd made while walking down a hallway.
"You remembered that?"
Jack's forehead creased slightly. "Yeah?"
The answer came so naturally that it almost made you laugh. There was no pride in it, no expectation that he should be praised for paying attention. No awareness that he'd done anything unusual at all. As if listening when people spoke was simply normal. As if remembering details about someone mattered because that person mattered.
The realization caught you more off guard than it should have. Because the truth was, your surprise said far more about your past than it did about Jack.
You thought about the men you'd dated before. The ones who needed reminders for conversations they'd had the day before. The ones who forgot important events, forgot stories you'd told them, forgot preferences, forgot plans. Men who claimed they cared about you but somehow never seemed curious enough to remember the details that made you who you were. You remembered one ex who'd forgotten your birthday. Another who repeatedly mixed up your brother and cousin despite meeting both of them. One particularly impressive candidate had even asked what your undergraduate degree was after nearly four months of dating.
At the time, you'd laughed those things off. Made excuses. Told yourself they were busy, distracted, bad with details. But standing in the middle of a hospital hallway while Jack looked at you as though remembering your brother's graduation was the most ordinary thing in the world, those excuses suddenly felt a lot less convincing.
Because maybe caring looked like this.
Maybe it wasn't grand gestures or dramatic declarations. Maybe it was paying attention. Maybe it was listening closely enough that information stayed with you, remembering things simply because someone had taken the time to tell you.
You eventually answered his question and told him the graduation had gone well. You even showed him a picture your mother had insisted on taking, one where your brother looked deeply uncomfortable in his cap and gown. Jack smiled, asked a few questions, congratulated him through you, and then got called away to evaluate a patient before the conversation could continue. The interaction lasted less than two minutes. By the end of your shift, you should have forgotten about it.
Instead, you found yourself thinking about it on the drive home. Then again while brushing your teeth. Then again a few days later when you spotted him across the department, calmly talking a nervous patient through a procedure. It wasn't a grand romantic moment. There was no music, no revelation, no sudden realization that you were falling for him. It was smaller than that. Quieter. More dangerous.
Because for the first time in a very long time, someone had shown you what genuine attention looked like. And once you'd noticed it, you couldn't stop seeing it everywhere.
The emergency department had descended into chaos the moment the alert came through. Mass casualty incident. School bus versus commercial truck. Multiple patients inbound. You still remembered the way the atmosphere shifted in seconds, as if someone had flipped a switch. One moment people were finishing notes, grabbing coffee, discussing discharge plans. The next, every available trauma bay was being prepared, stretchers lined up, supplies restocked, and teams assembled. The department moved with a kind of organized urgency that only came from experience. Physicians pulled on trauma gowns while nurses prepared medications and respiratory therapists checked ventilators. Overhead pages echoed through the halls. Ambulance arrival times were shouted across rooms. Whiteboards filled with names faster than anyone could process them. Thirty-seven patients arrived over the course of the evening. Multiple critical injuries. The kind of shift where hours disappeared without notice and everyone operated almost entirely on instinct.
You spent most of the night with one family. Their son was sixteen years old, a quiet kid with braces who had been sitting near the front of the bus when it rolled. The trauma team identified a pelvic fracture almost immediately, and later imaging revealed internal bleeding that required urgent intervention. While physicians worked in the trauma bay, your role was with the people waiting outside. The mother had started crying before the ambulance doors even closed. The father somehow seemed worse. At least the mother's fear had somewhere to go.
The father's stayed trapped inside him, building pressure behind every breath. His hands shook every time someone in scrubs walked through the doors. He stood up whenever footsteps approached and sat down again when they passed by. Over and over, he asked the same questions because panic made it impossible to hold onto answers. Was his son awake? Had he said anything? Was he going to be okay? What exactly did internal bleeding mean? You explained what you could. You tracked down updates. You translated medical terminology into language terrified parents could understand. You brought cups of water they barely touched and sat beside them through every agonizing stretch of waiting. Over the years, you had learned that waiting was often the cruelest part. Pain had something concrete to focus on. Fear could be addressed. But uncertainty lingered. It settled into people and hollowed them out from the inside.
By the time their son was stabilized and transferred to the ICU, nearly two hours had passed. The mother squeezed your hand before she left. The father looked at you like he wanted to say something important but couldn't quite find the words. Then they followed the transport team upstairs, and suddenly the adrenaline that had been carrying you all evening vanished. Your feet hurt. Your shoulders ached. The headache you'd been ignoring since noon had settled somewhere behind your eyes and started pounding. You couldn't remember the last time you'd sat down. You couldn't remember the last time you'd eaten either. Breakfast felt like it had happened days ago. At some point you'd grabbed coffee. Maybe twice. Maybe three times. The details blurred together beneath the weight of the shift.
You slipped into the staff lounge hoping for five uninterrupted minutes before the next crisis found you. The room was quiet for the first time all night. No monitors. No overhead announcements. No crying families. No trauma alerts. Jack sat alone at one of the tables finishing documentation. His trauma gown was gone, wearing only his black srubs. Reading glasses rested low on his nose as he typed. A half-empty coffee sat beside his laptop. He looked exhausted.
You had barely stepped into the room when something slid across the table toward you.
A granola bar.
You stared at it.
Then at him.
Jack didn't even look up.
"You haven't eaten."
For a moment your brain struggled to catch up.
"What?"
"I saw you skip lunch."
His fingers never stopped moving across the keyboard.
"Eat."
Your eyes dropped back to the granola bar. It was completely ordinary. Yet something about it made your chest tighten unexpectedly.
"You got me food?"
That finally earned you a glance. Jack looked up just long enough to give you a mildly unimpressed expression.
"You look like you're running entirely on caffeine and wishful thinking."
A beat passed.
"Which isn't sustainable."
A laugh escaped before you could stop it. A real laugh. The first one you'd managed all night. Something softened in his expression when he heard it. Not quite a smile, but close.
You sat down across from him and opened the wrapper. The sound crinkled loudly in the otherwise silent room.
"You've been observing my dietary habits now?"
"Someone has to."
"You say that like I'm a child."
"Well you’re a social worker, kid. We wouldn’t survive with you guys. So yeah, I’m observing."
You opened your mouth to argue and immediately closed it again because he was, unfortunately, correct. Jack returned to his charting, and the conversation could have ended there. Probably should have. But as you sat there eating the granola bar, something kept nagging at you.
"How did you even notice?"
He looked up again.
"Notice what?"
"That I hadn't eaten."
The question seemed to genuinely confuse him.
"You always eat lunch."
You blinked. "What?"
"You usually disappear around one, and come back around one thirty."
He shrugged as if the answer were self-explanatory.
"Today you didn't."
Something shifted quietly inside your chest, because he wasn't talking about one day.
To know that, he had been paying attention for weeks. Maybe months. Not in a deliberate way. Not in an intrusive way. Just enough to notice patterns. Enough to notice your absence from one. Enough to realize something was off. And somehow that affected you far more than it should have. You'd dated men who couldn't remember your favorite food. Men who forgot important conversations, forgot birthdays, forgot promises they had made themselves. Yet here was Jack remembering something as insignificant as the fact that you usually took lunch around one o'clock.
Not because he wanted credit.
Not because he was trying to impress you.
Not because he expected anything in return.
Simply because he cared.
As the silence settled between you again, you found yourself watching him over the edge of the granola bar wrapper. The tiredness beneath his eyes. The slight slump in his shoulders. The concentration on his face as he finished documentation after one of the hardest shifts either of you had worked in months. He was exhausted too. He had spent the evening intubating patients, coordinating trauma care, delivering updates, and making impossible decisions under impossible pressure. Yet somewhere amid all that chaos, he'd noticed that you hadn't eaten. He'd noticed. He'd remembered. And he'd acted.
No grand gesture.
Just a granola bar quietly pushed across a table.
A simple act of care.
And for reasons you couldn't fully explain, it felt more intimate than every expensive dinner, every bouquet of flowers, and every romantic gesture you'd ever received. Because those things had often been done to impress you. This had simply been done because you needed it.
"You like him."
Santos' voice appeared beside you during one of those rare moments when the emergency department wasn't actively falling apart. You were halfway through documenting a consult and attempting to drink a coffee that had long since gone cold when Santos delivered the statement so casually that it took a moment for your brain to catch up.
"Excuse me?"
She didn't even look up from her computer.
"You like him."
You stared at her.
"Who?"
That finally earned you a glance. Santos turned slowly, giving you the kind of look normally reserved for people who had just asked whether the sky was blue.
"Abbot."
You nearly inhaled your coffee.
"Come again?"
"It's so obvious it's actually starting to piss me off."
A laugh escaped her as she turned back toward her charting, while you sat there feeling personally attacked.
"I don't have a crush on him."
"Sure."
"I don't."
"Okay."
"Santos."
"What?"
"I do not have a crush on Jack."
The grin spreading across her face immediately told you this argument was already lost.
"You absolutely do. "You get weird when he walks by."
"I do not get weird."
"You do."
"I don't."
Santos raised an eyebrow.
You groaned and rubbed a hand over your face.
"Don't you have patients?"
"Don't change the subject."
"I'm not changing the subject."
"You are."
You pointed at her dramatically.
"Is this what you do all day? Stare at your coworkers instead of charting?"
"Partially."
At least she was honest.
Unfortunately, before you could continue arguing, movement across the department caught your attention. Your eyes found Jack automatically, and the triumphant noise Santos made beside you was immediate.
"There."
"Oh, shut up."
"There!"
Across the emergency department, Jack stood beside Robby reviewing imaging results on a computer screen. The CT images glowed against the monitor while the two physicians discussed findings. You couldn't hear the conversation from where you stood, but you could recognize the expression on Jack's face. Focused. Attentive. Completely engaged. His arms were crossed as he listened to Robby explain something, occasionally leaning forward to point out a detail on the scan before the conversation continued. There was absolutely nothing romantic about the scene. It was two doctors discussing a patient. That's all it was.
And yet you found yourself watching.
Not because he was handsome.
Although he was.
Not because he was charming.
Although he could be.
It was something far more annoying than that.
Because every day you watched him be good at what he did.
Not perfect.
Good.
There was a difference.
You'd seen him struggle too.
Medicine was full of mistakes, uncertainty, and moments where nobody had the right answer. Every physician encountered them eventually. The difference was how Jack responded when they happened. You'd seen him ask questions without embarrassment. Consult specialists when he wasn't sure. Accept feedback from colleagues without becoming defensive. Admit when someone else's idea was better than his own.
A few weeks earlier, Javadi had suggested a diagnosis he hadn't initially considered. You still remembered standing nearby while she carefully explained her reasoning, clearly nervous about disagreeing with an attending. Jack had listened. Really listened. Then he'd thanked her when additional testing proved she was right.
Such a small moment and ordinary moment. And yet, it had stayed with you.
Because you'd spent years dating men whose egos were so fragile that being corrected felt like a personal attack. Men who treated every disagreement like a competition they had to win. Men who would rather be wrong than admit someone else might know more.
Jack never seemed threatened by not knowing everything.
In fact, the more competent he was, the more comfortable he seemed admitting what he didn't know.
And somehow that made him even more competent.
That was the problem.
Attraction built on looks was manageable. Attraction built on charm eventually faded. But attraction built on respect was dangerous because it rooted itself deeper. It wasn't about chemistry or butterflies or fantasy. It was built on observation. On evidence. On watching somebody reveal who they were over and over again until you couldn't deny what you saw.
You respected him.
You respected the way he treated people.
You respected the way he worked.
You respected the way he showed up, day after day, even when the job was difficult and exhausting and thankless. You respected the fact that he never acted like caring was beneath him. You watched him mentor residents, advocate for vulnerable patients, comfort grieving families, and choose kindness over convenience again and again. Not because anyone was watching. Not because he wanted recognition. Simply because that was who he was.
And somewhere along the way, without your permission, he had become the standard.
Not perfection. Not potential. Not promises. Effort. Consistency. Character. All the things you'd spent years searching for in men who only ever seemed to offer excuses instead.
Santos was still staring at you when you finally dragged your attention away from the other side of the department.
"You done staring?"
You immediately looked anywhere but Jack.
"I wasn't staring."
"You were."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
A comfortable silence settled between you before Santos leaned slightly closer. "For what it's worth?"
You sighed. "What?"
Her gaze flickered toward Jack before returning to you. This time, when she spoke, there was no teasing in her voice.
"I get it."
Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Not because she was making fun of you, but because she wasn't. For once, Santos sounded completely sincere.
"He makes people feel safe."
The words settled somewhere deep inside you because they were true. You looked back across the department. Jack was still standing beside Robby, still discussing scans, still completely unaware of the conversation happening about him. Completely unaware that somewhere along the way he'd become the measuring stick against which every other man was now being compared.
And maybe that was the most frustrating part of all.
The realization happened at a bar.
Which was ironic, considering bars were exactly the sort of place you'd spent the last year insisting your future husband would never be found.
Not because you thought there was anything wrong with meeting people at bars. You'd simply reached a point in your life where you no longer believed meaningful relationships appeared because you were looking for them.
The emergency department's New Year's gathering was nothing particularly special. Just a local bar rented out for the evening, cheap decorations still hanging from Christmas, music playing slightly too loud through old speakers, and a collection of healthcare workers desperately trying to remember they were human beings outside the hospital. For one night nobody was discussing lab values, trauma activations, consults, or difficult patients. Nobody was running toward alarms. Nobody was delivering bad news.
People were simply existing.
Laughing.
Drinking.
Living.
You stood at the bar with a vodka cranberry in hand, watching your coworkers scatter across the room. Mel and Santos were butchering a karaoke song with enough confidence to make up for their complete lack of talent. Mohan and Javadi had somehow ended up in a corner gossiping about Mateo. Robby was engaged in what looked like an unnecessarily passionate debate about football with Shen. The room buzzed with the easy familiarity that developed when people spent their days surviving chaos together.
You had entered the new year single. But more importantly, you'd entered it happy. Not pretending to be happy. Not telling yourself you were happy.
Actually happy.
You weren't wondering who might text tomorrow morning. You weren't looking around the room hoping someone would notice you. You weren't mentally calculating whether this year would finally be the year you met somebody. For the first time in your adult life, your happiness wasn't being held hostage by your relationship status.
You had already chosen yourself.
And once you did that, everything else began feeling different.
"Vodka cranberry."
Jack's voice appeared beside you before you noticed him approach.
You glanced over.
"What about it?"
He nodded toward your drink.
"You always order vodka cranberries."
A laugh escaped before you could stop it. "Are you keeping a file on me?"
"Maybe."
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
"I like knowing things."
"Yeah, I've noticed that."
The exchange was simple. Easy. The kind of conversation that had somehow become normal between the two of you over the past several months. You hadn't noticed when that happened. At some point the awkwardness disappeared. Conversations stopped feeling intentional and started feeling natural. You found yourself seeking him out without realizing it. Found yourself looking for him during difficult shifts. Found yourself collecting stories to tell him later.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
For a few moments neither of you spoke. Jack leaned one shoulder against the bar, his attention drifting briefly across the room before settling back on you.
"You seem happy."
The comment caught you off guard—not because of the words themselves, but because of the way he said them. Most people would have asked if you were happy. Jack stated it like an observation. Like he'd noticed.
You looked over at him. "So do you."
"No."
The small smile on his face faded slightly.
"I'm serious."
Something about his tone made you pause. You studied him for a moment. Really studied him. The soft lighting of the bar. The tiredness that still lingered beneath his eyes after another year in emergency medicine. The way he watched people when they spoke, as though they were worth listening to. And then you realized he wasn't asking a casual question. He genuinely wanted to know.
"Yeah," you admitted quietly. The answer came easier than expected. "I am."
For a moment neither of you spoke. Then something shifted in his expression. Small. Subtle. But unmistakable. Relief. Not satisfaction. Not pride. Relief, like he'd been hoping that would be your answer. Like your happiness mattered to him independent of anything he might gain from it.
"Good."
The word came quietly. Sincerely.
"You deserve that. It suits you."
Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Not because it sounded romantic—it didn't. That was what made it so dangerous. Jack had never flirted with you the way other men had. Never treated conversations like transactions. Never acted as though kindness earned him something in return. He never made you feel like a prize to be won or a challenge to be conquered. There was no game underneath his attention. No hidden agenda. No constant pressure to define things before they naturally became something.
He simply saw you. The real you. Not the version trying to impress people. Not the version performing confidence. Not the version who always had the right answer. Just you.
And somehow that felt more intimate than all the grand romantic gestures you'd spent years convincing yourself were meaningful.
You thought about every relationship you'd had before. The men who wanted to be needed. The men who liked the idea of you. The men who loved being chosen more than they loved actually knowing you. How often you'd felt as though your worth depended on being wanted.
Jack had never made you feel that way.
Standing there in a crowded bar on New Year's Eve, surrounded by music and laughter and coworkers singing off-key in the background, the realization settled quietly into your chest. The reason you liked Jack wasn't because he made you feel chosen. It was because, somehow, he made you feel seen.
And after years of confusing those two things, you finally understood the difference.
Several weeks later, after a shift that had somehow managed to be both exhausting and uneventful, you found yourself standing on the hospital roof with Jack. The city stretched beneath you, Pittsburgh glowing against the darkness, thousands of lights scattered across the hillsides and reflected in the rivers below. The wind was stronger than usual, tugging loose strands of hair across your face and making the fabric of your jacket flutter around your arms.
Jack stood beside you, close enough that you could hear him breathing when the wind quieted, but not touching. He never seemed to force closeness. Never crowded your space. Never inserted himself where he wasn't invited. There was simply a comfortable ease between the two of you now, built slowly over months of shared shifts, late-night conversations, and stolen moments between emergencies. The silence wasn't awkward. It never was. With Jack, silence felt less like an absence of conversation and more like another form of it.
For several moments neither of you spoke. You watched headlights move across one of the bridges in the distance, tiny streams of light weaving through the city. Eventually, the thought escaped before you could stop it.
"You know," you said, your voice almost getting carried away by the wind, "I used to have terrible taste in men."
Jack laughed immediately.
"Past tense?"
You smiled. "Definitely."
"What changed?"
The question should have been simple. Instead, it made you pause. Because the answer wasn't one thing. It wasn't a single heartbreak or one defining relationship. It was years. Years of disappointment and lessons you hadn't wanted to learn. Years of convincing yourself to stay when you should have left. Years of making excuses for people who never seemed willing to make the same effort for you.
You leaned your elbows against the railing and looked out at the city. "Honestly?"
"Yeah."
You exhaled slowly. "I stopped making excuses."
Beside you, Jack stayed quiet, listening the way he always did. Not waiting for his turn to speak. Not trying to solve anything. Just listening.
"I used to fall in love with potential."
The confession felt embarrassingly honest, but somehow easier to admit with him than it would've been with anyone else.
Jack nodded. "I think a lot of people do."
"Yeah, well." A small laugh escaped you. "Turns out that's a terrible strategy."
His smile widened. "Very terrible."
"I'd meet someone and immediately start imagining who they could become. I'd see one good quality and build an entire future around it. I'd convince myself that eventually they'd communicate better. Eventually they'd grow up. Eventually they'd be ready. Eventually they'd become the person I needed them to be."
You shook your head, laughing softly at yourself. "It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud."
"It doesn't."
"It should."
Jack glanced toward you, his expression thoughtful rather than amused. "It sounds hopeful."
The answer caught you off guard. Most people would've called it naïve. Or foolish. Or desperate. You'd certainly called yourself all three at different points in your life. Hopeful felt different. Kinder. More generous. More accurate somehow. You stared back out at the city lights scattered across the darkness and found yourself being honest in a way that had become strangely easy with him.
"I overlooked a lot of things," you admitted quietly. "I ignored red flags because I wanted things to work. I convinced myself that if someone cared enough, they'd eventually become who they were supposed to be. I'd meet someone and immediately start imagining who they could become instead of paying attention to who they actually were. I thought loving somebody enough could somehow bridge the gap between reality and potential."
The wind swept across the rooftop again, lifting strands of your hair across your face.
"What do you look for now?" he asked after a moment.
The question made you smile because, for the first time in your life, you actually had an answer. Not the answer you would've given at twenty-two when chemistry felt more important than compatibility. Not the answer you'd have given when you were still measuring your worth by whether someone chose you. The real answer.
"Consistency."
Jack nodded slightly.
"Kindness."
You thought for another second.
"Emotional intelligence."
Then, completely serious, you added,
"A guy with a real job."
The laugh that burst out of him was so unexpected that you immediately started laughing too.
"A real job?"
"I'm serious."
"No, I know you are. That's what makes it funny."
You pointed at him.
"Do not underestimate how low the bar can be."
His shoulders shook with laughter.
"I stand corrected."
"I've dated men who described unemployment as a spiritual journey."
"What?"
"I'm not joking."
"C'mon, kid, that is not a real sentence."
"It is, trust me."
By then you were both laughing, the sound carried away by the wind and swallowed by the city below. The conversation should have felt ridiculous. Like gossip. Like complaining about exes. Instead it felt strangely freeing. Because for years you'd treated your standards like something embarrassing. Something that needed justification. Something that made you difficult or demanding. Somewhere along the way you'd absorbed the idea that wanting consistency, effort, communication, and emotional maturity was somehow asking for too much. Standing there now, laughing with Jack beneath the Pittsburgh skyline, it suddenly felt absurd that you'd ever believed that. Those weren't impossible standards. They weren't extraordinary. They were the natural result of finally valuing yourself enough to stop accepting less.
When the laughter eventually faded, a comfortable silence settled between you again. The city continued glowing beneath the darkness. A helicopter crossed the distant skyline. Somewhere below, another ambulance was probably pulling into the emergency bay while another shift began. You turned toward Jack and discovered he was already looking at you.
Not intensely.
Not romantically.
Just honestly.
Jack wasn't attractive because he met your expectations. Plenty of people met your expectations on paper. Plenty of people could say the right things. Plenty of people could check boxes. Jack was different because he had expectations too. For himself. For his career. For the way he treated people. For the kind of life he wanted to build.
You had never once gotten the impression that he was waiting for someone else to save him from himself. He wasn't drifting through life hoping a relationship would magically provide purpose. He wasn't looking for a woman to fill an emptiness he refused to address on his own. He already had a full life. A demanding career. Meaningful friendships. Purpose. Ambition. Values. A strong sense of who he was and who he wanted to become. And because of that, his kindness never felt needy. His attention never felt possessive. His interest never felt desperate.
It felt intentional.
Steady.
Healthy.
The realization settled quietly into your chest.
Every relationship you'd had before seemed to revolve around potential. Around waiting. Around promises of who somebody might become one day if you just loved them enough, supported them enough, stayed long enough. You'd spent years investing in future versions of people who never actually arrived.
Jack wasn't potential.
He wasn't a project.
He wasn't a possibility.
He was already there.
Already doing the work.
Already growing.
Already becoming.
And maybe that was what made room for something real.
Not two people searching for someone to complete them.
Just two people who had already built lives they were proud of and, somewhere along the way, discovered they genuinely liked standing beside each other in them.
For the first time in a long time, the future didn't feel like something you had to force into existence. It felt like something you could simply let happen.
And standing beside Jack on that rooftop, with the wind tangling your hair and the city glowing below, you realized that might be the healthiest thing you'd ever felt.
The first kiss happened months later.
Not because either of you were playing games. Not because there was confusion about what existed between you. And definitely not because one of you was waiting for the other to make the first move. If anything, the opposite was true. By that point, there was very little uncertainty left between the two of you. The feelings had settled slowly, steadily, over months of shared shifts, rooftop conversations, coffee runs, trauma activations, and stolen moments in hospital hallways. It wasn't the kind of connection that arrived all at once. It was built piece by piece, conversation by conversation, until one day you realized Jack had become the person you looked for first when you walked into a room.
You knew the sound of his laugh.
You knew how he took his coffee.
You knew which patients stayed with him long after his shifts ended.
You knew the tiny crease that appeared between his eyebrows when he was concentrating.
You knew how he listened.
And somehow, without either of you noticing exactly when it happened, friendship had become something deeper.
The shift that night had been brutal. Too many patients. Not enough beds. Multiple traumas. A pediatric code that left the entire department quieter afterward. By three in the morning, exhaustion hung over everyone like a physical weight. The parking lot outside the hospital was mostly empty, illuminated by scattered streetlights. Spring had settled heavily over Pittsburgh, the air warm even at that hour and carrying the faint sounds of distant traffic.
As usual, Jack walked you to your car. At some point it had become routine. Neither of you remembered exactly when it started—maybe after a particularly difficult shift, maybe after a late-night safety concern, or maybe because he simply wanted a few extra minutes with you. Whatever the reason, neither of you questioned it anymore.
You walked side by side through the parking lot, your conversation fading naturally as you approached your car. Neither of you seemed particularly eager to say goodnight. That had become another pattern lately. Conversations stretching longer than necessary. Lingering. Finding reasons for one more minute together.
When you finally reached your car and turned toward him, you immediately noticed something different.
Jack looked nervous. Not obviously, but enough that you recognized it.
The realization startled you because nervous wasn't a word you often associated with Jack. You'd seen him lead trauma teams through impossible situations, make life-or-death decisions under pressure, and calmly deliver devastating news to families. Yet somehow standing in a mostly empty parking lot seemed to unsettle him more than any trauma activation ever had. The thought was unexpectedly adorable.
"Can I ask you something?" he said.
The corner of your mouth lifted automatically.
"You just did, big guy."
His eyes rolled immediately, a familiar gesture that somehow managed to make your chest warm every single time. You smiled. Then he smiled too.
And there it was.
That look.
The one you'd spent months trying not to think too much about. The one that always seemed to appear during quiet moments when neither of you were distracted by work or patients or responsibilities. The one that made your stomach flip despite your best efforts.
For a moment neither of you spoke. The warm night air settled around you, carrying the distant sounds of traffic through the city.
Jack looked at you like he was making a decision.
Then finally he said, "Can I kiss you?"
Just like that.
No games. No confusion. No carefully crafted ambiguity. No inching closer and hoping you'd somehow read his mind. No forcing you to analyze every interaction afterward with your friends. No making you carry the emotional burden of figuring out where you stood.
Just honesty.
Direct. Simple. Certain.
The question hung between you, and suddenly it felt like time slowed. Because it wasn't really about the kiss. Not entirely. It was about everything the question represented: respect, communication, intentionality, choice.
You looked at him and, for one brief moment, every relationship that had come before felt impossibly far away. The men who weren't sure. The men who wanted you, but never enough. The men who expected you to do all the emotional labor while they sat comfortably in uncertainty. The men who treated commitment like a threat and vulnerability like a weakness. The men who left you constantly wondering where you stood because they themselves never seemed willing to stand anywhere.
For years you'd viewed those experiences as failures. Evidence that something was wrong with you. Evidence that you were choosing poorly or expecting too much. But standing in front of Jack, you understood something you hadn't before.
None of it had been wasted.
Those relationships had taught you what inconsistency felt like so you could recognize consistency when it arrived. They had taught you what emotional unavailability looked like so you could appreciate emotional maturity. They had taught you what effort wasn't so you could recognize real effort when it finally appeared.
Because all of it had led you here. To someone who listened. Someone who paid attention. Someone who remembered things. Someone who showed up. Someone emotionally mature enough to know what he wanted and secure enough to say it out loud.
Your smile widened before you could stop it.
"Yeah."
The answer came easily. Without hesitation. Without fear. Without overthinking. Because for the first time in your life, saying yes didn't feel like taking a risk.
It felt like trusting something that had already proven itself.
Jack smiled then. A real smile. Warm. Relieved. Certain. And somehow seeing that expression affected you almost as much as the question itself. Like he wasn't taking your answer for granted. Like he understood exactly what it meant. Like he knew this wasn't just a kiss. It was months of friendship, trust, consistency, and care finally being acknowledged for what it had become.
Slowly, he stepped closer. Not enough to overwhelm you. Not enough to presume. Just enough. Still giving you room. Still giving you time to change your mind if you wanted to.
You noticed the tiredness lingering beneath his eyes from the shift. The faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. The way his gaze flickered briefly toward your lips before returning to your eyes, as though even now he wanted to make sure you were certain.
Then his hand lifted.
Gentle. Careful.
He brushed a strand of windblown hair behind your ear.
The gesture was so small, so simple, and somehow it made your heart ache. Because that was Jack. Not grand gestures. Not performances. Not declarations made for an audience. Just small moments of thoughtfulness repeated over and over until they became something extraordinary.
When he finally kissed you, it wasn't rushed. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't the kind of kiss movies spent two hours building toward before swelling music played in the background. It was better because it felt real. Warm and patient and certain. Familiar somehow, despite being entirely new. Like coming home after a very long day. Like finally setting down something heavy you'd been carrying for too long. Like exhaling after holding your breath for months without realizing it.
When you eventually pulled apart, neither of you moved very far. Jack's forehead nearly brushed yours, both of you smiling, both of you slightly overwhelmed, neither of you in any hurry to leave.
Standing there beneath the hospital lights, with the city sleeping around you and Jack looking at you like you were something precious, you realized something. For years you'd been told that having standards would leave you lonely. That expectations were unrealistic. That wanting more meant asking for too much.
But the opposite had turned out to be true.
Having expectations hadn't prevented love.
It had protected you until the right person arrived.
Because these days, you had expectations.
And for the first time in your life, someone hadn't just met them.
no thoughts, just Jack becoming dad level pro max when learning his little baby has a slight hip dysplasia.
like wdym the solution is carrying the little worm around in front of his chest, making sure the legs are at a certain angle?? he literally loves carrying yours and his baby around all the time, this is easy.
when you're a little worried, because you're still recovering from giving birth and not being back to full strength to carry baby around the whole time, Jack's got you. He loves spending the day with his girls anyway and loves showing his little worm the world at all times so he's. got. you.
during the day, he has her strapped to his chest for long walks or just being busy around the apartment, telling her little stories in a low voice so he won't wake you. telling her what he's doing when he's cooking, washing dishes or watering the herbs on the window sill.
and baby is talking back at all times. it becomes their little ritual, they're having full on conversations and Jack is so sweet about it. "so, you don't say, little lady?" / "is that so, baby girl?" / "yes that's right, that's what I'm saying to your mama as well."
(also as a new mom, your hormones are going crazy anyway, so seeing your hot husband handling your baby with the outmost care, his arms flexing when adjusting the baby in the harness and bonding with her, is alternating your brain chemistry and also making you very horny for him)
requested: you come on your period when your boyfriend, Eddie, comes over, and panic. He doesn’t quite understand why until you tell him how your ex treated you on your time of the month.
warnings: didn’t proofread, readers ex is a vile human, sprinkle of misogynistic energy from him?? Period shaming, blood (duh), Eddie is a sweetie, tooth rotting fluff.
word count: 1.7k
"You okay, babe?" Eddie called out, following you into your bedroom.
The cramps always seemed worse when you were on the first day of your period - the dull ache in your lower stomach, spreading out across your lower back and thundering down your thighs, but when you reached day four, you knew that the pain wasn't getting any better.
"Yeah, just give me a sec," you murmured, bent over, "Just need to grab my balm."
You had tried almost everything. Dozens of different pain pills, bath salts to soak in the tub with, and now a hemp balm; hopeful that it would work, but not too hopeful to deny the disappointing reality.
You tried to shuffle over to your dressing table, but you couldn't move your heavy legs and aching thighs. As the cramps intensified, you hunched over further, gripping at your stomach and lowly groaning, screwing your eyes shut. Your pad also sat uncomfortably in your underwear, slightly twisted at the back, and the adhesive was coming loose.
Fuck. Why is this happening now? I should've rescheduled.
Why didn't I tell him I was coming on and for him to stay home? He'll be pissed when he realises...
"What is it?" Eddie asked, "What do you need?"
Eddie noticed the dullness in your eyes and the slight knitting of your eyebrows to know that something was wrong. You were always bubbly with a little hop and skip in your step, so to see you struggling to stay on your feet was ringing the alarm bells in his head.
"It's fine, I can get it." He said sofly, gently placing a hand on your waist, leading you closer to the bed.
You knew you couldn't get to balm now. If you tried, you'd either fall to the floor or risk your pad falling down the leg of your pyjamas, risking a thick trickle of blood to follow after.
"What do you need?" Eddie repeated, not taking your refusals for an answer.
You sighed, already feeling useless, "Please can you pass me the balm in the green tin?" You pointed towards your dressing table, tucked in the corner of your bedroom.
Eddie stood up, walked over and grabbed the green tin, which looked tiny in his hands. He focused on the floral and herb illustration over the front of the tin, and traced the weed leaf with the pad of his thumb.
"What's goin' on?" Eddie asked, his wide doe eyes full with worry, giving you the balm, "Since when did you use this sort of balm?"
"It's nothing," you were quick with your response.
Periods were normal and nothing to be ashamed of but your ex-boyfriend's change in behaviour every time you came on was enough to make you feel embarrassed and dirty; the sight of a pad repulsed him, and if any blood managed to seep through your clothing or onto the chair you were sitting on, he'd lose his mind.
"You're disgusting!" he whined, throwing a towel at you fast and hard, almost whipping you with it.
You could feel the shame burning the tips of your ears and weighing heavily in the bottom of your stomach, "I can't help it! Do you honestly think that any of us enjoys going through this? Do you think that we enjoy the bleeding, the cramps, and the monthly cost of tampons and pads?!"
You wouldn't defend yourself when he'd start mouthing off, you'd stay quiet and bully yourself, scolding yourself for bleeding, but you were starting to grow tired of becoming a punching bag for something you couldn't control.
"Oh, stop complaining!" He raised his voice over you, "It's all you lot do, whinge and whine. I knew periods made you moody, but I didn't realise they turned you into a total bitch!"
It wasn't just his vile outlook on this natural function that took a toll on you, but it was his lack of sympathy and zero ability to provide the simplest of care when you were in bed, struggling, writhing in pain.
"I'm sorry to ask," you started, "but the pain is getting really bad again, please can you grab my heat pad? I don't think I can make it out of bed."
Rather than returning with what you asked with a hand on your shoulder or a kiss on your head, you were denied care, you were every single time, you didn't even know why you asked, you knew he wouldn't help anyway.
"Can't you see I'm in the middle of something? If I die in this game, I'll have to start all over again. Get it yourself, you're blowing this way out of proportion."
"doesn't look like nothing," Eddie crawled onto your bed, watching you slowly drag your feet over before lying back against the pillows.
Carefully, you tugged your loose-fitting pyjama pants down and pulled off the lid of the tin. Using your index and middle finger, you scooped up the creamy balm, evenly and gently spreading it across your abdomen
"Thank you for getting it for me, I won't ever ask again." You panicked, but trying to keep your voice steady .
Eddie's eyebrows knitted together more, bunching up and he hesitated for a moment, almost keeping quiet, but he couldn't. This wasn't like you.
"You're never like this." He tilted his head, "Just tell me what's up, I'm getting worried, babe."
"It's uhh..." you swallowed hard, "I'm on my period... I know I should've told you not to come over and I know I need to suck it up, I usually do but I'm in agony, and don't worry about any blood getting on your jeans, I put a towel down on the mattress before you came over."
He's going to leave. He's going to be so pissed.
Eddie wanted to laugh at first until he realised how ashamed you were. The sight of you struggling to massage the balm into yourself made his heart ache.
"Sweetheart," he cooed, "pass me the balm."
"It's okay, I've got this-"
"Pass me the balm."
Looking into Eddie's dark eyes, you were greeted with warmth, softness, and sympathy. His palm was out, hovering over your stomach.
Dampening your lips with your tongue, you gave him the balm and watched as he scooped it out onto his fingers before gently spreading it on your stomach. His touch was firm but not aggressive, and he massaged the balm into you in circular motions, careful not to press too hard.
Your heart went fluttery at his touch, and how happy he looked to be massaging you; he was focused and relaxed.
"First of all, there's nothing wrong with a little blood spilling when it's your time of the month. Second, why the hell didn't you tell me? I would've got you a heat pad or something."
The whiplash caught you off guard, and rather than focusing on Eddie's hands, you were staring at him, unable to believe what he said. So casually, with no passive aggression.
He noticed you staring at him and pulled back a little, still massaging you, "What?" he asked, a small smirk tugging at his lips, "Did you think this would bother me?"
Go on, tell him.
"I'm not used to that response," you spoke up, your voice hollow, "my ex... he... didn't get it."
Eddie raised an eyebrow, "What's not to get?"
If only you knew..
"Did he have an extreme phobia of blood or something?" Eddie continued.
You sat up just enough for your boyfriend to stop massaging before lifting the towel from under you and passing it to Eddie so he could wipe the excess oils from his hands.
A long sigh escaped your lips, "He didn't have a phobia, he just blamed me, every time I came on, he'd force me to keep away from him." You took a breath, "I couldn't sit near him, if I was in pain, I had to be quiet about it and get on with it on my own, he'd make me feel disgusting for..."
"For menstruating? Seriously? What a loser." Eddie scoffed.
He finished wiping his hands and folded the towel up before, wrapping an arm around you.
"You should've told me, I would've... I don't know, got you some pills, brought you some weed you could smoke, some chocolate or whatever you're needing."
You felt a little pathetic at the tears welling up in your eyes. This was the bare minimum, but you'd never had it before. You were denied it and refused to believe that you'd ever get it.
"The heat pad you mentioned earlier did sound nice," you admitted, blinking away your tears.
Eddie pressed a kiss to your temple, nuzzling his nose into you as the balm slowly absorbed into your skin. With his arm still around you, he pulled you into his arms with enough room for you to rest your head on his shoulder.
"How about I go and get you that heat pad from the store, maybe stop by Family Video and rent out whatever movie you want to watch, and we can order a pizza. Sound good?"
You couldn't tell if it was a placebo effect from the new balm you were trying or if Eddie's compassion was truly easing the pain.
"That sounds perfect, Eds." You murmured, nuzzling into him, "Thank you."
"Nope, no, don't want to hear a thank you," he smirked, "it's the bare minimum, princess."
Eddie kept his word.
Each month, when you were due, he'd have the heat pad ready, or a hot bath, with extra fluffy and absorbent towels he could wrap around you when you managed to climb out of the tub.
When blood trickled down your inner thighs and dropped to the floor, Eddie would wipe it up without complaint, reassuring you that it was just blood - nothing gross, nothing to apologise over or be embarrassed about; he didn't think twice, he didn't even blink.
If you were painfully bloated and not in the mood to eat, Eddie saved the pizza for another day and offered you something settling to drink instead. You'd fall asleep to him massaging your scalp and stroking your hair, or helping to ease the crushing pain in your pelvis and lower back.
Bizarrely, this time of the month (aside from the pain) became your favourite. You and Eddie, dead to the rest of the world, curled up in bed together, peacefully getting by without embarrassment or shame.
reblogging is a writers bestfriend :)
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