When your new neighbor, Jack Abbot, moves in, you do what you always do, introduce yourself, apologize in advance, and brace for the look people get when they meet your nonverbal autistic son. But Jack doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t adjust. He just… stays. Through storms, routines, and the nights that get loud, he learns in your world the only way that matters: by showing up, again and again.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7
Small Is Still Forward
When you stop answering your phone, Jack tells himself you’re just tired. But the silence stretches too long. He finds you in bed, unmoving, exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. Instead of panic, instead of anger, he chooses patience. One glass of water. One shower. One steady breath at a time. A story about being seen at your lowest and loved there anyway.
Permission to Fall Apart
When your anxiety spikes and your brain tells you to run, you reach for the door before you can think. Jack doesn’t stop you. He just holds the moment steady, long enough for you to come back to yourself. No fixing. No shame. Just a quiet kind of care, and permission to fall apart.
Back on His Feet
After losing his leg in the war, Jack Abbot begins the long work of learning to walk again. The only problem is that somewhere between the bad days, the victories, and the parallel bars, he falls in love with the one person helping him stand.
Micheal ‘Robby’ Robinavitch:
The Things That Stay
You’ve been coming to the ED long enough that everyone jokes you’re VIP. Dana knows exactly how to take care of you and Robby always makes sure he’s your doctor. Through pain, fear, and a quiet kind of love neither of you fully say out loud, you keep finding small pieces of beauty in the world. Long after you’re gone, Robby is left trying to believe you.
Part 1, Part 2
Is it Still Casual Now?
After months of pretending this is casual, one quiet morning changes everything when Robby finally stays. What starts as coffee in the kitchen becomes the confession neither of you has been brave enough to say out loud.
Don’t Date the Three P’s
There’s an unofficial rule in the Pitt emergency department: don’t date the three P’s. But after one too many handoffs and one shift that leaves you both lingering a little longer than usual, Robby decides breaking the rule might be worth it.
What Happens in Vegas Never Stays in Vegas
After a drunken Vegas wedding, Robby disappears by morning, leaving you with nothing but a ring and a mistake that was supposed to stay in Vegas. But when a pregnancy and state paperwork force you to track down the husband who vanished, Robby learns the truth and this time, walking away isn’t so easy.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8
Paper Rings
You thought the paper rings were just a joke. Robby, apparently, did not.
Liability
Alternate Ending Here
After Pittfest, everyone at The Pitt changes, but Robby changes the most. He used to be the mentor who could catch you before you fell. Now he’s colder, sharper, and crueler, acting like cruelty is the same thing as teaching. But on the Fourth of July, when Robby uses the part of you he once helped save against you, you end up on the wrong side of the hospital roof railing, and he’s forced to see just how far he pushed you.
You & I
After Pittfest, you notice Robby quietly slipping away from the others and ask to walk him home. What starts as a silent walk becomes one night of shared grief, small comforts, and the fragile promise that neither of you has to survive it alone.
Animal Kingdom
Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody:
He Would Be There
At a party at Smurf’s house, one bad drink changes everything. Pope notices before anyone else does and once he does, he doesn’t leave your side.
peace
Would it be enough if he could never give you peace?
This Is Me Trying
Andrew always comes back. But after years of watching everyone pull pieces from him—Craig, Baz, Deran, Smurf—you bring him to the beach hoping, just once, no one will need Pope. You only wanted one night with Andrew. Instead, you realize coming back isn’t the same as staying.
Summary: It’s Tommy’s birthday. You and Jack do everything you can to give Tommy the best day ever even if that means inviting your ex-husband in for birthday cake.
WC: 12K
Tags: autistic character, nonverbal autism, aac user, autism acceptance, parenting a neurodivergent child, single mom reader, found family, neighbors to lovers, slice of life
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7
Tommy is awake before the sun.
You know because you hear his bedroom door open at exactly 6:07 a.m., followed by the familiar shuffle of socked feet down the hallway and the soft electronic voice of his tablet before you’ve even managed to open your eyes.
“My birthday.”
The voice carries through the quiet apartment.
“It is my birthday.”
A smile spreads across your face before you even open your eyes.
“It is,” you call, your voice still thick with sleep. “Happy birthday, baby.”
The apartment falls quiet while Tommy searches through his tablet.
“I am 14.”
“You are.”
You push yourself upright just as Tommy appears in your bedroom doorway.
He’s already dressed. Last night, he’d carefully laid out his favorite blue T-shirt, the one covered in little white storm clouds, making sure there’d be no question about what he was wearing today.
His hair sticks up in every direction, sleep still clinging stubbornly to the back of it. His tablet hangs from the strap across his chest, and his eyes shine with the kind of excitement that never has to be loud to fill a room.
“We will have cake today.”
“We will.”
“And present.”
“There are presents.”
Tommy lowers his gaze to the tablet again.
“Jack will come.”
Your smile softens. “He will.”
Tommy nods once, satisfied.
“Birthday.”
“Cake.”
“Presents.”
“Jack.”
His morning checklist was complete. He turns and heads back toward the kitchen. A second later, the cabinet door opens.
You laugh quietly. “Tommy.” The door closes almost immediately. “No breakfast without me.”
“Okay.”
You swing your legs over the side of the bed, smiling to yourself. “Give me five minutes.”
“Okay.”
His footsteps drift toward the living room instead.
Fourteen years.
Fourteen birthdays.
And somehow every single one had started exactly like this, Tommy waking up determined to make sure everyone else remembered just how important today was.
—
By 7:15 a.m. the apartment looks like a birthday exploded inside it.
Blue streamers hang unevenly across the living room because Tommy insisted they had to look like rain. Blue balloons are scattered around the floor instead of tied together because he preferred them that way.
Tommy circles the apartment for what feels like the hundredth time that morning, checking every decoration as though conducting an inspection.
“Blue balloon.”
“Blue balloon.”
“Blue balloon.”
You laugh quietly from the kitchen.
“I know they’re blue.”
A knock sounds at exactly 7:45 a.m.
Tommy’s head lifts immediately.
“Jack.”
You grin. “I think you’re right.”
Tommy is already halfway to the door before you remind him.
“Walk.”
His pace slows just enough to satisfy you.
When you open the door, Jack is balancing two flat bakery boxes in one hand and a paper coffee carrier in the other.
“Morning.” His smile reaches you first. Then Tommy. “Happy birthday, buddy.”
Tommy taps his tablet almost immediately.
“My birthday.”
Jack nods seriously. “I heard.”
Another button.
“14 years old.”
Jack’s eyebrows rise.
“14?”
Tommy nods proudly.
Jack whistles softly. “That’s older than yesterday.”
Tommy’s mouth twitches.
You laugh as you take the coffees from his hands.
“Come in.”
Jack steps inside, slipping his shoes off by the door without being asked.
He hands Tommy one of the bakery boxes. “I was told the birthday foreman needed to inspect these.”
Tommy sets the box carefully on the coffee table before opening it.
Inside are decorated sugar cookies shaped like clouds, lightning bolts and little weather vans.
His eyes widen.
“Storm cookies.”
“I thought they fit the theme.”
Tommy immediately searches for another phrase.
“Nice cookies.”
Jack nods with complete seriousness.
“I certainly hope so.”
You shake your head as you carry the coffees into the kitchen. “You spoil him.”
Jack accepts the coffee with one hand. “It’s his birthday.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You already bought him presents.”
“I did.”
“Now cookies.”
His shoulders lift. “Also true.”
“There’s cake.”
“I’ve heard the rumors.”
You laugh, handing him his coffee. “You are impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.”
From the living room, Tommy’s tablet announces—
“Jack come help.”
Jack glances toward the doorway. “I believe I’ve been summoned.”
You smile. “You’ve been assigned since about six this morning.”
“I figured.”
He takes one sip of coffee before setting the cup down and walking back into the living room.
You lean against the kitchen counter for a second, watching without interrupting. Tommy is standing in front of the pile of balloons with all the concentration of someone organizing emergency response equipment.
He points.
“Balloon there.”
Jack picks up a balloon. “Here?”
Tommy shakes his head immediately.
“No.”
Jack moves it a few feet to the left. “Here?”
Tommy studies it.
“Yes.”
Jack places it carefully on the floor. “There we go.”
Another balloon. Another instruction. Another quiet adjustment. Neither of them says much. They don’t need to.
Jack follows Tommy’s lead with an ease that still catches you off guard sometimes. He never rushed him. Never finished the thought for him. He simply waited, listened, and then did exactly what Tommy asked.
Your phone buzzes against the counter. A text from the bakery confirms the cake pickup time. You answer it quickly before glancing back toward the living room.
Jack is sitting on the rug now while Tommy rearranges balloons for what must be the fifth time. Jack doesn’t seem to mind. He simply waits for the next instruction.
The apartment feels comfortably full, morning sunlight spilling through the blinds, blue balloons rolling lazily across the hardwood whenever the air conditioner kicks on. Tommy happily directs birthday preparations while Jack quietly helps wherever he’s needed.
You smile to yourself before pushing away from the counter. You walk over, careful not to disturb Tommy’s carefully planned balloon arrangement, and hold out the cup.
Jack reaches for the cup, but before he takes it, his free hand finds your waist with easy familiarity. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
He leans in, brushing a quick kiss against your cheek before finally taking the coffee. The gesture lasted barely a second. So ordinary by now that neither of you thought anything of it.
Tommy glances up long enough to make sure Jack has his coffee before returning to the much more important matter of balloon placement.
“Balloon there.”
Jack nods immediately. “Yes, sir.”
You laugh under your breath, shaking your head as you head back toward the kitchen. Looking around the apartment, you can’t help but smile. Blue streamers hanging from the ceiling. Weather cookies waiting on the coffee table. Balloons rolling across the floor. Tommy happily directing every detail. Jack following along without complaint.
It wasn’t a big party. Just the three of you. Blue streamers. Weather cookies. Balloons that apparently needed very specific placement. Jack quietly following Tommy’s instructions as if he’d been promoted to birthday assistant. Exactly the way Tommy liked it.
And if the smile that hadn’t left your face all morning was any indication, it was already shaping up to be one of his best birthdays.
—
By early evening, the apartment smelled like chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese.
Dinner had been exactly what Tommy wanted. Chicken nuggets cooked until the breading was crisp and macaroni and cheese made the same way you always made it, from the same box you always bought. Tommy had eaten at the kitchen table with his new weather station positioned on the windowsill where he could see the display without getting up.
Not that it stopped him from getting up. He’d checked it six times during dinner. Seven, if you counted the time Jack carried the whole weather station over to the table because Tommy kept twisting around in his chair to look at it.
Jack insisted that one didn’t count.
Now the three empty plates sat pushed toward the middle of the table, yours and Jack’s nearly matching Tommy’s because the two of you had eaten chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese too.
It was his birthday. When you’d asked what he wanted everyone to eat, Tommy had answered immediately. As always. Even his birthday couldn’t change his daily routine. So chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese it was. Jack had eaten twelve nuggets. You knew because you’d counted those too.
“You ate twelve.”
Jack looked over from where he was carrying plates toward the sink. “I was hungry.”
“You ate one off my plate.”
“You weren’t eating it.”
“I was saving it.”
“For what?”
“Later.”
Jack set the plates beside the sink and came back toward you. “You should’ve said something.”
“I didn’t realize I needed to protect my food in my own home.”
His mouth curved. “Now you know.”
You narrowed your eyes at him.
Jack stopped beside your chair and leaned down, one hand settling against the back of it while he pressed a quick kiss to your mouth.
“You’re impossible,” you murmured.
“I brought cookies.”
“That doesn’t help your case.”
“Thought it might.”
You smiled despite yourself.
Jack kissed you again, softer this time, his fingers brushing lightly against the back of your neck before he straightened.
Across the table, Tommy was watching the weather station.
“Cake now.”
You laughed. “Of course.”
You pushed your chair back. Jack caught your hand before you could get very far.
You looked down at him. “What?”
He tugged gently until you stepped closer. “You’ve been running around since six this morning.”
“It’s Tommy’s birthday.”
“I know.”
His hand slid around your waist. “You can sit down for thirty seconds.”
“I have to get the cake.”
“I’ll get it.”
“You don’t know where the candles are.”
“Junk drawer.”
“The lighter?”
“Cabinet over the stove.”
“The plates?”
“Second cabinet on the left.”
You stared at him.
Jack smiled. “Sit down.”
“You’re getting bossy.”
“I ate twelve nuggets. Feeling powerful.”
You laughed as he kissed your forehead and let you go. “Fine.”
Jack headed toward the refrigerator.
Tommy immediately stood.
“Cake.”
“I’m getting it.”
“I will help.”
Jack stopped.
He looked at Tommy. Then at you.
You smiled. “Good luck.”
Jack opened the refrigerator. Tommy came to stand beside him, watching closely as Jack carefully lifted the cake from the bottom shelf.
“Two hands.”
“I’ve got two hands.”
“Careful.”
“I’m being careful.”
“Do not drop.”
Jack glanced over his shoulder at you. “A lot of pressure in this house.”
Jack carried the cake to the table with Tommy walking beside him the entire way, supervising every step.
“Here?”
Tommy looked at the table.
“No.”
Jack stopped. You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing.
Tommy pointed.
“Middle.”
Jack moved the cake three inches. “Here?”
Tommy studied it.
“Yes.”
“Excellent.” Jack set it down.
The cake was exactly what Tommy had asked for. Bright blue frosting covered the top, with a weather radar map spread across the center in green, yellow, orange, and red. White clouds circled the edges, and a yellow lightning bolt stretched across one corner.
Tommy stared at it. He’d seen it earlier. Several times. Apparently it required another inspection.
Jack leaned against your chair. “Think it passed?”
“Give him time.”
Tommy looked down at his tablet.
“Good cake.”
You smiled. “Glad you approve. Candles now.”
Jack pushed away from your chair. “I know where those are.”
You watched him disappear into the kitchen. Tommy stayed beside the table, looking at his cake. You reached out and smoothed down the back of his hair.
Fourteen.
You still weren’t entirely sure how that had happened. There were days when you could remember every year of his life with painful clarity. The weight of him asleep against your chest when he was a baby.
The first time he’d looked at a weather radar and become completely absorbed. The years of appointments. Therapists. School meetings. Learning new ways to communicate. Learning that progress didn’t always look the way other people expected.
Learning Tommy.
And now he was fourteen.
Tall enough that you didn’t have to bend very far to kiss the side of his head anymore. Old enough to tell you when he wanted space. Still young enough to come looking for you when the world became too much.
You leaned over and kissed his hair. “Happy birthday, baby.”
Tommy looked at you.
“My birthday.”
You smiled. “I know.”
Jack returned carrying the candles and lighter. “Fourteen?”
“Yes.”
He emptied the candles onto the table.
Tommy immediately began counting them. Tommy touched each candle with one finger as he counted. When he reached fourteen, he started again.
Jack stood beside you, his hand finding the small of your back. You leaned into him without thinking. His thumb moved slowly against your shirt.
Tommy finished counting.
“14.”
Jack nodded. “Fourteen.”
Together, the two of you placed the candles across the cake while Tommy supervised. One had to be moved. Then another. The yellow candle was too close to the lightning bolt. Jack moved it.
Tommy considered the new placement.
“Good.”
Jack looked at you. “High praise.”
“The highest.”
When every candle was finally where Tommy wanted it, Jack picked up the lighter. “Ready?”
Tommy nodded.
Jack lit them one by one. Tommy watched every flame catch. Fourteen small candles flickered across the cake, warm light moving over his face.
You looked at your son. Your fourteen-year-old son. The boy who had been awake before sunrise because he couldn’t wait for today to begin. Your chest felt too full.
Jack’s hand moved from your back to your waist. You rested your hand over his.
“Ready?” you asked.
Tommy looked at you. Then Jack.
“Yes.”
You started singing. Jack joined you. Neither of you sang particularly well. Jack was worse. You started laughing halfway through the second line. You made it through the rest of the song. Tommy watched you the entire time, the candlelight reflected in his eyes, a small smile pulling at his mouth as the two people who loved him most badly sang him into another year.
When the song ended, you clapped. Jack did too.
Tommy looked at the candles.
“Make a wish,” you said.
He kept looking at them.
Jack leaned closer. “Don’t tell us what it is.”
Tommy drew in a breath.
The knock at the door came before he could blow out the candles.
You looked toward the hallway. Tommy did too. Jack’s hand remained against your waist. Another knock followed. You frowned. You weren’t expecting anyone.
Tommy looked down at his tablet.
“Someone at door.”
“Yeah.”
Jack glanced at you. “You want me to get it?”
“No, I’ve got it.”
You looked at Tommy. “Blow out your candles. I’ll be right back.”
He remained focused on the door. The change was small. Most people wouldn’t have noticed. You did.
The slight uncertainty in his face. The way his fingers tightened around the edge of his tablet. Someone was at the door. Someone wasn’t supposed to be at the door. Jack noticed too. He moved his hand from your waist but didn’t go anywhere.
You touched Tommy’s shoulder. “It’s okay. Stay here with Jack.”
Tommy looked at him. Jack was still standing exactly where he’d been, beside the birthday cake.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Jack said.
Tommy looked back at the door.
You headed down the short hallway. For half a second, you wondered if one of the neighbors had come over because they saw the banner outside.
You reached the door and glanced through the peephole.
Your stomach sank, a cold drop that seemed to hollow you out from the inside.
It was Evan.
You unlocked the deadbolt, then pulled the door open, your fingers suddenly clumsy against the metal.
The moment he saw you, he smiled.
“Hey.”
He looked much the same as he had last year, and something in your chest tightened at how little had changed.
Still tall enough that you had to tip your head back to meet his eyes. His broad shoulders came from years of hauling equipment and climbing offshore rigs. Weeks beneath an open sky had left his skin permanently tanned, and more gray now threaded through the dark hair curling beneath his navy ball cap.
He looked tired. He always did after coming in from offshore, like he carried the ocean back with him.
In one hand, he held a neatly wrapped birthday present covered in blue paper with little white clouds. His rental car keys rested in the other, the faint jingle sharp in the quiet hallway.
Then his smile widened. “Surprise.”
You just stared at him, your mind already racing ahead to everything this meant. “Evan…”
He heard it immediately. The smile didn’t vanish. It only grew a little less certain, like he could feel the shift but didn’t understand it yet.
“When did you get in?”
“A couple hours ago. I checked into the hotel first.”
“How long?”
“Five nights.”
You gave a single nod, forcing your expression to stay even. “Okay.”
He waited, and you could feel the weight of his expectation pressing against you.
“You didn’t call.”
“I wanted to surprise him.”
A slow breath slipped out through your nose, steadying yourself before the frustration could spill over. “Evan.”
“I know.”
“No.” Your voice stayed calm, though your pulse had started to thrum in your ears. “You don’t.”
He met your gaze.
“You realize after you’ve already done it.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, a familiar gesture that used to soften you. “I just thought…”
“I know exactly what you thought.” You folded your arms, needing something to hold onto. “You pictured him opening the door, getting excited, you handing him his present, and it turning into this great birthday surprise.”
“…Yeah.”
“And it never crossed your mind to call me first.”
His eyes dropped, and for a second you almost let it go, almost. “I know you ask me to.”
“I don’t ask, Evan.” The words came out before you could soften them, sharper than you intended. “I’ve been reminding you for years.”
He nodded quietly. “I know.”
“No.” You shook your head, a dull ache building behind your eyes. “If you knew, you would’ve picked up the phone.”
Silence settled between you. Not tense. Just familiar, and that somehow made it worse. The kind that only existed between people who had spent ten years learning each other’s habits, and still missing the same ones.
You sighed, the fight draining out of you in a slow exhale. “He’s going to be happy you’re here.”
“I hope so.”
“But he’s spent all day expecting one kind of birthday.” You glanced back toward the apartment, picturing Tommy inside, his careful plans, his anticipation. “He has a plan in his head.”
Your eyes returned to Evan. “And in thirty seconds, you changed it.”
He looked down at the present in his hand, his grip tightening slightly on the paper. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“I know.” Your frustration softened, just a little, though it didn’t disappear. “That’s the problem.”
He lifted his gaze again.
“You always mean well. I know you do.” A sad smile touched your lips, bittersweet and tired. “But loving Tommy has never been the issue.”
He swallowed.
“It’s remembering that Tommy needs different things than you.”
His shoulders sagged, and you felt the familiar pull of sympathy you wished you could ignore. “I should’ve called.”
“Yeah.”
“I really am sorry.”
You believed him. You always did, and that was part of what made this so exhausting. Evan had never struggled with apologizing. What he struggled with was slowing down long enough to avoid needing one.
Before either of you could say anything else, the familiar voice of Tommy’s tablet drifted down the hallway, sharp and unmistakable, cutting through the fragile quiet like a bell you felt in your chest.
“Mom.”
The single word pulled both your attention toward the apartment, your heart tightening instinctively.
Tommy stood at the end of the hallway, frozen where he’d stopped, his whole body rigid in a way that made your stomach twist. His eyes locked onto Evan immediately. Recognition came first. Confusion followed just as quickly.
For a second, neither of them moved. The air felt thick, stretched thin between recognition and confusion. Then Tommy looked down at his tablet.
“Dad here.”
He looked up again. Back at Evan. Then at you, his gaze flickering, uncertain.
His thumb found the same button.
“Dad here.”
He started walking. Not toward Evan. Toward the living room. Three quick steps, his movements slightly jerky, like his body was moving faster than his thoughts could keep up.
He turned. Walked back.
“Dad here.”
Again.
He turned around once more, pacing the short stretch of hallway you’d watched him walk a hundred times before whenever the world suddenly stopped making sense, each step echoing faintly against the floor, each turn sharper than the last.
His fingers tightened around the edge of his tablet, knuckles paling.
“Dad here.”
Evan shifted his weight, the soft scuff of his shoe loud in the silence. Concern replaced the excitement that had been on his face moments earlier, his brows pulling together as he watched, helpless, a flicker of guilt crossing his expression.
You lifted your hand slightly. A quiet reminder.
Wait.
Evan nodded, swallowing hard, forcing himself to stay still even as every instinct seemed to urge him forward.
Tommy kept pacing. Door. Living room. Cake. Door. His breathing had become a little quicker, shallow and uneven, the faint sound of it reaching you and tightening something in your chest. Not enough to frighten you. Enough that you knew he was trying to catch up, trying to reorganize a world that had just shifted without warning.
“Dad here.”
You walked toward him slowly, careful, each step deliberate so you wouldn’t overwhelm him. He stopped the moment you stepped into his path, like your presence anchored him.
You rested your hands gently on his upper arms, feeling the tension there, the slight tremor beneath your palms.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
His eyes met yours immediately, searching, grounding himself in something familiar.
You smiled, soft and steady. “I know.”
He looked back toward Evan, his gaze lingering a fraction longer this time.
His thumb pressed the button again.
“Dad here.”
“Yeah.” You nodded, keeping your voice calm, even as your heart ached at the repetition. “Dad’s here.”
You waited. Tommy had never needed more words. He needed time.
“This wasn’t part of today’s plan.”
His eyes came back to yours, a flicker of distress there.
“I know.” You brushed your thumbs lightly over his sleeves, the soft fabric grounding both of you. “We’ll change the plan.”
His breathing slowed just enough for you to notice, the tension easing by degrees.
You pointed toward the kitchen. “We’re going to cut your cake.”
His eyes followed your hand, tracking the familiar, something safe.
Then you pointed gently toward Evan. “And Dad gets to have birthday cake with us.”
Tommy looked between the cake and his dad, his gaze lingering just a little longer on Evan this time, curiosity beginning to edge out confusion.
His thumb hovered over the screen before searching for a different button.
“Dad.”
“Cake.”
You smiled, warmth spreading through your chest. “That’s right.”
He stood quietly for another few seconds, the stillness settling over him like a breath finally released. No more pacing. No more repeating. His shoulders relaxed, the tension draining away.
You gave his arms one last reassuring squeeze, feeling the steadiness return beneath your hands. “You ready?”
Tommy nodded once. Then, on his own, he turned and walked toward Evan.
Evan stayed exactly where he was, his chest tight, eyes shining as he watched his son come to him, resisting the urge to move, to rush, to close the distance too quickly.
Tommy stopped a few feet in front of Evan, close enough to see the smile on his father’s face and the wrapped present in his hand. His fingers tightened slightly around the edge of his tablet, as if anchoring himself.
For a moment, neither moved. Tommy’s weight shifted from one foot to the other, a small, restless motion he didn’t seem aware of.
“Hey, buddy,” Evan said, opening his arms on instinct, but Tommy took a small step back, just enough to keep the distance. The movement was subtle, but Evan noticed.
His arms hovered for a moment before lowering, his smile faltering just a touch. “Sorry.”
Tommy glanced at his tablet.
“Hi.”
Evan’s smile softened, though there was a flicker of something more fragile behind it. “Hi.”
“Dad.”
Evan let out a quiet laugh, the sound a little thinner than he intended. “Yeah. It’s Dad.”
Tommy’s gaze shifted to the blue wrapping paper. He pointed, his hand steady even as his shoulders remained slightly hunched.
“Present.”
“I did bring you a present.” Evan said, glancing down at it, then back up at Tommy as if searching for something in his face. “It’s your birthday after all.”
Tommy looked to you, waiting, his brows knitting faintly as if unsure which step came next.
“Cake first,” you said.
His eyes flicked to the kitchen, then back to the gift, lingering there a second longer than before.
“Cake.”
“Then present.”
Tommy nodded, a small exhale leaving him as the familiar order settled back into place, his grip on the tablet loosening just a fraction.
Without another word, Tommy turned toward the kitchen.
“Cake.”
You smiled. “Cake.”
Evan stepped aside, his shoulder brushing yours as he passed. Once, that kind of contact would’ve gone unnoticed. Now it lingered, drawing your attention simply because it had been so long since it hadn’t.
He caught your hesitation before you could hide it.
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah. Come in.”
A faint smile touched his mouth as he stepped inside. His gaze dropped briefly to his boots. “You still have the no shoes rule?”
“You know I do.”
He let out a quiet breath that might’ve been a laugh and bent to untie them.
After lining his boots neatly beside the door, Evan straightened. He looked around the apartment, not obviously, not like a stranger, but like someone quietly taking in everything that had changed since the last time he’d been here. His shoulders were held just a fraction too still, as if bracing against something he couldn’t quite name.
The blue streamers still hung unevenly across the ceiling. Blue balloons drifted lazily across the hardwood floor whenever the air conditioner kicked on. Tommy’s weather station sat proudly in the living room window.
His eyes moved over the birthday decorations before settling on Jack, lingering there just a moment longer. Not suspicious. Simply taking in the man who’d clearly been part of Tommy’s day long before he’d knocked on the door.
Jack hadn’t moved. He still stood near the kitchen table, hands resting loosely behind him. He gave the three of you room without disappearing from it.
The apartment suddenly felt full. Not because anyone had done anything wrong. Simply because everyone was trying to find where they belonged.
Tommy had already climbed back into his chair, completely unconcerned with the introductions happening behind him. His attention stayed fixed on the cake, the present, the order everything was supposed to happen in.
You caught Jack’s eye. “Jack.”
He looked over immediately. His posture straightened just a touch as his gaze flicked toward Evan before returning to you, something cautious passing through it.
“I can head out for a—.”
“No.” You heard how quickly the word came out. Too quickly. You softened immediately. “I don’t want you to.”
Jack searched your face for a moment. His brow tightened slightly, as if weighing more than just your words. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He gave a small nod, though his shoulders didn’t fully relax. “Okay.”
You looked between the two men. The space between them felt like a live wire.
“Jack… this is Evan.” You rested your fingertips lightly against Evan’s arm, aware of the brief tension beneath your touch before he let himself go still. “My ex-husband.” Then you smiled toward him, gentler now. “And Tommy’s dad.”
Turning back to Jack, you continued. “Evan… this is Jack.” A smile came a little more easily this time, though your pulse hadn’t quite settled. “My boyfriend.”
Jack stepped forward and stopped a respectful distance away. He offered his hand, movements deliberate and careful. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Evan shifted the wrapped present into his other hand and shook it. His grip was firm and steady, just enough pressure to acknowledge the moment.
“You too.” His eyebrows lifted slightly, though something searching lingered behind it. “The boyfriend?”
You nodded, holding his gaze. “Yeah.”
His eyes drifted briefly between the two of you. He caught the way your body angled instinctively toward Jack and the way Jack stayed exactly where he was.
A small smile crossed his face, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Well… it’s good to finally meet you.”
Jack returned it, a little tighter but genuine. “You too.”
Before either man could think of another sentence, Tommy chimed from the kitchen.
“Present.”
All three of you turned at once. The tension snapped just enough to let everyone breathe again.
Tommy pointed directly at the gift tucked beneath Evan’s arm.
“Present.”
You laughed softly. The sound eased something in your chest. “We’re getting there.”
“Cake.”
“Cake first.”
Tommy thought about it, his fingers hovering over the tablet. Then he nodded.
“Cake.”
“Then present.”
“Then present.”
Satisfied, he folded his hands neatly on the edge of the table. He waited with far more patience than any fourteen year old should have possessed.
You looked back at Jack. “You’re still opening presents with us.”
Jack glanced toward Evan. His jaw tightened just slightly, not asking permission, simply making sure he wasn’t stepping somewhere he shouldn’t. “I don’t want to interrupt.”
“You aren’t.” You stepped beside him and gave his forearm a gentle squeeze, grounding both of you. “I want you here.”
He looked at you for a long second. Something softened in his expression before he nodded. “Okay.”
“Jack.”
Jack looked over. Tommy pointed to the empty chair beside him. Then he selected another button.
“Here.”
You smiled, warmth spreading through you. “I think that’s your seat.”
Evan looked at Tommy for a moment before letting out a quiet laugh, softer this time, almost resigned. “I don’t think either of us gets much say in that.”
Jack smiled, a little more relaxed now. “I guess not.”
He pulled out the chair and sat beside Tommy. Almost immediately, Tommy settled. His shoulders eased. His grip on the tablet loosened. The plan was back where it belonged. Cake. Then presents. Exactly the way he’d been expecting all day.
With a smile, you picked up the cake knife. Tommy immediately nudged his plate closer to the edge of the table.
“So eager.”
He glanced down at his tablet.
“Birthday.”
“I suppose that’s a good excuse.”
A single nod.
“Yes.”
A soft laugh escaped you as you cut the first slice exactly how he’d requested, blue frosting, part of the weather radar, no lightning bolt.
You slid the plate toward him. “There you go.”
He studied it briefly, then pressed another button.
“Good.”
“I’ll take the compliment.”
You prepared another slice for yourself, then one for Jack. The last piece lingered in your hand as your gaze shifted to Evan.
“You still like corner pieces?”
His eyebrows lifted, faint surprise flickering across his face. “If there is one.”
“There always is.” You passed him the plate.
“Happy birthday to our favorite weather guy,” he said quietly, setting it in front of Tommy.
Tommy smiled.
“My birthday.”
“It is.”
For a while, the apartment settled into an easy quiet. Forks tapped softly against plates, the refrigerator hummed in the background, and Tommy’s tablet chimed now and then. No one rushed to speak.
Without realizing it, your attention drifted to the two men.
Jack remained beside Tommy, as he always did during meals, close enough to help if needed, never overstepping. Across the table, Evan sat with his present resting carefully against his chair, waiting. His gaze lingered on Tommy, as though trying to hold onto the moment.
They weren’t ignoring each other. Conversation simply hadn’t found its rhythm yet. And somehow neither of them seemed in any hurry to force it.
Of course, Tommy finished his cake first. He set his fork down with deliberate care, then reached for his tablet.
“Present.”
You smiled. “I had a feeling that was coming.”
His eyes shifted to the blue wrapping paper beside Evan’s chair.
“Present.”
You glanced across the table. “I think you’ve made him wait long enough.”
Evan bent down, picking up the box. “I think you’re right.”
He placed it gently in front of Tommy.
Tommy rested both hands on either side. He didn’t tear into the paper, he never did. Instead, he found the edge of a piece of tape and peeled it back, one careful strip at a time.
The room quieted again, not awkward, just attentive, as everyone watched Tommy open his birthday present the way he always did, slowly, carefully, savoring every second.
He peeled away the first piece of tape. Instead of tossing it aside, Tommy folded it neatly and set it beside the box. Then he searched for the next. Across the table, Evan rested his forearms, making no move to help or hurry him. Piece by piece, the blue wrapping paper disappeared until the cardboard box was finally uncovered.
Tommy lifted the lid. Inside, nestled in brown packing paper, sat a weather radio. Not the small emergency kind tucked away in a hall closet. This one had weight to it.
Its dark gray casing showed wear, the buttons smoothed from years of use. The telescoping antenna bore faint scratches, and one corner near the battery compartment had been patched with a strip of black electrical tape.
Reaching in with both hands, Tommy brushed his fingers over the cool, slightly textured surface.
“Weather radio.”
A smile tugged at the corner of Evan’s mouth, though his shoulders remained just a little too still.
“Yeah.”
Tommy turned it over slowly, studying each button before extending the antenna with careful hands. Then his fingers paused. He leaned in closer, brow tightening slightly as recognition flickered.
Two initials, written in faded black marker, stretched across the back.
E.D.
You glanced from the radio to Evan. “You brought your work radio?”
He shrugged, as if it meant far less than you knew it did, though his gaze lingered on it a moment too long. “I bought a new one a couple months ago.” His hand rested against the edge of the table, thumb pressing lightly into the wood. “Figured this one ought to have a better home.”
You kept staring at the radio. The scrape along one side was instantly familiar. Years ago, before one of his offshore hitches, he’d dropped it on the kitchen tile while trying to carry too many things at once. He’d spent twenty minutes afterward making sure it still worked. That morning, you’d teased him that he cared more about the radio than the suitcase sitting beside it.
The memory slipped away as quickly as it came.
Tommy pressed the weather band button. Static crackled softly before a calm, automated voice filled the kitchen with the latest forecast, its familiar cadence settling into the space like something steady and known.
He listened without interrupting. Without looking away. When the report finished cycling, he lowered the radio and reached for his tablet.
“Works.”
Evan smiled, a quiet exhale slipping free. “It better. Used it for work all the time.”
Tommy turned the radio over again, his grip just a little firmer now.
“Work.”
Evan nodded. “Every ocean trip.”
“Ocean.”
He rubbed his thumb absently along the edge of the table, the motion grounding. “That radio’s been with me a long time. Every time I was in the ocean.”
Tommy looked down at the faded initials again, tracing them lightly with his thumb as if committing them to memory. Then he collapsed the antenna with care and held the radio against his chest, letting its weight settle there.
He reached for his tablet once more.
“Thank you.”
Evan’s smile deepened, quiet and genuine, something softer easing into his expression.
“You’re welcome, buddy.”
Tommy nodded once. Then he stood, carrying the radio toward the windowsill where his weather station sat. He stepped back from the windowsill, studying the weather station and the radio side by side.
He nodded once.
“Good.”
You smiled. “I think it belongs there.”
Tommy nodded again.
Across the room, you caught Evan looking at the windowsill instead of the radio in Tommy’s hands, not at the gift itself, but at where Tommy had chosen to keep it.
Tommy stood there another few seconds, studying the weather station and the radio side by side before looking back at Evan, his fingers already moving across his tablet.
“It tracks the weather.”
Evan smiled. “You want to see something?”
Tommy nodded immediately.
Evan walked over to the windowsill, stopping just far enough away that Tommy still had plenty of room.
He picks it up carefully. “This antenna pulls out farther,” he said, extending it another few inches before handing it right back.
Tommy watched closely.
“So when I was offshore…” Evan caught himself. “…when I was in the ocean, we’d listen to this every morning before we started.”
Tommy’s attention stayed fixed on the radio.
“Every morning.”
“Yep. Every morning.” Evan pointed toward one of the buttons. “That one takes you straight to the weather band.”
Tommy pressed it, and the familiar automated forecast filled the apartment again. Neither of them spoke until it finished.
Tommy looked at the display, then at Evan.
“You had storm.”
Evan nodded. “Sometimes.”
You smiled to yourself. He wasn’t overwhelming Tommy with explanations; he was answering exactly what Tommy asked, exactly the way Tommy understood best.
Jack stepped quietly beside you. “You need anything?” he asked softly.
You glanced toward the living room, where Tommy and Evan were still standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the window, not touching, simply sharing the same piece of weather equipment.
You looked back at Jack. “Actually…” You held up the stack of empty cake plates. “Can you give me a hand with these?”
“Of course.”
Together, the two of you carried the dishes into the kitchen. The quiet clink of ceramic and the steady rush of running water filled the small space.
Jack reached for the dish towel without asking, drying each plate as quickly as you rinsed it. Neither of you hurried. Neither of you needed to.
Jack never glanced toward the living room. He didn’t need to. He already knew exactly what he was doing. Giving a father and his son a few uninterrupted minutes together.
—
Jack dried the last plate and hung the dish towel back over the oven handle. “I should probably get going.”
You nodded. “It is getting late.”
Together, you walked back into the living room.
Tommy was sitting on the floor now, the weather radio beside the weather station, switching back and forth between the two with complete concentration. Evan sat on the couch nearby, watching without interrupting.
Jack smiled. “Looks like you’ve got everything under control.”
Tommy looked up.
“Dad got me new radio.”
“I see that.”
“It is a good present.”
Jack glanced toward Evan for just a second before looking back at Tommy. “Looks pretty good kid.”
Tommy nodded once, satisfied.
Jack crouched beside him. “I wanted to wish you happy birthday one more time.”
Tommy met his eyes.
“It is my birthday.”
“The best one?”
Tommy thought about it.
“Yes.”
Jack’s smile grew. “I’m glad.”
He stood again.
His attention shifted to Evan. “It was nice meeting you.”
Evan nodded. “You too.”
“I hope you guys have a good visit.”
“Thanks.”
Nothing more. Neither man tried to force a conversation that hadn’t earned itself yet.
Jack slipped his shoes on beside the door.
You reached for your keys out of habit. “I’ll walk you over.”
Jack looked at you. “You don’t have to.”
“I know.” You opened the apartment door. “I want to. I’ll be back Tommy. I’m going to say bye to Jack.”
Tommy barely looked up from the radio. He knew where you were going. The hallway. Across the hall. You’d be right back.
The apartment door clicked softly shut behind you. The hallway felt almost too quiet after the birthday party.
A moment ago, your apartment had been full of cake plates, wrapping paper, Tommy’s new weather radio, Evan’s low voice, Jack’s steady presence, and the careful politeness of two men trying very hard not to make the night about themselves.
Out here, only the soft hum of the building’s air conditioning and the faint buzz of the hallway light remained.
You walked beside Jack across the hall. Neither of you said anything at first. His apartment was only a few steps away, but somehow the space between your door and his felt longer tonight. Like both of you knew there was a conversation waiting, and neither of you wanted to be the first to start it.
Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys. The metal shifted quietly in his hand as he found the right one by feel before sliding it into the lock.
The deadbolt clicked. He pushed the door open a few inches but didn’t step inside. Instead, he turned back toward you.
“You didn’t have to walk me over.”
You leaned your shoulder lightly against the wall across from him, your arms folding loosely over your middle.
“I know. I wanted to.”
Something in his expression softened. For a second, neither of you moved.
Your gaze drifted back toward your own apartment door. The birthday banner still hung crookedly across it, the blue letters slightly wrinkled from where Tommy had touched them earlier while inspecting the decorations. One balloon had started sinking lower than the others, its ribbon curled lazily against the wall.
It looked tired now. Happy, but tired. A little like you felt.
Jack followed your gaze. “Banner made it.”
“Barely.”
“Still counts.”
You smiled. “Tommy liked it.”
“He liked all of it.”
Your smile softened before you could stop it. “He did.”
Jack leaned one shoulder against his doorframe, keeping the door open behind him with his hip. His apartment was dark beyond the entryway, quiet and still, but he didn’t seem in any hurry to disappear into it.
“He had a good birthday,” Jack said.
You nodded, your eyes still lingering on the crooked banner. “He had a really good birthday.”
The words should have felt simple. Instead, they settled heavily in your chest. Tommy had been happy. Evan had been there. Jack had been there.
For one strange, complicated evening, everyone Tommy loved had shared the same room.
Nobody fought. Nobody made a scene. Nobody asked Tommy to choose where to look or who to sit beside.
Tommy had gotten cake, presents, and a brand-new weather radio he would probably carry around for the next three days. It went well. That was almost what made it harder.
You rubbed your thumb against the inside of your elbow, watching the balloon twist slowly where it floated against the wall.
“I’m sorry.”
Jack looked at you immediately. “For what?”
You let out a breath, already embarrassed by the answer and still unable to keep it in.
“For tonight.”
His brow furrowed slightly.
You glanced back at him. “For Evan showing up like that. I didn’t know he was coming.”
“I know.”
“If I had, I would’ve told you.”
“I know.”
His voice was gentle, but not dismissive. He wasn’t brushing you off. He was just answering the part that mattered.
You looked down at the carpet between your feet. “I hate that you walked into that.”
Jack was quiet for a moment.
When you looked up again, he was studying you with the kind of focus that made it hard to hide. Not clinical. Not intense. Just present. Like he was trying to understand what you were really apologizing for.
“You think you did something wrong?” he asked.
You opened your mouth. Then stopped. Because when he said it that way, it sounded ridiculous.
You hadn’t invited Evan without telling him. You hadn’t planned some awkward introduction. You hadn’t forced Jack into anything. Evan had shown up because it was Tommy’s birthday and because he was Tommy’s father and because sometimes life did not give you enough warning to prepare a room before everyone walked into it.
Still.
“I don’t know,” you admitted quietly. “Maybe not wrong. Just…”
Jack waited.
You looked toward your door again.
“I know today was supposed to be Tommy’s birthday. That was the important thing. I know that. But then Evan showed up, and suddenly you were meeting him, and he was meeting you, and I was trying to make sure Tommy was okay, and that Evan was okay, and that you were okay, and nobody felt weird, and I just…”
You shook your head.
“I hated that you had to be so careful.”
Jack’s face changed a little at that. Not much. Just enough. His eyes softened, and his shoulders settled in a way that made you realize he understood you now.
He wasn’t the part you were apologizing for. The care was.
“You don’t have to apologize for that,” he said.
You huffed a quiet laugh, but it didn’t have much humor in it. “I feel like I’ve been apologizing for things all night.”
“I noticed.”
Your eyes flicked to his.
Jack’s mouth curved faintly.
“Not to anyone else,” he said. “Just in your head.”
You looked away.
Jack didn’t let the silence turn sharp. He stepped away from his doorframe just enough to face you fully, his voice low in the empty hallway.
“Tommy’s dad came to his birthday,” he said. “That’s not a bad thing.”
“I know it’s not.”
“He wanted to see his son.”
“I know.”
“And Tommy wanted him there.”
Your throat tightened as you nodded.
Jack let that sit for a second before continuing. “That doesn’t hurt me.”
You looked back at him. The words were simple. Too simple, maybe, for how complicated everything felt inside you.
But Jack didn’t say them like he was trying to convince himself. He said them like he had already thought it through and found the answer solid enough to stand on.
“It doesn’t?”
“No.”
You searched his face automatically.
You knew him too well now not to look. If he was uncomfortable, you would see it in the set of his jaw. If he was hurt, it would show up in the quiet around his eyes. If he was trying to be noble about something that bothered him, he would get that careful, measured stillness that made you want to reach for him and shake the truth loose.
But none of that was there.
He just looked tired. And calm. And maybe a little sad in the way kind people sometimes looked when they knew a situation was bigger than anyone could fix in one conversation.
“Evan loves him,” Jack said.
You swallowed. “Yeah.”
“I could see that.”
“He does,” you said, softer now. “He’s not a bad dad.”
“I didn’t think he was.”
“He’s just…” You stopped, trying not to explain your whole marriage in a hallway after your son’s birthday. “He loves Tommy. He just wasn’t built for the day-to-day part of it.”
Jack’s expression stayed quiet. No judgment. No quick opinion.
“He showed up today,” he said.
You nodded. “He did.”
“That matters.”
Your chest tightened again, but this time it wasn’t guilt exactly.
It was the strange ache of hearing Jack be kind about a man he had every reason to feel uncomfortable around.
“You’re being very mature about this,” you said.
Jack’s mouth twitched. “I’m trying.”
“No, you are.”
He glanced down briefly, almost like the compliment made him uncomfortable.
“I’m not competing with him.”
Your breath caught a little, because there it was. The thing you had been afraid to name.
Jack looked back at you. “I’m not.”
“I know.”
“I don’t think you do.”
The gentleness of it made you quiet.
Jack slipped one hand into his pocket, thumb catching against the edge of his keys.
“I watched them tonight,” he said. “Evan and Tommy.”
You waited.
“He was nervous.”
“Evan?”
Jack nodded. “Not in a bad way. Just… he was trying to figure out where to sit. What to touch. How close to be.”
You pictured it: Evan on the couch, hands resting on his knees while Tommy spread his new presents across the floor. Evan watching closely, wanting to be involved but not wanting to disrupt a system he didn’t fully know anymore.
You hadn’t been the only one noticing. Jack had seen it too.
“He was trying,” Jack said.
“He usually does.” You looked down. “That probably sounds obvious.”
“It doesn’t,” Jack said.
You blinked, then looked back up.
He shrugged lightly.
“I mean, I know he’s his father. I know Tommy knows him. But seeing it is different.”
Your throat tightened. “How?”
Jack took a breath, slow and thoughtful. “He didn’t have to work as hard to understand some of it. Not all of it,” he added. “But some.”
You knew exactly what he meant.
Evan didn’t know every part of Tommy’s current routine. He didn’t know all the updated buttons on the tablet or which foods had changed or what new warning signs to look for before an escalation. But he knew Tommy’s history in a way Jack didn’t. He knew the little boy Tommy used to be. He knew the old versions. The early appointments. The first words that hadn’t come. The first time you realized the tablet wasn’t a failure but a door.
That kind of knowing could not be recreated.
Jack looked toward your apartment door again, not sadly, but with an awareness that made something in your chest ache.
“I’m not threatened by that,” he said. “I just don’t want to disrespect it.”
You didn’t answer right away. Because that was Jack too. That was exactly Jack. He would make room even if making room hurt. He would step back without being asked if he thought standing too close might crowd someone else. He would never demand space in a life that had existed before him.
And you loved him for it.
“You didn’t disrespect anything tonight,” you said.
“I know.”
“But?”
His eyes met yours before drifting down the quiet hallway. He didn’t answer immediately, and somehow that silence told you everything.
Your stomach dipped. “Jack.”
He rubbed his thumb against the edge of the keys in his pocket, his gaze lingering on your apartment door before returning to you.
“Evan’s only here for a few days.”
You went still.
“He doesn’t get this often,” Jack said quietly. “He doesn’t get birthdays and cake or evenings sitting on the living room floor with Tommy. He doesn’t get nights like this.”
You waited.
He let out a slow breath.
“I was thinking…” He hesitated. “I’d stay out of the way while he’s here.”
The words settled somewhere deep in your chest before your mind could catch up.
Not anger.
Fear.
A quiet, hollow feeling, like something steady had shifted beneath your feet.
“What?”
“Not completely,” he said quickly, already reading your expression. “I’m across the hall. If you need anything—”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“I know.”
You searched his face, trying to understand how he’d already decided this without ever asking you.
“Then why would you say it like it is?”
Jack exhaled through his nose.
“I don’t want him feeling like every minute he gets with Tommy has me standing in the middle of it.”
“You weren’t standing in the middle of anything.”
“I don’t want you trying to manage both of us.”
“I’m not.”
He gave you a look.
A reluctant laugh escaped you.
“Okay,” you admitted. “Maybe a little.”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
“But that’s not because of you.”
“I know.”
You shook your head. “Then don’t make that decision for me.”
Jack’s expression softened. “I’m trying to make this easier for you.”
“I know.” Your voice cracked despite yourself. “But it wouldn’t make it easier.”
Silence settled between you. This time, you crossed the small space separating you. You reached for his hand before you spoke again.
He looked down as your fingers slipped into his. His shoulders loosened almost imperceptibly before his hand closed around yours, warm and familiar.
“Jack…” You drew a slow breath. “If Evan wants more time with Tommy, that’s something he and I need to work out.”
He stayed quiet.
“You don’t have to solve that.”
His thumb brushed slowly across the side of your hand.
“He’s Tommy’s dad,” you continued. “If he wants to spend more time with him while he’s here, we’ll figure it out.” You held his gaze. “And if he decides he wants to be around more after this…” You gave a small, tired shrug. “We’ll figure that out too.”
Jack watched you without interrupting.
“But that’s between Evan and me.” You squeezed his hand gently. “If he wants more time with Tommy, then he and I will figure out what that looks like.”
You let out a quiet breath.
“He made the decision to show up today without calling me first. That doesn’t mean you suddenly have to rearrange your place in Tommy’s life.”
Jack watched you carefully.
“Those are two separate things.” You stepped a little closer. “Evan and I will figure out his time with Tommy.”
You looked him steadily in the eye. “You keep showing up the way you always have.”
His eyes stayed on yours. “I wasn’t trying to upset you.”
You nodded slowly. “I know.”
The words came easily. Believing them took a little longer.
A sad smile tugged at your mouth. “But Tommy won’t understand.”
His expression shifted so subtly most people probably wouldn’t have noticed it.
You did.
The careful, reasonable argument he’d been carrying around all evening disappeared the moment you said Tommy’s name.
“He isn’t going to think, Jack is giving Dad some space.”
Jack stayed quiet, waiting.
“He’s just going to know you didn’t come.”
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
You glanced toward your apartment. “He’ll wake up tomorrow expecting breakfast if you’re coming off nights.” Your throat tightened around the words. “He’ll hear footsteps in the hallway and think it’s you.”
The image came so easily it made your chest ache. Tommy looking toward the door. Listening. Waiting. Trying to understand why something familiar suddenly wasn’t.
“And when you don’t come…” You swallowed. “He won’t understand why.”
Silence settled between you. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy.
“He’ll notice breakfast,” you said more quietly. “He’ll notice dinner. He’ll notice if you don’t ask him about the weather.”
You looked back at Jack. “He’ll notice if your shoes aren’t by the door.”
Jack followed your gaze across the hallway. The birthday banner still hung crookedly against your apartment door.
Behind it was Tommy. Breakfast after night shifts. Dinner after day shifts. Weather before coffee. Shoes lined up by the door. Little things. Until they weren’t. Until, somewhere along the way, they’d become promises.
Jack let out a slow breath. “I hadn’t thought about it like that.”
“I know.”
“I should have.”
“No.” You shook your head before he could blame himself. “You were thinking about Evan.”
He nodded once.
“That wasn’t wrong.”
His eyes searched yours.
“But you were only thinking about Evan.”
He didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he looked toward your apartment again before finally nodding. “I don’t want to make this harder for Tommy.”
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
You stepped closer until barely any space remained between you. “I do.”
His brow furrowed.
“I’ve spent fourteen years learning my son.” Your fingers tightened around his hand. “I know the things he can adjust to.”
You paused, choosing the next words carefully.
“And I know the things he’ll carry around because they don’t make sense.”
Your voice softened. “You leaving the routine would be one of them.”
Jack lowered his eyes to your joined hands. He didn’t answer immediately. You could almost see him picturing tomorrow morning.
Breakfast.
Coffee.
The weather.
Tommy looking toward the door.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before. “Okay.”
You searched his face. “Okay?”
He looked back at you and nodded. “Routine stays.”
Relief hit so quickly your fingers tightened around his without thinking. “You mean that?”
“I mean it.”
“No stepping back for a week?”
A real smile reached his eyes this time. “No stepping back for a week.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.
Jack watched it leave you. His expression softened.
“You thought I meant leaving.”
You looked down. “I know you didn’t.”
“But that’s what you heard.”
You nodded once. “Yeah.”
He stepped forward, closing the last few inches himself. His free hand settled gently against your waist.
“I wasn’t thinking about how that would sound.”
You looked up at him.
“I’m sorry.”
You let the apology sit between you instead of brushing it away.
His thumb stroked lightly against your side. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Your throat tightened. “You say that a lot.”
His forehead came to rest lightly against yours. “I mean it a lot.”
A watery laugh escaped you. “I know.”
“I don’t need Tommy to have less of Evan so there’s room for me.” His voice was quiet. Certain. “There’s room.”
You looked at him through the sting in your eyes.
“For him.”
You nodded.
“For me.”
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“And definitely for the weather radio.”
You laughed.
“Definitely for the weather radio.”
“That thing outranks both of us.”
“It really does.”
The laughter faded into something softer.
You stepped into him without thinking.
His arm wrapped around you immediately, his hand settling at the back of your head as your cheek rested against his cheek.
After the carefulness of the evening, after watching Evan and Jack give each other space, after trying to make sure no one felt pushed out or pulled too close, it felt almost overwhelming to simply stop trying so hard.
You listened to the slow, steady beat of his breath beneath your ear.
“I don’t want you to feel like you have to compete,” you murmured.
His hand moved gently through your hair. “I don’t.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
You leaned back just enough to meet his eyes.
They were tired.
Steady.
Honest.
“I’m not his dad.”
“I know.”
“But I love him.”
Your breath caught.
“And I love you.”
Warmth spread through your chest so suddenly it almost hurt.
“I love you too.”
His hand slid to your cheek, brushing away the dampness beneath your eye with his thumb.
“I just want to do right by both of you.”
“You are.”
He looked like he wanted to argue.
You smiled and shook your head before he could. “You are, Jack.”
Something in his expression finally settled.
He leaned down and kissed you.
Slowly.
Patiently.
Like neither of you had anywhere else to be.
The hallway light hummed overhead. His apartment door remained open behind him. Across the hall, Tommy’s birthday banner still hung a little crooked.
For just a little while, the whole complicated evening narrowed to the warmth of his kiss, the steady hand at your waist, and the quiet certainty that making room for one person didn’t mean losing another.
When he pulled away, he didn’t go far. His forehead rested lightly against yours.
“So,” he said quietly.
You smiled because you could hear the practical turn in his voice before he even got there.
“So?”
“Breakfast after nights.”
“Yes.”
“Dinner after days.”
“Yes.”
“If Evan has plans with Tommy, you tell me.”
“Yes.”
“If Tommy needs routine, routine stays.”
“Exactly.”
Jack nodded, like he was committing it all somewhere solid.
“And no guessing.”
You smiled. “No guessing.”
“No making decisions for each other because we’re trying to be polite.”
Your smile grew. “Look at you.”
His mouth curved. “Learning.”
“Proud of you.” You laughed softly and kissed him again, quick and affectionate.
Jack’s hand lingered at your waist afterward.
Neither of you seemed quite ready to move. But eventually, you glanced back toward your apartment door. The crooked banner. The sinking balloon. The life waiting behind it.
“I should go back.”
“Yeah.” His voice was gentle. Still, he didn’t immediately let go.
You smiled up at him. “You also have to let me go if I’m going to go back.”
“I know.”
“You’re not doing it.”
“I’m aware.”
Your smile turned warmer.
Jack finally released you, though his fingers brushed yours one last time before dropping away.
You crossed the hall and stopped with your hand on your doorknob.
Then you looked back.
Jack was still standing in his doorway, watching you with that quiet, steady expression that always made you feel like he meant every word before he even said it.
“You’re still coming tomorrow,” you said.
Not quite a question.
Jack’s answer came immediately. “Yeah. I’m still coming tomorrow.”
You nodded once. The certainty settled through you slowly. Evan being here didn’t erase Jack. Jack staying didn’t erase Evan. Tommy didn’t have to lose one steady thing just because another had come back for a few days.
Maybe it didn’t have to be a competition. Maybe love, when handled carefully enough, could make room.
You opened your door and stepped back inside, carrying that thought with you like something fragile and warm.
Across the hall, Jack stayed where he was until the door closed behind you.
—
Later that night, after you put Tommy to bed, you stepped quietly back into the living room.
Evan stood near the bookshelf, his hands resting in his pockets as his gaze wandered slowly around the apartment.
It lingered on the blue streamers still hanging from the ceiling. The half-deflated balloons drifted lazily near the hallway. On the windowsill sat Tommy’s weather station beside the worn weather radio that had spent years offshore with Evan before finding a new home beside his son’s favorite window.
His eyes moved from one familiar thing to the next, quietly taking it all in.
The apartment looked different than the last time he’d been here. Different artwork on the refrigerator. Different pictures on the wall. Tommy was taller in every photograph. There were small signs of a life that had continued moving forward while he was somewhere else.
At the sound of your footsteps, he turned.
“Out?”
You nodded. “Completely.”
A tired smile crossed his face, softening the lines around his eyes. “He made it longer than I thought he would.”
“He was determined.”
“I noticed.”
For another second, the smile lingered before fading into the quiet that settled between you, and you found yourself watching the exact moment it slipped away, as if you could hold onto it just a second longer.
It wasn’t uncomfortable. These days, it rarely is.
The hardest years are behind you now. The long conversations that never quite solved anything. The quiet realization that loving each other wasn’t the same as building a life together. Learning how to stop being husband and wife without ever stopping being Tommy’s parents.
Time had softened the sharpest edges, but the memory still lingered, like a bruise that had faded without ever completely disappearing.
What remained was something quieter. Not friendship. Not quite. Just the familiarity that came from years of knowing exactly how the other took their coffee, what made them laugh, and which conversations neither of you ever wanted to have but somehow always found your way back to.
You crossed into the kitchen and reached into the cabinet for two glasses, your movements automatic, guided by muscle memory before you could think too much about it.
Water filled the first, then the second.
“Thanks,” Evan said quietly as he accepted the glass.
You leaned back against the counter and took a sip of your own, the cool water grounding you.
For a minute, silence held. With Tommy asleep, the apartment felt different. Quieter. Somehow smaller, like the walls had shifted inward, leaving less room to avoid what lingered between you.
Looking down into his glass, Evan exhaled, his shoulders dipping slightly. “I should’ve called.”
You closed your eyes for just a second. Not dramatically. Just long enough to feel the familiar weight of the conversation settling onto your shoulders again, pressing down in a way that was both expected and exhausting.
When you opened them, you gave a small nod. “Yeah.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, fingers lingering there as though he could work the tension out. “I know.”
Your thumb traced slowly around the rim of your glass, the repetitive motion giving your hands something to do besides tighten.
“I remind you every year.”
He nodded once. “You do.”
You lifted your gaze to his. “Every year, Evan.”
He looked away first, his jaw tightening just slightly. “…I know.”
Again, the apartment fell quiet.
You stared into your water, turning the glass a slow quarter turn against the countertop, watching the way the light bent through it, anything to avoid looking at him for a moment longer.
It wasn’t that you expected a different answer anymore.
That was the hardest part.
You already knew how this conversation went.
Every birthday.
Every visit.
Every surprise.
A slow breath left you, your shoulders rising and falling with it. “So why don’t you call?”
His brow furrowed as he stared into his glass, not defensive so much as genuinely trying to trace his own thinking.
Finally, he let out a quiet breath.
“Honestly?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t think I know I’m coming until I’m already on my way.”
Your brow creased.
“I finish a hitch.” He shrugged helplessly. “Book a flight. Rent a car.” A faint, self-conscious smile crossed his face. “By then… I’m already here.” He looked at you apologetically. “The only part I really picture is knocking on the door.”
A quiet laugh slipped out before you could stop it, your head dipping as you exhaled through your nose. Not because it was funny. Because after all these years, you still didn’t know what to do with answers like that, and because some part of you recognized the sincerity in it, even if it didn’t make things easier.
Shaking your head, your eyes drifted toward the ceiling for a moment before settling back on him, your expression softening despite yourself.
He stayed quiet.
You watched him, waiting to see if he would argue.
He didn’t.
“You don’t picture Tommy needing time to catch up,” you said quietly. “You don’t picture him standing in the hallway trying to figure out why his whole day suddenly changed.”
His eyes dropped to the floor.
“You don’t picture me trying to help him reorganize his whole evening.”
You shook your head, your fingers tightening around the cool glass.
“You don’t picture me wondering whether you’re staying for dinner… or disappearing back offshore tomorrow.”
His shoulders sank another inch.
“You don’t picture me trying to explain why Dad showed up without warning again.”
The words hung between you.
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, his jaw working as he searched for something to say.
Nothing came.
Finally, he looked back at you.
He let out a slow breath, shaking his head once. “…You’re right.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I don’t.”
He looked down at the floor, turning the words over before he spoke again. “I spend so much time thinking about getting here…” He let out a quiet breath. “…I don’t think about what I’m walking into.”
You let out a slow breath and set your glass on the counter.
“Okay.”
Evan looked up.
“Okay?”
A small smile touched your lips.
“Let’s figure out the next few days.”
Some of the tension eased from his shoulders.
“You’ve got five days.”
“I know.”
“And I want the two of you to have as much time together as you can.”
His expression softened.
You gave him a small, encouraging smile.
“So… what are you thinking?”
Evan frowned. “Thinking about what?”
“While you’re here.” You gave a small shrug. “If you want to come over for dinner tomorrow, come over.”
You leaned one shoulder against the counter, thinking it through as you spoke.
“If you want to take him to the park like you did last year, we’ll do that.”
A small smile tugged at your lips.
“If you want to come by for breakfast one morning, we’ll do that.”
You met his eyes.
“We’ve done this before.”
You smiled a little. “We just usually don’t talk about it until after you’re already standing at my front door.”
A sheepish smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“…Fair.”
“So this time…” You spread your hands slightly. “Let’s just be ahead of it.”
He studied you for a long moment.
“You’d really move things around?”
“Of course.”
The answer came easily.
“You’re his dad.” You shrugged lightly. “I want you to have a good visit.”
His shoulders relaxed another inch. “I appreciate that.”
“I just need you to call me.”
He let out a quiet laugh. “So you know when I’m showing up.”
“So I know when you’re showing up,” you agreed with a small smile. “If school was hard that day, I’ll tell you. If therapy wore him out, you’ll know before you get here.” Your smile softened. “And if he’s having one of those days where everything’s just clicking…I’ll tell you that too.”
Evan lowered his eyes, rolling the glass slowly between his palms. “I never really thought about everything you already know before I walk through the door.”
“I know.”
There wasn’t any judgment in your voice. Only the quiet acceptance that had taken years to build.
“You see pieces of Tommy’s life.”
His eyes lifted to yours.
“I live all the days in between.” You offered him a small smile. “So let me help you walk into the middle instead of the end.”
For a long moment, he didn’t say anything.
Then he nodded. “I’d like that.”
You were quiet for a moment before speaking again. “There is one thing I do want you to know.”
Evan looked at you, waiting.
“Jack’s become part of Tommy’s routine.”
You watched his expression carefully, giving him space to take it in.
“He comes over everyday. Breakfast after his night shifts. Dinner after his day shifts.” A small smile found its way to your lips. “It’s just… become part of Tommy’s week. Tommy expects it now.”
You let that settle before continuing.
“I’d like to keep that the same while you’re here.”
You paused, choosing your next words carefully.
“This isn’t about either of you.”
You held his gaze.
“It’s about Tommy.” Your voice softened. “You know how he is. When he knows what to expect, everything else gets a little easier.”
You glanced toward the hallway leading to Tommy’s room.
“I’d rather all three of us work around Tommy than spend the week worrying about each other.”
Evan was quiet for several seconds. His eyes followed yours toward the hallway before returning to your face.
“I get that.”
You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding your breath until something in your chest finally loosened.
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I think that’s the right priority.”
“It always has been.”
He nodded once, slowly. “…Yeah.”
The apartment fell quiet again. Not awkward. Just thoughtful.
Evan looked toward the hallway again, quiet for a long moment. “I missed a lot.”
You didn’t rush to reassure him. “You did.”
He nodded once. “I don’t want to keep missing it. I can do that.”
Summary: Jack has been quietly falling apart for weeks, and you and Tommy are the only ones close enough to notice. When Tommy gently names what everyone else has avoided, Jack finally admits he’s been drowning in work, grief, and guilt. But his breaking point becomes something softer too: the moment he realizes he belongs with you both.
WC: 10K
Tags: autistic character, nonverbal autism, aac user, autism acceptance, parenting a neurodivergent child, single mom reader, found family, neighbors to lovers, Jack’s struggling emotionally and physically
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7
The first time you notice something is wrong, it’s because Jack forgets to ask about the weather.
Not entirely.
He still comes over for breakfast after his night shift. Still uses the key you’d given him. Still lets himself in without knocking because, by now, breakfast after nights has become routine.
Tommy is already at the kitchen table when he arrives. You’re at the stove. The smell of coffee fills the apartment.
Usually, before Jack has even gotten both shoes off, he’s asking Tommy what the forecast looks like.
But this morning, he steps inside and just… stops.
Only for a second. Maybe two. Long enough for you to notice.
Like he forgot why he walked into the room. Or like he’s waiting for some missing piece of himself to catch up.
His gaze drifts across the kitchen. The table. Tommy. You. Not really landing on any of it.
Then he blinks and comes back. “Morning, buddy.”
Tommy lifts his tablet.
“Good morning Jack.”
Jack smiles. The smile is real. Just tired.
You watch him from the stove while you scramble eggs. “Rough night?”
Jack shrugs out of his jacket. “Little busy.”
That’s all. Little busy.
Then he crosses the kitchen and taps the edge of Tommy’s tablet like always. A moment later, he asks about the weather after all.
Only by then, Tommy has already launched into an explanation about a storm system moving in from the west.
Jack pauses. Frowns faintly. Then lets out a quiet laugh and gestures for him to keep going.
“Don’t let me interrupt.”
Tommy immediately continues.
The routine settles back into place. Weather forecasts. Coffee. Eggs. The familiar rhythm of breakfast after nights.
You let yourself settle into it too. Because sometimes a busy shift is just a busy shift. Even if, for the rest of breakfast, you keep catching yourself watching Jack when he isn’t looking.
—
Three days later, you find him standing in front of your refrigerator.
The door is open, cold air spilling into the kitchen. Jack is staring at absolutely nothing. Not moving. Not reaching for anything. Just standing there.
You dry your hands on a dish towel. “Jack?”
His head comes up immediately, like he’d been somewhere else entirely.
“Sorry.”
The refrigerator door swings shut.
You frown. “What were you looking for?”
Jack looks genuinely confused. His eyes flick toward the refrigerator, then back to you.
Silence stretches just long enough for you to wonder if he heard the question at all.
Finally, he huffs a quiet laugh. “No idea.”
You smile. He smiles. The moment passes. But later that night, lying in bed, you think about it again. Because Jack forgets things sometimes. Everyone does. But Jack usually knows why he’s standing in front of a refrigerator. And he usually answers faster than that.
You tell yourself you’re overthinking it.
The reassurance doesn’t stick.
—
The next week he falls asleep on your couch.
Not dramatically. Not even for very long.
Tommy is sitting cross-legged on the rug explaining a storm system moving in from the west. The Weather Channel glows softly from the television.
You leave to switch over a load of laundry. When you come back, Tommy is still talking. Jack is not. His head has tipped back against the couch cushion. One hand is wrapped around a coffee mug. His eyes are closed.
For a second, your chest hurts. Not because he’s sleeping. Because he looks exhausted.
The kind of exhausted that settles into someone’s bones. The kind that makes him look older somehow. Less like the man who always seems capable of carrying everyone else.
You cross the room quietly and touch his shoulder. His eyes open instantly. Too fast. Years of training compressed into muscle memory. Alert before he’s fully awake. For a fraction of a second he just stares at you.
Blank. Then recognition settles in.
“Sorry.”
“You were asleep.”
“I wasn’t.”
You raise an eyebrow.
From the floor, Tommy immediately presses a button.
“Jack was sleeping.”
Jack closes his eyes briefly. You laugh. Tommy looks pleased with himself.
Jack points at the tablet. “Traitor.”
The tablet says nothing. Tommy’s smile is answer enough. Eventually Jack laughs too. But it comes a second late. Like he had to remember why everyone else was smiling first. And somehow that bothers you more than if he hadn’t laughed at all.
Because for that split second before recognition returns, you don’t know where he went. And the thought follows you long after the joke is over.
A few minutes later, Tommy goes back to explaining weather patterns while you carry the empty laundry basket toward the hallway.
“Jack.”
“Hm?”
“Go home and sleep.”
He looks up from the couch.
You try to make it sound casual. “You worked all day.”
“I’m fine.”
“You literally fell asleep sitting up.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. “Allegedly.”
“Jack.”
His gaze drops briefly to Tommy sitting on the rug. Then back to you.
“I’m okay.”
The answer comes easily. Too easily.
You fold your arms. “Your apartment is twenty feet away.”
“Mm.”
“You have a bed.”
“Last I checked.”
“You should use it.”
For a second, you think he might actually listen.
His eyes drift toward the window. Toward the wall that separates your apartment from his. Then back toward Tommy. The tablet is still talking. Something about wind direction now.
Jack’s shoulders soften almost imperceptibly. “I’ll sleep later.”
You frown. “Why?”
The question leaves your mouth before you can stop it.
Jack looks surprised by it. Like he doesn’t have an answer ready. For a moment he just watches Tommy. Then he shrugs.
“Wanted to hear the rest.”
Tommy immediately lifts his tablet.
“Wind shear.”
Jack points at him.
“See? Educational.”
You roll your eyes, but you can’t quite make yourself smile. Because maybe he really is interested in wind shear. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to spend another afternoon alone in a dark apartment with nothing but his own thoughts for company.
—
A few days later, you’re eating dinner when you mention Tommy’s therapy appointment.
“The one next Thursday?”
Jack looks up from his plate. “What appointment?”
You pause. “The therapy appointment.”
His brow furrows. You wait. Jack waits too. His gaze drifts briefly past you toward the living room. Then realization flickers across his face.
“Oh.”
Too quick. Too rehearsed. Like he doesn’t want you looking too closely.
“We talked about it yesterday.”
Jack nods. “Right.”
His fork scrapes softly against the plate.
You watch him. He takes another bite. The conversation moves on. A few minutes later, Tommy mentions next Thursday again, and you catch Jack glancing toward him with the same faint confusion before he smooths it away.
Later, when you’re loading the dishwasher, you realize he barely touched his dinner. And what unsettles you most isn’t that he forgot. It’s how hard he seemed to work to hide it.
—
That becomes the other thing.
The eating. Or not eating.
You’ll hand him a plate and he’ll thank you. Sit down. Take a few bites. Then spend twenty minutes pushing food around while Tommy discusses radar patterns.
At first, you think he just isn’t hungry. Then you start noticing how often it happens.
One evening, you place a bowl of pasta in front of him. Twenty minutes later, it looks almost exactly the same.
You lean against the counter. “Jack.”
He doesn’t look up right away. His fork has gone still halfway to the plate.
“Jack.”
He glances up.
“When did you eat last?”
His mouth opens. Then closes.
You wait.
Jack rubs the back of his neck. “Today.”
“Jack.”
Just his name. Nothing else. A corner of his mouth twitches. You don’t smile back.
Eventually, he sighs. “Breakfast.”
You stare at him. It’s nearly eight o’clock.
“Jack.”
“I’m fine.”
The answer comes immediately. Automatic. Like breathing. Like instinct. Something in your chest twists. Because you’ve said those exact words before. And suddenly you understand why he always looked at you the way he did when you said them.
Not frustrated.
Scared.
—
Then there are the nights.
The ones you don’t see. Only feel around the edges.
You wake up at three in the morning and find a text waiting on your phone.
Jack: Can’t sleep.
Sent at 1:47.
No explanation. No follow-up. Just those two words. You stare at the screen for a long moment.
Then type back:
Come over.
The reply doesn’t come immediately. You wait. Watch the screen. Wait some more. Long enough that you start wondering if he fell asleep after all.
Then:
Jack: No it’s okay.
Your frown deepens. You type back before you can stop yourself.
Why not?
Several minutes pass.
Finally:
Jack: Didn’t want to wake you.
You stare at the message.
The apartment is dark around you. Tommy is asleep down the hall. Jack is twenty feet away. Twenty feet. And somehow it feels farther than that.
You type back:
Jack it’s 3 in the morning. I’m literally texting you.
The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.
Jack: Fair.
You wait. Eventually another message comes through.
Jack: Just having trouble sleeping.
The understatement of the century. You close your eyes briefly.
Then type:
Come over.
For a moment you think he might actually come. The typing bubble appears again. Stops. Appears. Stops.
Then:
Jack: I’ll be okay.
Your chest aches. Because lately that answer sounds less convincing every time he says it.
You stare at the message for another minute before finally setting the phone down beside you. Sleep doesn’t come easily after that. Not when you can’t shake the feeling that Jack is sitting awake in the dark on the other side of the wall, carrying something he refuses to put down.
And not when you know, with uncomfortable certainty, that if you’d walked across the hall and knocked on his door, he would have opened it.
—
The next morning there are coffees sitting outside your door.
One for you. One hot chocolate for Tommy. No note. No explanation. Just Jack apologizing in the only way he seems to know how lately.
Not just for the text. For worrying you. For refusing to come over. For leaving you awake at three in the morning staring at your phone and wondering if he was okay.
You know him well enough by now to recognize it for what it is. A peace offering. An apology. And maybe that’s the part that bothers you most. Not the text. Not the sleepless night. The apology.
Because somewhere along the way, Jack had decided that needing someone was something he should feel sorry for. That struggling was an inconvenience he inflicted on other people. That reaching out at one forty-seven in the morning required repayment in the form of coffee and hot chocolate.
You wish he didn’t feel that way. You wish he’d just knocked on your door. You wish, for once, he’d let somebody take care of him without feeling like he owed them something afterward.
Tommy accepts the hot chocolate with immediate approval.
You wrap both hands around your coffee and stare at the closed apartment door across the hall.
Jack’s apartment. Dark. Quiet. Sleeping. Hopefully. The thought lands heavier than it should.
Because lately you’re never entirely sure what “hopefully” means.
—
The hardest part is that none of it feels like proof.
Not on its own.
Every individual thing has an explanation. A bad shift. A rough week. Too much coffee. Not enough sleep. Anyone else might miss it completely.
But you’ve gotten used to Jack.
To his routines. To the way he moves through your apartment. The way he greets Tommy. The way he reaches for your hand while you’re cooking. The way he always seems fully present when he’s here.
And lately…
Lately he isn’t.
Not completely.
He’s still showing up. Still coming for breakfast. Still making dinner. Still listening when Tommy explains weather systems. Still kissing your forehead when he walks through the door.
But sometimes you catch him staring at nothing.
Sometimes you have to say his name twice. Sometimes he takes a second too long to answer. Sometimes he starts to ask Tommy about the weather, then stops halfway through as if he’s lost the thread. Sometimes he looks at a room like he’s surprised to find himself standing in it. Sometimes he looks tired in a way that sleep won’t fix.
And every time you ask, he gives you the same answer.
“Jack.”
“Hm?”
“You okay?”
His hand settles at your waist. Warm. Familiar. Steady.
“Yeah.”
You lean back against him. Feel his forehead rest briefly against your shoulder. Just for a second. Like the weight of holding himself upright has become heavier than usual.
The contact should reassure you. Instead it makes something tighten in your throat. Because he feels real. Solid. Present. And somehow that only highlights all the moments when he doesn’t.
“You sure?”
Silence. Not long. Just long enough. Long enough that you feel him come back to the conversation.
“Yeah.”
You close your eyes. You want to push. Want to turn around and make him look at you and tell you what’s happening. Want to ask why he keeps drifting away in the middle of conversations, why he looks exhausted all the time, why every answer sounds a little more practiced than the last.
But he’s here. His arms are around you. His heartbeat is steady against your back. And there’s a quiet desperation in the way he holds on that makes the questions die before they reach your mouth.
So because it’s Jack, because he’s still showing up, because he’s still trying, because he keeps smiling and keeps reaching for you and keeps asking Tommy about the weather, even if sometimes he forgets first, you let yourself believe him.
Not because you’re convinced. Not because the unease has gone away. But because the alternative has started to take shape at the edges of your thoughts, and you’re not ready to look directly at it yet.
So you nod. You lean into him. You accept the answer he keeps giving. And beneath that decision, beneath the trust and affection and hope, something cold remains stubbornly lodged in your chest.
Waiting.
At least for a little while.
—
The first time Jack misses dinner, you tell yourself there’s a reasonable explanation.
Traffic.
A coworker got held up.
An emergency.
One of the hundred things that can keep a doctor at work longer than expected.
Dinner is already on the table when you glance at the clock.
Seven fifteen.
Not late.
Not yet.
Tommy is halfway through explaining a weather advisory, and you nod in the appropriate places while checking your phone.
No message.
By seven thirty, Tommy has started glancing toward the door between sentences.
By seven forty-five, he stops pretending he isn’t.
“Jack is late.”
You force a smile. “A little.”
Tommy looks at the clock, then the door.
“Jack coming.”
Not a question. A statement. Because Jack always comes.
A small pressure gathers beneath your sternum. You unlock your phone again even though you checked it less than a minute ago.
You send a text.
Dinner’s ready.
No response. You tell yourself he’s busy.
At eight, you send another.
Everything okay?
Nothing.
The food grows cold.
Tommy keeps looking at the door.
You keep turning your phone face-up beside your plate whenever you hear a sound from the hallway. Neither of you says what you’re thinking.
At eight twenty-two, you stand.
“Stay here.”
Tommy immediately frowns.
You point toward the table. “I’ll be right back.”
The key Jack gave you sits in the junk drawer beside spare batteries and takeout menus.
You stare at it for a second before picking it up.
The hallway is quiet.
His apartment is dark.
You knock anyway.
Once.
Twice.
No answer.
The silence on the other side stretches too long, and your fingers tighten around the key.
You unlock the door.
“Jack?”
Nothing.
The apartment smells faintly like coffee and laundry detergent. The television is off. Everything is off except the lamp beside the couch.
Jack is asleep.
Still in his scrubs.
Still wearing his shoes.
One arm thrown across his stomach, the other hanging off the edge of the couch.
His phone sits on the coffee table.
Dead.
For a moment, you just stand there. Looking at him. At the deep crease between his brows that’s still there even asleep. At the way his shoulders seem to have collapsed inward. At the way he didn’t even make it to bed.
The relief that he’s here and breathing lasts only a second before something heavier settles in behind it.
He looks less like a man taking a nap and more like someone who simply ran out of fuel.
You cross the room quietly.
Jack doesn’t stir.
The throw blanket draped over the back of the couch catches your eye. You pull it free and spread it gently over him.
His brow furrows slightly before smoothing out again.
Still asleep.
You crouch beside the couch and reach for one shoe. Then the other. The laces come loose beneath your fingers.
Jack shifts once when you slide the first shoe off, but nothing more.
The second follows.
You set them neatly beside the couch and look back at him. The steady rise and fall of his chest. The dark circles beneath his eyes. The faint shadow of stubble along his jaw that he usually never lets get this far.
You can’t remember the last time you saw him sleep this deeply.
The realization lands with a strange weight. Jack is usually alert before anyone else has fully entered a room. Usually answering a question before you’ve finished asking it.
Because this is Jack. The man who notices everything. The man who wakes up when floorboards creak in the hallway. Now he’s sleeping through all of it.
You pull the blanket a little higher over his shoulder.
“Jesus, Jack,” you whisper.
His breathing never changes.
Steady.
Deep.
Exhausted.
For another minute, you stay where you are, listening for any sign he might wake. Waiting for his eyes to open. Waiting for him to grumble about you fussing over him.
He doesn’t.
Eventually, you straighten and head for the door.
The apartment feels strangely empty as you step back into the hallway.
You find yourself looking back at the closed door before crossing to your own.
You tell yourself it’s ridiculous.
Jack is sleeping.
That’s all.
People get tired.
Doctors work impossible hours.
None of this is unusual.
By the time you let yourself back into your apartment, you’ve almost convinced yourself.
Then Tommy looks up from the table.
“Jack?”
The uneasy pressure returns immediately.
You set the key on the counter. “He’s asleep.”
Tommy blinks.
“Asleep?”
“Completely.”
His gaze shifts toward the apartment door.
“No dinner?”
The disappointed little downturn of his mouth hits harder than it should.
You kneel beside him. “Not tonight.”
Tommy thinks about that for a moment.
“Jack is tired.”
Your eyes drift toward the wall separating your apartment from his.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “Jack’s tired.”
Tommy accepts the answer more easily than you do. He nods once and goes back to eating.
The rest of the evening settles into its usual rhythm.
Dinner.
Dishes.
Shower.
Tommy’s weather report before bed.
The familiar routines that normally quiet your mind. Tonight they don’t. Every time you pass the apartment door, you picture Jack exactly as you left him. One arm hanging off the couch. Dead phone on the coffee table.
By the time Tommy is tucked into bed, the image has lodged itself somewhere you can’t quite shake.
You tell yourself Jack is probably awake by now.
Probably showering.
Probably eating something.
Probably charging his phone.
The word probably does a lot of work.
Eventually, you find yourself making another plate anyway. You tell yourself it’s practical. That he’ll be hungry when he wakes up. That doctors forget to eat all the time.
The explanations sound thin even in your own head.
You cover the plate with foil. Cross the hallway again. And let yourself quietly into his apartment.
The lamp beside the couch is still on.
The blanket is still in place.
Jack is still asleep.
Exactly where you left him.
You stop in the doorway. Your grip tightens on the plate.
Hours.
He’s been asleep for hours. And he hasn’t moved. Hasn’t eaten. Hasn’t woken up.
The blanket rises and falls with each breath, the only sign he’s changed at all since you left.
You carry the plate into the kitchen and open the refrigerator. The refrigerator light spills across the shelves.
A takeout container.
An unopened yogurt.
Half a sandwich wrapped in plastic.
Your eyes catch on the sandwich. One bite missing. Nothing else touched.
You set the plate carefully on the middle shelf and close the door. The click sounds too loud in the quiet apartment.
Jack shifts slightly from the couch.
You glance toward him.
Wait.
Nothing.
Still asleep.
Your gaze lingers for another second.
The blanket.
The scrubs.
The faint shadows beneath his eyes even from across the room.
Then you switch off the lamp and leave the small light above the stove on instead. Just enough that he won’t wake up in complete darkness.
You hesitate with your hand on the switch, struck by how naturally the thought comes. When you finally step back into the hallway and pull the door shut behind you, your attention stays fixed on it for a moment.
Because Jack is sleeping.
He’s safe.
He’s resting.
Those facts should settle something inside you.
Instead, all you can think about is how unfamiliar he looked on that couch, still, unreachable, worn down enough to sleep through a door opening and someone taking off his shoes.
A detail so small you should be able to dismiss it. A detail you know you’ll keep turning over long after you go to bed.
—
The next morning, the lock turns at seven fifteen.
You already know it’s Jack.
A moment later, he steps inside with a cardboard drink carrier in one hand and a paper bag from the bakery in the other.
Coffee, pastries, and an apology.
Of course.
“Morning,” he says.
His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Morning.”
You don’t move away immediately. Instead, you step closer and reach up to cup his cheek.
Jack blinks. Caught off guard. Then you lean up and kiss him.
Soft.
Brief.
The kind of kiss that says hello more than anything else.
For a second, he just stands there. The tension in his shoulders eases slightly.
Not gone.
Just less.
When you pull back, his forehead drops briefly against yours.
“Sorry about yesterday,” he says quietly.
There it is. You knew it was coming.
Your thumb brushes across his jaw. “You fell asleep, Jack.”
“I missed dinner.”
“You were exhausted.”
His eyes close for a second. Like those two things aren’t the same in his mind.
Then he exhales and straightens.
The moment passes.
“Morning,” he says again, a little helplessly.
This time, you smile.
“Morning.”
Tommy looks up immediately from the kitchen table.
“Hello Jack.”
“Hey, buddy.”
Jack sets the drinks on the counter, then looks at Tommy. Really looks at him.
And before anyone can say anything else, “I’m sorry I missed dinner.”
The words come out immediately, like he’s been carrying them across the hallway.
Tommy blinks.
“Jack missed dinner.”
“I know.” Jack rubs the back of his neck. “I should’ve called.”
Tommy watches him for a second, then lowers his eyes to the tablet. His fingers move across the screen.
“Jack was tired.”
Silence settles over the room. Not awkward. Just still.
Tommy looks up.
“It is okay.”
The words land softly, and you feel something in your chest loosen. Because of course that’s Tommy’s response.
No anger.
No disappointment.
Just a simple acceptance of the facts.
Jack was tired.
Jack slept.
That’s all.
But when you look at Jack, you realize he isn’t reacting the way you expected.
A smile appears. Small. Brief. Then disappears again. His eyes drop toward the table. Toward the tablet. Anywhere but Tommy. And suddenly you understand.
Tommy forgave him immediately.
Jack hasn’t forgiven himself.
Because in Jack’s mind, being exhausted isn’t an explanation. It’s a failure. A promise broken.
People waited for him and he wasn’t there.
It doesn’t matter that he’d fallen asleep sitting upright in his scrubs. It doesn’t matter that he’d worked all night. It doesn’t matter that Tommy isn’t upset.
The guilt is already there, settled deep.
Tommy presses another button.
“Sleep is important.”
Jack lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh.
“Yeah.” His voice comes out rough. “Guess it is.”
But something about the way he says it makes your stomach tighten. Because it sounds less like agreement and more like surrender. Like someone repeating a fact they know is true but don’t quite believe applies to them.
And for a moment, before he looks away, you catch something in his expression.
Not embarrassment.
Not annoyance.
Something heavier.
The same thing you’ve been seeing in flashes for weeks.
Guilt.
Like he’s apologizing for needing something as basic as rest.
Breakfast settles into something close to normal after that.
Tommy launches into a detailed explanation of an approaching cold front. Jack asks questions. The pastries disappear. Coffee gets poured.
For a little while, the knot in your chest loosens.
Then the television changes stories.
You barely notice at first.
Some local human-interest segment plays quietly in the background while Tommy explains wind speeds. Something about a school fundraiser. Kids running through a field. Teachers handing out water bottles. Parents standing along the sidelines.
The sound is low enough that you don’t really hear the reporter.
Just noise.
Background.
Until Jack goes completely still.
The change is so small you almost miss it. His coffee mug pauses halfway to his mouth, his eyes fixed on the television.
Not blinking.
Not moving.
Just staring.
You follow his gaze.
Children.
That’s all.
A dozen laughing kids on a screen.
Nothing unusual.
Nothing upsetting.
“Jack?”
The word leaves your mouth before you can stop it.
He blinks, and the spell breaks instantly.
His head turns toward you. “What?”
Too quick.
Too normal.
The same easy expression. The same steady voice. As if whatever crossed his face never happened at all.
“You okay?”
There it is. The question you’ve been asking for weeks. The question he’s been avoiding for weeks.
Jack glances at the television.
Then away.
“Yeah.”
The answer comes automatically.
Tommy keeps talking. Neither of you listens. Because Jack looks perfectly fine again.
Relaxed.
Present.
Ordinary.
But for a split second, you saw something underneath. Not exhaustion. Not distraction. Something wounded.
The conversation shifts before you can decide whether to press.
Tommy moves on to rainfall totals, then wind speed, then a lengthy complaint about why weather forecasts should be updated more often.
Jack listens. Or at least he tries to.
You catch it twice.
The first time when Tommy asks him a question and has to repeat it. The second time when Jack reaches for his coffee and simply… stops. His hand settles around the mug, but his gaze drifts somewhere over Tommy’s shoulder.
Gone again.
Not asleep.
Not distracted.
Somewhere else.
The moment lasts maybe three seconds. Then Tommy says his name. Jack blinks. Comes back. Answers the question. Nobody comments on it.
Except Tommy is watching him now too. You notice that. The way Tommy’s eyes linger a little longer than usual. The way he pauses before returning to his tablet.
Observing.
Recording.
The same way he watches weather patterns.
Looking for consistency.
Looking for change.
Looking for anything that doesn’t fit.
A familiar unease settles low in your stomach. Because Tommy notices things. Sometimes before anyone else does.
A few minutes later, Jack stands and carries his empty mug to the sink. You watch him rinse it out. Watch him stare into the running water for a second too long. Watch him blink and shake himself out of it.
Again.
It’s becoming impossible not to notice. The problem is that you still don’t know what you’re noticing.
Exhaustion?
Stress?
Grief?
Something happened. You know that much now. You just don’t know what.
Jack dries his hands and turns back toward the kitchen, catching you looking. His eyebrows lift slightly. A silent question. You force a smile. He returns it automatically. And for a second, you hate how easy it is.
How easy it is for him to give people exactly what they need to see.
A smile.
A joke.
An “I’m okay.”
Whatever keeps them from asking questions.
Whatever keeps the attention away from him.
Tommy presses a button on his tablet.
Both of you look over.
“Jack thinking.”
The room goes quiet. Not because the observation is strange. Because it’s accurate.
Tommy looks between the two of you, then presses another button.
“Too much thinking.”
Jack lets out a startled laugh. A real one this time. Short. Unexpected.
You smile despite yourself.
But even as the moment passes, your eyes stay on him. Because for a second, just before he laughed, something flashed across his face.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Like Tommy had accidentally landed closer to the truth than either of you realized.
The moment passes. Or at least everyone pretends it does. Tommy returns to his weather report. Jack returns to drying the coffee mug. You return to watching him.
A few minutes later, Tommy disappears down the hall to brush his teeth. The apartment falls quiet. Not silent. Just missing the constant rhythm of Tommy’s tablet.
Jack sets the dish towel aside.
You take a sip of coffee.
Neither of you says anything for a moment.
“You’ve been doing that a lot.”
The words leave your mouth before you can talk yourself out of them.
Jack looks up.
“Doing what?”
“Spacing out.”
His brow furrows.
You gesture vaguely toward the living room. Toward the television. Toward nowhere in particular.
“Just…” You struggle for the right word. “Checked out.”
Understanding flashes across his face. Gone almost immediately.
“I’m tired.”
The answer comes so fast it sounds rehearsed. You stare at him. Jack sighs. Not annoyed. Just tired.
“I’ve been working a lot.”
“I know.”
His jaw tightens slightly. You see it. The same way you see the way his shoulders tense. The way his eyes drift toward the window. Looking for an exit. Not from the apartment. From the conversation.
“Jack.”
His gaze returns to yours. For a second, neither of you says anything. Then you ask the question that’s been sitting in your chest for weeks.
“Did something happen?”
The room goes still. Not dramatically. Not the kind of stillness that comes before an argument. The kind that comes when someone asks the right question.
Jack looks at you. Really looks at you. And for one awful second, you think he’s going to answer. You think whatever he’s been carrying is finally going to make it past his defenses.
Instead, his eyes drop.
A small shake of his head. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
The lie isn’t convincing. The worst part is that he knows it isn’t convincing. You both know it. But neither of you says it out loud.
Jack rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “You know how it is.”
The words land heavily between you. Because you do know. The long shifts. The bad outcomes. The things doctors carry home whether they want to or not. The things they never talk about because talking about them makes them real.
You understand all of that. The problem is that this feels different. Bigger. More personal. And somehow that makes it worse.
Tommy comes back before you can decide whether to push.
The conversation ends as quickly as it started.
Jack smiles at something Tommy says.
Tommy launches into another weather fact. The moment disappears. But not really. Because now you know something you didn’t know before. Something happened. Jack just isn’t ready to tell you what it was.
So the morning moves on.
Tommy finishes his weather report. Jack finishes his coffee. You pack Tommy’s lunch and pretend you don’t notice the way Jack goes quiet again while standing by the sink.
He catches himself faster this time. Or maybe he knows you’re watching now. Either way, by the time Tommy’s backpack is zipped and his shoes are on, Jack looks normal again.
Almost.
He crouches near the door while Tommy adjusts the strap of his tablet.
“Cold front after school?” Jack asks.
Tommy pauses, then nods.
“Rain later.”
“I’ll keep a jacket on me.”
Tommy studies him. Not the tablet. Not the door.
“Jack.”
The look lasts long enough that Jack notices. “What?”
Tommy doesn’t answer right away. His fingers hover over the screen.
Thinking.
His fingers hover over the screen. Thinking. Then he lowers his hand again.
No answer.
Jack’s brow creases faintly, but he doesn’t push.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Have a good day, buddy.”
Tommy lifts his tablet.
“Jack home later?”
Jack glances at you.
You nod once.
“Dinner,” Jack says. “I’ll be here.”
Tommy accepts that with a small nod, but his eyes stay on Jack for another second before he turns toward the door. You notice. Of course you notice. You spend the rest of the day trying not to think about it. It doesn’t work.
By the time dinner rolls around, you’ve checked your phone more times than you want to admit.
Jack texts at six twenty-eight.
On my way.
Two words. A normal text. A normal promise.
Still, your whole body loosens when you see it.
—
Dinner is quieter than usual that night.
Not bad. Not tense. Just quieter.
Tommy has a science project now, which somehow turns into a full explanation of cloud formation, severe weather patterns, and why the local meteorologist was wrong about Tuesday’s rain chances.
Jack listens. He asks questions when Tommy pauses for breath. Tommy lights up every time.
For a while, everything feels almost normal. Then you see it again. Not dramatic. Just a moment.
Tommy is halfway through explaining atmospheric pressure when Jack’s fork stops moving.
His eyes drift. Not toward the television. Not toward his plate. Just somewhere else.
Gone.
For a second. Maybe two. Then he blinks. Comes back. Nods as if no time has passed.
“What happens if the pressure drops too fast?” he asks.
Tommy answers immediately, pleased to be asked.
You look down at your plate. You don’t say anything. Neither does Tommy. But when you glance up again, Tommy is watching Jack. Not typing. Not eating. Just watching.
The way he watches radar maps. Studying. Tracking. Trying to understand. The feeling settles heavily in your stomach because Tommy has always noticed more than people realize.
Dinner moves on. Plates are cleared. Jack stands at the sink washing dishes while you dry. Water runs. The dishwasher hums softly beside you.
Tommy stays at the table with his tablet. Quiet. Unusually quiet. Every now and then, you catch him looking toward the sink. Toward Jack. Then back to the tablet. Thinking. He starts typing something. Stops. Deletes it. Types again.
Your stomach tightens.
Jack doesn’t notice. He’s staring down into the sink while he rinses a plate. For a second, his shoulders slump. Only for a second. Then they straighten again. The moment disappears.
Tommy sees that too. You know he does.
Eventually, Jack turns around with a dish towel in his hands and catches Tommy staring.
“What’s up?”
His voice is gentle. A little tired.
Tommy freezes.
Jack smiles faintly. “You keep looking at me.”
Tommy lowers his eyes to the tablet. Types. Stops. Deletes. Types again. The room feels strangely quiet. Even the water seems louder.
Jack waits. Patient. Tired.
Tommy presses the button.
“Jack is thinking.”
Jack’s smile flickers. A little surprised.
“A little,” he says.
Tommy watches him. Not satisfied. His fingers move again.
You stop drying dishes without realizing it. Jack notices. You notice him noticing. Nobody says anything.
Then Tommy presses another button.
“Jack is tired.”
Jack lets out a breath through his nose. “Yeah, buddy.”
Silence stretches.
Tommy looks down again. Types. Deletes. Types. Deletes. Like he’s searching for the exact words.
Jack leans back against the counter.
Waiting.
You can feel your own pulse in your throat because suddenly it feels like Tommy is standing in front of something neither of you has been willing to say out loud.
Finally, he presses the button.
“Jack is sad.”
The voice is calm. Matter-of-fact. No different than if he’d announced rain.
The room goes still. Jack doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t make a joke. Doesn’t answer immediately. He just looks at the tablet. Then at Tommy.
His fingers tighten briefly around the dish towel. You almost miss it. Almost.
The thing that gets you isn’t that Tommy said it. It’s that Jack doesn’t correct him. Doesn’t brush it aside. Doesn’t say, “I’m okay.”
For weeks, that’s all he’s done. Deflect. Redirect. Minimize. Now he’s just standing there. Looking tired. Looking caught. Looking like he’s trying to decide whether to tell the truth.
The silence stretches long enough that you start to wonder if he’s going to answer at all.
Then Tommy presses another button.
“I have question.”
Jack blinks. The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything. Just a reaction.
“A question, huh?”
Tommy nods.
You don’t realize you’ve stopped drying the dish in your hands until water drips onto your wrist.
Jack notices.
His eyes flick toward you. Then away again. Back to Tommy. Back to the words on the screen.
“Jack is sad.”
Finally, Jack lets out a slow breath. His gaze drops to the floor. Then lifts again.
“A little, buddy.”
The words come quietly. So quietly that for a second you think you imagined them.
Tommy doesn’t look surprised. He just nods once. Like that makes sense. Like he’d already known.
Your chest tightens. Because that’s the first honest answer you’ve heard from Jack in weeks.
Not, “I’m fine.”
Not, “I’m tired.”
Not, “Long shift.”
Just—
“A little, buddy.”
Jack looks away almost immediately after saying it. As if the admission itself cost him something.
Tommy watches him for another moment, then lowers his eyes to the tablet again. His fingers move across the screen. Slowly. Carefully. Searching.
You see Jack notice it too. The way his attention follows Tommy’s hands. The way his shoulders tense almost imperceptibly. Waiting to see what comes next.
Tommy presses the button.
“Stay here.”
The words land softly. Almost gently. And somehow they hit harder than everything else.
Jack’s eyes close. Only for a second. Then open again. His jaw shifts like he’s trying to swallow around something.
Nobody says anything. Not you. Not Tommy. Not even Jack. The room simply sits with it.
Stay here.
Two simple words. A request. An instruction. Maybe both.
And when Jack finally looks back at Tommy, there’s something in his expression you’ve been catching glimpses of for weeks. Not exhaustion. Not distraction. Something hurt. Something lonely. Something trying very hard not to break.
“I’m not going anywhere, buddy.” His voice is steady. But only just.
Tommy studies him. Making sure. Then nods. Satisfied. For him, the conversation is over. For you, it feels like it’s only just begun.
For a while, neither of you mentions it.
Tommy moves on. The weather forecast becomes more important than feelings again. The dishes get finished. The evening continues.
On the surface, everything returns to normal. Underneath, nothing does.
By the time Tommy is in bed, the apartment feels quieter than usual.
Jack is sitting on the couch when you come back from Tommy’s room. The television is on. Muted. Neither of you is watching it.
You settle beside him. Close enough that your knees touch. For a minute, neither of you speaks. Jack stares at the silent television screen.You stare at him.
Eventually, you lean your head against his shoulder. He immediately shifts closer. Automatic. Instinct. The movement makes your chest ache. Because even now, even like this, he still seems tired.
Not physically. Something deeper. Like exhaustion has settled somewhere behind his ribs.
“Hey.” His voice is quiet.
“Hm?”
“You okay?”
The question almost makes you laugh. Of course he’d ask you.
You lift your head just enough to look at him. “When’s the last time you slept through the night?”
Jack goes still. Not dramatically. Just enough. His eyes stay on the television. The silence stretches.
“That’s a weird way to answer my question.”
You don’t smile. Neither does he. Because neither of you is really talking about sleep. A long breath leaves him. His hand rubs slowly across his jaw.
Thinking. Buying time.
Finally—
“A while.”
The honesty catches you off guard. Because it’s more than he’s given you in weeks.
“How long is a while?”
Jack shrugs. “Don’t know.”
A lie. Not a malicious one. Just the kind people tell when the real answer feels too heavy. You let it go. For now.
The room falls quiet again. Jack leans forward. Forearms resting on his knees. Staring at the floor.
You watch him and wait. And for the first time, he doesn’t immediately try to fill the silence. Doesn’t make a joke. Doesn’t redirect. Just sits there.
Like he’s tired of carrying it. Whatever it is. Not ready to share it. But tired. Very, very tired.
The apartment settles around you. The refrigerator hums in the kitchen. A car passes somewhere outside. The television flashes silently across the dark room.
Jack doesn’t look up. You don’t push. For once, the silence doesn’t feel like something that needs to be filled.
It just sits between you. Heavy. Patient. Waiting. Eventually, Jack leans back against the couch cushions. His head tips back, eyes closing briefly.
You watch the tension settle into his face the moment he stops pretending. Not disappear. Just become visible. The line between his brows. The tightness in his jaw. The exhaustion he carries so carefully during the day.
“Tommy’s smart.”
The words come unexpectedly. His eyes are still closed.
You smile faintly. “Yeah.”
Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Little terrifying.”
That gets a real smile out of you. “A little.”
“He notices everything.”
The smile fades. You glance at him. Jack is staring at the ceiling now. Not looking at you. Not looking at anything.
“He gets that from you.”
A corner of your mouth twitches. “You say that like it’s a compliment.”
“It is.”
The answer comes immediately. Automatic. Certain. For a moment, neither of you says anything.
Then Jack swallows. You see it. The way his throat works. The way his jaw tightens afterward. Like he’s arguing with himself.
You know that look now. It’s the look he gets when he’s standing on the edge of saying something and can’t decide whether to jump.
“I had a kid a few weeks ago.”
Your breath catches. Not because of the words. Because of the way he says them. Flat. Controlled. Like he’s repeated them in his head a hundred times already.
You don’t speak. Don’t interrupt.
Jack’s gaze stays fixed on the ceiling. “He was seven.”
The room feels smaller suddenly. Jack laughs once. A short, humorless sound.
“He liked dinosaurs.” His eyes close. Just for a second. “We worked on him for almost forty minutes.”
The sentence lands heavily. You don’t need him to explain what happened. Not really. You know enough. Forty minutes means hope lasted longer than it should have. Forty minutes means everyone tried. Forty minutes means it still wasn’t enough.
Jack’s hands clasp together. Tight. “Told his mom we’d do everything we could.” His voice stays calm. Too calm. “And we did. But he still died.”
There it is. The thing underneath everything. The sleepless nights. The missed meals. The thousand-yard stare. The exhaustion. The guilt.
Not because Jack made a mistake. Not because he failed. Because somebody trusted him with the most important thing in their world. And he couldn’t save him.
You reach for his hand slowly. Giving him time to pull away if he wants. He doesn’t. The second your fingers touch his, something in him softens. Like he’s been holding himself rigid for weeks and suddenly doesn’t have the energy anymore.
“You know that’s not your fault.” The words are quiet. Careful.
Jack lets out a long breath and stares at your joined hands.
“I know.” He swallows. Then, even quieter, “Most days.”
Your eyes burn. Because that’s the most honest thing he’s said all night. Maybe all month.
You squeeze his hand. Jack stares at your fingers tangled with his for a long moment before he speaks again.
“The kid was part of it,” he says.
Your chest tightens.
“But it wasn’t just him.”
You stay quiet.
Jack leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, your hand still caught loosely in his.
“We’ve been getting killed lately.”
His voice stays quiet. Matter-of-fact. Like he’s discussing the weather.
“Short staffed. Overflowing. People waiting forever because there aren’t enough beds.” His gaze drops to the floor. “Residents asking questions. Nurses pulling me in six directions. Families demanding answers I don’t have.”
His jaw tightens. “People yelling because they’ve been waiting six hours.” His voice drops. “People yelling because they haven’t.”
You squeeze his hand again. This time, his fingers tighten back. Barely. But enough.
“I keep showing up earlier,” he says.
You think about all the mornings he came over for breakfast looking exhausted before his shift had technically even started.
All the times he brushed it off.
“Half the time I walk in and we’re already behind.” He gives a faint, humorless laugh. “And then I stay late because there’s another patient. Another family. Another resident who needs help.”
His gaze drops.
“One more thing turns into thirty minutes. Thirty minutes turns into two hours.”
The words settle heavily between you. Because you’ve seen that too.
The texts.
Running late.
Still at work.
Be there soon.
And every single time, he showed up anyway. No matter how tired he looked. No matter how long the day had been.
“I kept thinking it would settle down,” he says.
His mouth twitches.
“It didn’t.” Jack rubs his thumb once across your knuckles. “I stopped sleeping right.”
The confession comes quietly. Almost casually. Like it shouldn’t matter. Like it isn’t the thing you’ve been watching happen in pieces for weeks.
You stare at him. “How long?”
His eyes drift away. “Couple weeks.”
Your stomach drops. Couple weeks. Not nights.
Weeks.
“Jack.”
“I know.”
The answer comes immediately. Like he’s already had this argument with himself a hundred times.
You study him. The dark circles beneath his eyes. The exhaustion. The way he’s been disappearing in the middle of conversations. Standing in front of refrigerators. Forgetting appointments. Missing dinner. All the little things suddenly line up.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Jack goes still. The question sits between you. Quiet. Simple. Harder than all the others.
His voice is softer when he answers. “I didn’t want it in here. I didn’t want Tommy worrying.”
Your throat tightens. “Jack.”
“I didn’t want you worrying either.”
That one hurts. Because that is exactly what happened. He carried everything alone trying to protect the two of you from it. And in the process, you spent weeks watching him slowly disappear.
Jack rubs both hands over his face. Exhaustion finally winning.
“I just wanted one place where I wasn’t bringing that stuff through the door.”
The confession settles heavily between you. And suddenly every piece falls into place. The missed meals. The sleepless nights. The apologies. The way he would rather sit on your couch exhausted than be alone in his apartment. The way he kept insisting he was fine.
Not because he believed it. Because he wanted you to. And somehow that breaks your heart more than if he had told you the truth from the beginning.
Your hand tightens around his.
“Jack.”
He looks at you. Tired. Guarded. Already bracing.
“No.”
His brow furrows. “No?”
“You don’t get to do that.”
Confusion flickers across his face, but you can tell he understands before he says anything.
You keep your voice low. Steady.
“You don’t get to spend weeks carrying all of this by yourself and then tell me you were protecting us.”
Jack looks away.
You let out a slow breath. “Look at me.”
His eyes come back to yours. Reluctantly.
“You know what I’ve been doing for weeks?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Worrying.”
The word lands softly.
“I’ve been watching you forget things. Stop eating. Fall asleep sitting up.”
Your throat tightens.
“I’ve been asking if you’re okay, and every time, you told me you were fine. Do you know what you would’ve done if this was me?”
Jack goes still.
“If I stopped eating? If I stopped sleeping? If I kept disappearing in the middle of conversations and telling you I was fine?”
His jaw tightens.
“You would’ve been at my door every day until I talked to you.”
Jack doesn’t answer.
“Jack, I knew something was wrong.”
The truth sits between you. Quiet. Heavy.
“And Tommy knew too.”
That gets him. His eyes flicker.
You keep going, gentler now, but no less firm.
“He’s been watching you all week. Longer than that, probably.”
Jack swallows.
“He noticed when you weren’t listening. He noticed when you got quiet. He noticed when you missed dinner.”
Your voice catches.
“He asked if you were tired because he was worried about you.”
Jack’s face changes. Not dramatically. But enough. Enough that you know it landed exactly where it needed to.
“You didn’t protect us from worrying,” you say. “You just made us do it without knowing why.”
His eyes close. Your chest tightens. Not because you wanted to hurt him. Because you needed him to understand.
“How many times have you told me to talk to you?”
His eyes open again.
“How many times have you told me I don’t have to carry everything alone?”
You swallow hard.
“How many times have you sat at my kitchen table and listened to me talk about work, or Tommy, or bills, or school meetings, or whatever else felt too heavy that day?”
Jack doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t have to.
“You tell me all the time that we’re a team.”
Your voice shakes, but you don’t look away.
“And then the second you’re the one struggling, you decide you have to handle it by yourself.”
His gaze drops to your joined hands.
“That’s not fair.”
The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be.
Jack stares down for a long moment.
“I know.”
His voice is rough.
You shake your head. “No. I don’t think you do.”
He looks back at you then.
“You keep acting like letting me help you is some kind of burden.”
Something moves across his face. Pain. Recognition. Shame.
You soften, but you don’t back down. “You show up for us every day.”
Your thumb brushes over his knuckles.
“For Tommy. For me. You come to dinner exhausted. You sit through weather reports when all you want to do is sleep. You make him feel seen. You make me feel like I’m not doing this alone.”
His throat works.
“And we would do the same thing for you.”
The words land. You see it happen. Because suddenly this isn’t about what he gives. It’s about what he refuses to receive.
You reach up and cup his face, guiding his eyes back to yours.
“I don’t need you to be okay all the time.” Your voice softens. “But I need you to tell me when you’re not.”
Jack’s eyes shine. For the first time all night, he doesn’t look away. Doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t give you an automatic answer. He just sits there, exhausted and vulnerable, like a man who has spent so long being the person everyone leans on that he forgot he was allowed to lean back.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
You believe him. Not because he’s apologizing for struggling. Because he’s apologizing for shutting both of you out. And those are two very different things.
The fight drains out of the room after that. What’s left is quieter. More fragile.
Jack sits beside you, shoulders rounded, your hand still tangled with his. Not arguing. Not defending himself. Just there. Breathing.
His thumb brushes the back of your hand once.
You look at him.
The dark circles beneath his eyes. The exhaustion etched into every line of his face. The man who showed up for dinner every night even when he could barely keep his eyes open. The man who listened to weather reports when all he wanted was sleep. The man who spent weeks quietly unraveling and still made sure Tommy felt seen, understood, and loved.
Your chest tightens. “Can I tell you something?”
His voice is quiet. “Always.”
Your hand drifts into his hair, slow and gentle.
His eyes close for half a second before opening again.
“I knew you were different the first day I met you.”
His brow furrows. “The cookie day?”
A small laugh escapes you. “Yeah. The cookie day.”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
“You know what I remember?”
“What?”
“Waiting.”
Jack watches you, confused.
“Waiting for you to get uncomfortable.”
The faint smile disappears.
“I’ve spent most of Tommy’s life watching people change the second they realize he uses an AAC.”
Jack’s mouth flattens.
“They don’t mean to.” Your fingers move carefully through his hair. “But they do.”
You glance down.
“They talk to me instead of him.” Your throat tightens. “They look at the tablet instead of his face.”
Jack looks away, jaw working.
“I remember standing there waiting for it.”
Your forehead brushes his. “But it never happened.”
Jack goes still.
“You looked at him.” Your voice drops. “You introduced yourself.”
You move closer, your hand sliding from his hair to the side of his face.
“You listened.” Your voice catches. “And then he started talking about weather and you argued with him.”
That earns a real laugh. Warm. Low.
You smile with him.
“But you never looked at him like he was strange.” Your nose brushes his. “You never looked at me like I needed to explain him.”
Jack’s hand settles at your waist. Not pulling. Just holding. Grounding himself.
“You just treated him like Tommy.”
His fingers flex against your side.
“I think that’s when I started falling for you.”
Jack inhales sharply. His gaze drops briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes.
Your pulse drums in your ears.
“I love the way Tommy looks for you at the door.”
Your voice is barely above a whisper.
Jack closes his eyes.
Your thumb brushes along his cheek.
“I love that you learned about weather because he wanted someone to talk to.”
His fingers tighten at your waist.
“I love that you make him feel safe.”
Neither of you moves away.
“I love that you make me feel safe too.”
Jack’s head dips. A shaky breath leaves him. Without thinking, you move closer. Slowly. Giving him every chance to stop you. One knee settles beside his hip.
You pause.
His eyes never leave yours. Then the other knee follows. Jack’s breath catches. Still, he doesn’t move away.
The second you settle into his lap, his hands slide to your waist automatically. Like they’ve always belonged there. Your forehead presses against his.
The room narrows until there’s only the warmth of him.
Only this.
“I love that you show up.” Your fingers skim the back of his neck. “Even when you’re tired.”
Your lips brush his cheek.
“Even when you’re hurting.”
His hands tighten on your waist.
“I love that you stay.”
You kiss the corner of his mouth.
Soft.
Brief.
Jack’s eyes close.
“I love that you make ordinary days feel less lonely.”
Another kiss. Closer this time. His breath catches against your mouth.
“I love that you became part of our life so quietly I didn’t notice until I couldn’t imagine you anywhere else.”
Jack’s forehead presses harder against yours. Like he’s trying to hold himself together.
Your hands slide down to his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath your palms.
“And I love you, Jack.”
The words come quietly. Certain. Terrifying. True.
Jack stills. His grip tightens almost imperceptibly at your waist. For a second, he just looks at you. Like the words don’t make sense. Like they’re too much. Like he never thought he’d be given something this gentle and real and meant for him.
Your hand cups his cheek again. “You don’t have to earn it.”
His eyes shine.
“You don’t have to be perfect for it.” Your thumb brushes beneath his eye. “You don’t have to save everyone to deserve it.”
His face crumples. Just enough.
“I love you because you’re you.”
Jack lets out a breath that sounds almost broken. His hand slides up your back. Holding you closer.
“I love you too.”
The words come out rough. Immediate. His forehead stays pressed to yours.
“I love you so much it scares me.”
Your breath catches.
Jack’s voice drops lower.
“I didn’t think I got to have this.”
You go still.
He swallows hard.
“I didn’t think I got to come home to somebody waiting for me.” His hands flex at your waist. “I didn’t think I got to have a kid looking for me at the door.”
Your eyes burn.
“I didn’t think I got to be loved like this.”
The confession breaks something open in your chest.
You kiss him before you can answer. Slow. Deep. Full of everything neither of you has known how to say.
Jack makes a quiet sound against your mouth, one hand sliding up to the back of your neck as he kisses you back. Not desperate. Not rushed. But with a kind of aching relief that makes your whole body soften into his.
When you pull back, your forehead stays against his. Your breathing unsteady. His hand is warm at the back of your neck.
“You do,” you whisper.
His eyes open.
“You get to have this.” Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt. “You get to have us.”
Jack’s eyes shine brighter.
You smile through your tears.
“And I need you to understand something.”
He watches you.
“You are not a guest here.”
His breath catches.
“You are not some temporary piece of our life.” Your voice trembles. “You belong here, Jack.”
Jack’s jaw shifts.
“You are loved here.”
His eyes close.
“And when things get hard, I don’t want you across the hall trying to survive it alone. I want you here.”
He pulls you closer then. Both arms around your waist. Face turning into the side of your neck.
You hold him immediately, fingers sliding into his hair. For a second, neither of you speaks. You just hold on.
Then his voice comes muffled against your skin. “I love your laugh.”
Your breath catches.
He lifts his head slowly. Eyes bright. Wrecked. Honest. “I love hearing you in the kitchen.”
A small, shaky smile pulls at your mouth.
“I love movie nights.” His thumb moves slowly against your back. “I love breakfast after shifts.”
His voice breaks slightly. “I love that your apartment feels more like home than mine.”
That one steals the air from your lungs.
Jack looks at you like the truth hurts to say, but he’s saying it anyway.
“I love the way you love Tommy.”
Your tears spill over.
“I love that Tommy never has to wonder if he’s enough with you.” He took a breath. “And I love that somewhere along the way, you started seeing me too.”
You kiss him again. Because there isn’t anything else to do with all of that. This kiss is deeper. Warmer.
His hand at your neck. Your fingers in his hair. His chest rising hard beneath yours. When you pull back, it’s only because you both need air.
Jack’s lips brush yours once more. Then again. Like he can’t quite stop. Like now that he’s allowed to have this, he doesn’t know how to let go.
You smile against his mouth.
“I didn’t think I’d get this either.”
He stills.
You open your eyes.
“For a long time, I thought it would just be me and Tommy.”
His gaze softens.
“And I was okay with that.” Your thumb brushes over his cheek. “I had him. I had a good life.”
Your voice wavers.
“But I didn’t think I’d find someone who would look at both of us and stay.”
Jack’s eyes close. Like that hurts in the best possible way.
“I didn’t think I’d find someone who loved Tommy exactly as he is.” Your forehead rests against his. “I didn’t think I’d find someone who made room for both of us without making it feel like work.”
Jack’s breathing turns uneven beneath you. You kiss him once. Soft.
“I didn’t think I’d get you.”
His eyes close. Not immediately. Not like the words hurt. Like they reached somewhere he hadn’t known was still waiting.
For a moment, neither of you moves. His hands stay at your waist. Yours stay tangled in his shirt.
The apartment is quiet around you. The television hums softly. Somewhere down the hall, Tommy sleeps.
Jack opens his eyes. They’re bright.
“You really mean that?”
The question is so quiet you almost miss it.
Your heart breaks a little. Because he isn’t asking for reassurance. He’s asking because some part of him still can’t quite believe it.
You brush your thumb across his cheek. “Every word.”
Jack laughs. A small sound. Shaky around the edges.
His gaze drops briefly before finding yours again. “I keep waiting to wake up.”
Your breath catches. “Jack—”
“No, seriously.” A smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. “I keep thinking eventually somebody’s going to tell me I imagined all of this.”
His hand slides up your back. Slow. Careful.
“You.” He swallowed. “Tommy.”
His eyes drift toward the hallway. Then back to you.
“This.”
The single word carries everything. The dinners. The weather reports. The keys. The mornings. The life that somehow became his without him realizing it.
You lean forward and press your forehead against his again.
“You know what I think?”
His mouth curves faintly. “What?”
“I think you’re an idiot.”
A surprised laugh escapes him. Real this time.
You smile. “I think you’ve spent so long taking care of everybody else that you forgot people are allowed to love you too.”
The laugh fades. Not because he’s upset. Because he doesn’t know what to do with that.
Your hand settles over his heart. “You don’t have to earn your way into this family, Jack.”
His breath leaves him slowly. Like he’s hearing it for the first time.
“You’re already here.”
Silence. Not awkward. Not uncertain. Just full.
Jack stares at you for a long moment.
Then his forehead drops against yours. “Good.”
The word is barely above a whisper.
Your throat tightens. “Good?”
His eyes close.
A tired smile pulls at his mouth. “Yeah.”
His arms tighten around you. Just enough.
“Because I don’t think I know how to leave anymore.”
And that one gets you. Because somewhere down the hall, Tommy is asleep. The television is still humming. The apartment is warm. Lived in. Home.
And for the first time in a long while, neither of you is wondering if he’ll stay.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8
Summary: After a drunken Vegas wedding, Robby disappears by morning, leaving you with nothing but a ring and a mistake that was supposed to stay in Vegas. But when a pregnancy and state paperwork force you to track down the husband who vanished, Robby learns the truth and this time, walking away isn’t so easy.
WC: 9K
Tags: Tags: Drunken Vegas Wedding, Runaway Husband, Unexpected Pregnancy, Forced Reunion, Second Chance Romance, Robby Wants to Stay, Romantic Comedy vibes with some Angst, No use of Y/N
Two weeks after the ultrasound, you had seen more of Pittsburgh than some people who had lived there for years.
Robby had made suggestions at first. Quiet ones. Nothing pushy. A museum if you wanted to get out. A bookstore in Squirrel Hill. A coffee shop Google reviews swore by. A park with decent walking paths. A place with pierogies that apparently everyone had opinions about.
You went. To all of them.
You walked through museums slowly, reading plaques until the words stopped sticking. You sat in coffee shops with a book open in front of you and barely turned the pages. You tried restaurants people called charming. You crossed bridges. You learned neighborhoods by name. You took pictures of views that probably would have impressed you more if you had not been trying so hard to feel impressed.
Pittsburgh was not bad. That almost made it worse.
It was pretty in ways you had not expected. Green hills. Old brick. Rain-dark streets. Houses tucked into slopes like the whole city had been built by someone stubborn enough to make gravity negotiate.
There were good meals. Good walks. Good days, technically. But none of it was Vegas. None of it was home.
Vegas had been heat rising off pavement after midnight. Neon bleeding across sidewalks. Music spilling out of open doors. Tourists laughing too loud. Coworkers yelling over the bar noise. The constant pulse of people moving, spending, leaving, arriving.
Vegas never asked you to be still. Pittsburgh did.
And at first, stillness had felt like relief. Then it started to feel like punishment. You were in your thirties. You had worked too long, carried too much, rebuilt yourself too many times to suddenly become someone who filled her days with errands and walks and waiting for someone else’s work shift to end.
But that was what your life had become.
Groceries.
Laundry.
Reading.
Dinners.
Walks through neighborhoods that were beautiful and quiet and not yours.
You were grateful. That was the part that made you angry. Because Robby had given you safety. A bed. Financial breathing room. Insurance. A house where no one expected you to be anything but okay. And still, some ugly, restless part of you kept pressing against the walls.
Not because you wanted to leave him. Not exactly. Because you missed yourself. You missed your life. You missed working.
Not bartending specifically. Not the sticky floors or the men who thought tipping meant they had purchased your patience. Not the ache in your feet after a long shift or the smell of tequila clinging to your hair no matter how long you stood under the shower.
You missed having somewhere to be.
A reason to leave the house that was not an appointment or a grocery list. A schedule that belonged to you. A body tired from doing something other than waiting.
Some mornings, the thought of going back showed up before you had even finished your coffee.
Not as a plan. Not exactly. More like checking for an exit in a crowded room.
How much money did you have left? How long would the drive take? Could you get your old job back, or had someone already taken your shifts?
You never followed the thought all the way through. You always closed the app, folded another load of laundry, made another grocery list.
But the thought kept coming back anyway.
You missed the noise.
Real noise. Human noise. The kind that filled the air before you had time to think too hard. Glasses hitting counters. Music too loud. Someone laughing from across the room. Someone yelling your name because they needed another bottle from the back. The low, constant movement of a place that did not care if you were lonely because it was too busy being alive.
Robby’s house was quiet. Not empty. Not anymore. But quiet in a way that made your thoughts louder. You knew the sounds of it too well now.
The dishwasher clicking into its dry cycle. The refrigerator humming. The heat kicking on. The distant rumble of Robby’s motorcycle when he came home late enough for the whole neighborhood to hear it before you did.
You knew which cabinet stuck. Which burner on the stove ran hotter than the others. How long the washing machine took to finish a cycle.
You knew all of it because there had been too much time to learn it.
At first, you told yourself it was useful. Robby worked long shifts. You were here. Cooking made sense. Cleaning made sense. Grocery shopping made sense. It was not like you were doing anything else. That thought started as a joke. Then it stopped being funny.
Some days, you woke up and made a list just to prove the day had shape.
Laundry.
Bank.
Walk.
Dinner.
Prenatal vitamin.
Call pharmacy.
You wrote things down even when you knew you would remember them, because crossing them off gave you a small, pathetic sense of accomplishment.
Other days, you did not make a list at all. Those were worse. Those were the days you stood in the kitchen with your hands braced against the counter, looking around for something that needed doing and feeling a little sick when you realized you had already done it.
The floors were clean.
The fridge was organized.
The dishes were put away.
The laundry was folded.
Dinner was planned.
There was nothing left to fix. Nothing left to manage. Nothing left to be useful for.
So you walked.
At first, walking helped.
You found different streets, different hills, different houses with porch swings and overgrown gardens and old stone steps slick from rain. You learned where the sidewalks cracked and where the trees arched low enough to brush your shoulder if you were not paying attention.
Then the walks started looping back on themselves.
Same streets.
Same houses.
Same quiet.
Same body moving through a place that still did not feel like yours.
And when you came home, Robby’s house waited exactly where you had left it.
Safe.
Warm.
Still.
You started getting quiet.
Not all at once. Not enough that anyone could point to a single moment and say, There. That was when it changed.
But Robby noticed anyway.
He noticed when you stopped leaving the television on in the afternoon. When your answers got shorter. When you started making dinner earlier and earlier, like getting it done sooner might make the evening arrive faster.
He noticed when you stopped telling him about the places you went.
At first, he tried asking.
“How was the museum?”
“Fine.”
“Coffee shop any good?”
“Fine.”
“Did you like the park?”
“It was fine.”
Fine became the word you used when you did not have the energy to explain that nothing was wrong enough to justify how wrong you felt.
Robby never called you on it.
That almost made it worse.
He would just nod once, careful and quiet, and let the answer sit there like he could tell it had teeth.
You wanted him to push. You wanted him to leave it alone. You wanted him to ask the exact right question that would crack you open without making you bleed.
You hated that no version of him could win.
You hated that too.
You hated how patient he was. How steady. How he gave you room without making you feel abandoned. How he came home exhausted and still checked the fridge to see if you had eaten. How he never asked you to explain feelings you had not figured out how to name.
You hated that he was doing everything right and you still felt like this.
Then the snippiness started.
Small things at first.
He asked if you had taken your prenatal vitamin, and you looked up from the sink with soap on your hands and said, “Yes, Michael. I managed to swallow one pill without supervision.”
The second it left your mouth, you wished you could take it back.
Robby only stood there for a beat, hand still on the refrigerator door. You watched the apology rise in your throat and die there.
Then he nodded once. “Okay.”
That was all.
No argument. No wounded look. No lecture about how he was only trying to help.
Just okay.
He grabbed a bottle of water, asked if dinner needed another twenty minutes, and moved around you like you had not just snapped at him hard enough to leave a mark.
Which somehow made the guilt sharper.
Another night, he came home and found you sitting at the kitchen table with a grocery receipt, circling prices you already knew were too high.
“You need me to pick anything up tomorrow?” he asked.
You did not look up. “No.”
“You sure?”
“I said no.”
The room went quiet.
Robby set his keys in the bowl by the door. Softer than usual.
“Okay.”
Something inside you twisted.
“Why do you keep asking me the same thing?” you snapped, finally looking at him. “I said no. I heard you the first time.”
His expression flickered before smoothing out.
“I was just checking.”
“I know what you were doing.”
For a second, he only looked at you.
Then his jaw shifted once.
“You know I’m just trying to help, right?”
The words were not sharp. Not exactly. But they were not as soft as okay either.
That made it worse.
You looked down at the receipt. “I know.”
“You don’t have to bite my head off for it.”
The silence that followed felt enormous.
Your eyes closed. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know,” he said.
But this time, it sounded tired. Not angry. Just tired enough to make your chest ache.
Because he did know. And he was still standing there.
You did not even know what you meant half the time.
Only that everything inside you felt rubbed raw. Like your life had narrowed down to a house that was not yours, a body that kept changing, and a man who was kind enough to make your anger feel unfair.
Some nights, the pressure had nowhere to go, so you cried in the bathroom with the faucet running and hated yourself for needing even that.
You stared at yourself in the mirror and tried to pinpoint the exact place where gratitude had curdled into resentment, where rest had become stagnation, where being cared for had started to feel indistinguishable from disappearing.
The worst part was waking up each morning and doing it all again.
Coffee.
Laundry.
Walk.
Dinner.
Fine.
Fine.
Fine.
The worst day was the junk drawer.
It should not have been the junk drawer. That was what made it worse.
Robby came home to the contents of it spread across the kitchen counter.
Batteries. Pens. Loose screws. Tape. Rubber bands. Receipts. Three chargers that belonged to nothing useful. A takeout menu from a restaurant that had closed two years ago. A handful of keys with no labels and no obvious purpose.
You had sorted all of it into separate piles.
The drawer itself sat open and empty while you wiped down the inside with a paper towel, jaw tight, sleeves pushed up, one hand braced against the counter like this was a task with stakes.
Robby stopped in the kitchen doorway. For a second, he did not say anything.
Then, carefully, “What happened?”
You did not look up. “Your junk drawer was disgusting.”
“It’s a junk drawer.”
“That isn’t an excuse.”
“It’s kind of the point.”
“No, the point is that things go in it. Not that they rot there until future civilizations find them.”
The room went quiet. You kept wiping. The drawer was already clean. You knew that. Robby probably knew it too. Still, he did not say anything right away. He just stood there with his bag still over one shoulder, watching the counter.
Watching you. Not judgmental. That would have been easier. Careful. That was worse.
He set his bag down near the door.
“Did something happen today?”
“No.”
Too fast.
His eyes moved to your face. You hated that he heard it. The silence stretched.
You dropped the paper towel into the trash and reached for a stack of pens you had already tested twice.
“You don’t have to do that.”
His brows drew together slightly. “Do what?”
“Handle me.”
“I’m not handling you.”
“Yes, you are.”
Robby stayed still.
You snapped a rubber band around the working pens a little harder than necessary.
“You do that thing where you get all calm and careful like I’m going to break if you speak normally.”
His expression shifted, small enough that you almost missed it.
“I’m trying not to make it worse.”
“Well,” you said, looking up at him finally, “that’s worse.”
The words landed badly. You knew it immediately.
Robby looked down for half a second, then back at you. His face did not harden. That would have been easier too.
“I’m not mad about the drawer,” he said.
“I didn’t ask if you were.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you standing there like that?”
“Because I came home and found you sorting rubber bands like your life depended on it.”
You let out a breath through your nose. “It needed to be done.”
“Did it?”
“Yes.”
He was quiet for a second.
Then, gently, “Did it need to be done today?”
Something in you went still.
You looked down at the counter.
The batteries.
The pens.
The small bowl full of screws.
All of it suddenly looked ridiculous.
Your hands curled against the edge of the counter.
“I needed something to do.”
The words came out flat.
Robby did not answer right away. That was worse than anything he could have said.
You swallowed once and kept staring at the mess.
“I already did the laundry. I already went to the store. I already took a walk. Dinner’s already made. The house is clean. The dishes are done.”
Your voice stayed level.
Too level.
“There was nothing else.”
The silence after that felt different.
Not sharp.
Not heavy.
Just bare.
Robby stepped farther into the kitchen, but not too close.
“You don’t have to keep finding things to fix.”
Your mouth tightened. “If I don’t, then I just sit here.”
He absorbed that quietly.
You hated how small your voice sounded when you added, “I’m tired of sitting here.”
Robby’s face softened.
Something in you recoiled from it. Not because it was pity. Because it wasn’t. Because he understood enough to make it dangerous.
“I’m not ungrateful,” you said quickly.
“I know.”
“No, I mean it.” You looked up, defensive before he had even accused you of anything. “I know what you’ve done. I know I’m safe here. I know I have a doctor because of you. I know I have insurance and food and a place to sleep, and I know all of that matters.”
“I know.”
“But I hate this.”
The words came out before you could make them kinder.
You stopped breathing for a second.
Robby did too, maybe.
You waited for the flinch. The hurt. The quiet proof that you had finally said too much. It did not come. His eyes stayed on yours.
“The house?” he asked.
“No.”
Immediate.
At least that part was true.
Your fingers tightened against the counter.
“No,” you said, softer. “Not the house.”
You searched for the right words and found nothing clean enough to hold it.
“This.”
You looked around, but there was nothing specific enough to blame.
The counter.
The drawer.
The piles.
Your own body.
Your whole life.
“This,” you repeated. “Whatever this is.”
Robby did not move.
You looked down before he could see too much.
“I feel like I’m waiting all the time.”
The confession scraped on the way out.
“Waiting for appointments. Waiting for test results. Waiting for you to come home. Waiting for the baby to be here. Waiting to know what happens after that. Waiting to feel like any of this is actually mine.”
Robby’s mouth tightened, but he still said nothing.
You hated that you were grateful for it.
“I had a life,” you said.
Your voice nearly broke on the last word. You shook your head once, quick and angry at yourself.
“I had a job. I had people who knew me. I had streets I could walk without looking at my phone. I had places I belonged even when they were terrible places.”
You looked back at the counter. “At least they were mine.”
The kitchen went completely still.
The refrigerator hummed behind you. Late afternoon sunlight pressed faintly against the windows. Somewhere outside, a car passed too slowly down the street.
You picked up one of the loose keys and turned it over in your fingers even though it told you nothing.
“Maybe this was a mistake.”
Robby went very still. You heard it more than saw it. The change in the room. The absence of movement.
Your eyes closed.
“That’s not—”
You stopped. Because you did not know what it was.
“I don’t know,” you admitted, voice thin. “Maybe you should just sign the papers.”
Silence.
The key bit into your palm.
“Maybe I should go back.”
Robby’s jaw shifted once. “Is that what you want?”
You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. Because if the answer had been yes, maybe that would have been easier. If the answer had been no, maybe that would have been easier too.
Instead, you stared down at the piles on the counter and felt like every possible version of your life had become too large to look at directly.
“I don’t know.” The words were barely more than breath. “I don’t know what I want.”
Robby stayed quiet.
You hated that too. You hated that he did not rush in and tell you what to feel.
You hated that he did not make himself the villain so leaving would feel cleaner.
You hated that he stood there looking at you like he was trying to understand something that kept changing shape in your hands.
“I just know I can’t keep being this person,” you said.
Your voice cracked on person.
You looked around the kitchen.
At the drawer.
At the folded receipt.
At the house that had kept you safe and somehow made you feel smaller every day.
“I’m in your house. I’m using your insurance. Your money. Your space. And I’m snapping at you because you asked if I took a vitamin.” A short, humorless laugh left you. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here half the time except making both our lives harder.”
Robby’s jaw tightened. “You’re not making my life harder.”
“You don’t have to say that.”
“I’m not.”
“Michael.” Your fingers curled against the counter. “You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t ask for me. There was a reason you left Vegas.”
Robby went still.
“Because you didn’t want this life.”
His face changed then. Not anger. Not exactly. But something sharper than the patience he had been giving you all week.
“Don’t do that.”
You looked up. “What?”
“Decide what I want for me.”
Your throat tightened. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Yes,” he said, quiet but firm. “It is.”
The room held still around the words.
“You keep giving me an exit I didn’t ask for.”
You swallowed. “I’m trying to be realistic.”
“No,” he said.
Not loud. Not cruel. Just immediate enough to make you go still.
“You’re trying to make the decision easier.”
Something in your chest pulled tight.
“Because I don’t know how to make any decision anymore,” you snapped, and your voice broke before you could stop it. “I used to know what I was doing. I used to have answers. I used to have a life that made sense, even when it was messy, and now I can’t even tell if staying here is brave or stupid.”
Robby did not answer.
Your eyes stung.
“You don’t know what this feels like.”
That stopped him.
For the first time since he came home, Robby looked like the words had gotten through somewhere he had not expected.
A muscle shifted in his jaw.
“No,” he said quietly. “I don’t.”
The admission sat between you.
No argument.
No correction.
No pretending.
He took a slow breath.
“I don’t know what it feels like to leave everything behind. I don’t know what it feels like to be nineteen weeks pregnant and sitting in someone else’s kitchen feeling like your whole life got replaced by appointments and grocery lists.”
You looked away.
“But I know this isn’t just about Vegas,” he said.
Your eyes moved back to him.
He held your gaze.
“And I don’t think going back fixes the part that hurts.”
You wanted to argue. You wanted to tell him he was wrong. You wanted to pick up every neatly sorted pile on the counter and scatter it just to prove none of it could stay organized anyway.
Instead, your mouth trembled once.
“I don’t know who I am here.”
There it was. The whole ugly center of it.
Not Vegas.
Not Pittsburgh.
Not the house.
Not Micheal.
You.
Robby’s expression shifted.
The sharpness did not disappear exactly. It softened into something quieter. Something worried. Something that looked too much like understanding.
For a long moment, neither of you said anything.
Then his eyes shifted toward the small table near the door.
Toward his keys.
Toward the spare helmet sitting on the lower shelf beneath his.
When he looked back at you, something in his expression had changed.
Not fixed.
Not certain.
Just decided.
“Come with me,” he said.
You stared at him.
“What?”
“Come with me.”
Your eyes flicked toward the small table by the door. Toward his keys. Toward the spare helmet sitting beneath them. Then back to him.
“For a ride?”
“Yes.”
You let out a short breath.
“Michael.”
He waited.
“You’ve spent the last month pointing out every mildly unsafe thing I’ve done.”
The corner of his mouth almost moved before settling again.
“You climbed onto the counter to reach a mixing bowl.”
“There was a chair right there.”
“You ignored the chair.”
“I was efficient.”
“You tried to move the bookshelf by yourself.”
“It was crooked.”
“It was heavy.”
You looked at him for a long moment. “And now you’re suggesting a motorcycle.”
“Yes.”
There was no defensiveness in it. No attempt to argue. Just the answer.
Your gaze drifted toward the window. Late afternoon light. Dry roads. The quiet neighborhood beyond the glass.
“You know this sounds insane.”
“I know.” The admission came easily. “I don’t think sitting in this kitchen is helping either.”
Something tightened painfully in your chest.
You looked back at the counter. At the sorted batteries. The bundled pens.
The keys you had been turning over in your hand like one of them might unlock a version of your life you recognized.
“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” you admitted.
“I don’t either.”
Your head lifted.
Robby held your gaze. “But I know walking isn’t enough anymore.”
Silence settled between you. Not awkward. Not comfortable. Just honest.
His eyes moved briefly toward the helmets, then back to you.
“And I think you miss it.”
Your throat tightened.
You did not ask what he meant.
The bike.
The noise.
The movement.
The part of yourself that had surfaced for a few minutes at dinner when he’d mentioned the rattle.
Robby’s voice stayed quiet.
“You sounded more like yourself talking about motorcycles than you have talking about anything else lately.”
That hit harder than you expected. Because he was right. Because you had not realized he had noticed that too.
Your hand drifted unconsciously toward the curve of your stomach.
Fear.
Habit.
Uncertainty.
Robby noticed.
He always noticed.
“If anything feels wrong,” he said, “we turn around.”
You looked at him.
“No questions asked.”
Something in your throat tightened. Not because of the bike. Not because of the offer.
Because after everything you’d just thrown at him, your fear, your resentment, your uncertainty, he wasn’t trying to convince you to stay.
He wasn’t trying to convince you to go. He was just offering you a way to breathe.
“You really think this is going to help?” you asked.
“No,” he said honestly.
Then, after a beat, “But I think sitting here is hurting you.”
The truth of it settled heavily between you.
You looked around the kitchen one more time.
The junk drawer spread across the counter.
The clean house.
The safe house.
The house that had started to feel too small around your skin.
Then you looked back at him.
“…Okay.”
Robby did not smile. He did not look relieved. He just nodded once.
“Okay.”
And for the first time all afternoon, the word did not sound like surrender.
Robby reached for his keys. And for the first time all day, the house did not feel like it was closing in.
You had forgotten.
Not the mechanics of it. Not how to swing your leg over the bike or settle your feet onto the pegs. Not the way the helmet muffled the world into something smaller and clearer all at once.
You had forgotten what it felt like.
The engine vibrated beneath you as Robby pulled away from the curb, steady and smooth beneath your hands.
Fall had settled over Pittsburgh while you weren’t paying attention.
The air held that crisp edge that only came for a few weeks every year. Cool enough to slip beneath the cuffs of your sweatshirt. Warm enough in the afternoon sun that you did not shiver. The sharp scent of drying leaves mixed with exhaust and chimney smoke somewhere in the distance.
For the first few minutes, you were aware of everything. The way your hands wrapped around Robby’s middle. The solid line of his back beneath your palms. The steady rise and fall of him breathing under your arms. The careful way he accelerated. The fact that you were nineteen weeks pregnant on the back of a motorcycle.
You could practically hear the list of reasons this had been a bad idea. Then Robby settled into the road.
Not fast.
Not flashy.
Just steady.
His body shifted before every turn, subtle enough that you felt it before you understood it. A lean to the left. A correction. A pause at a stop sign long enough to make absolutely sure the cross street was clear. He rode the way he did most things when he cared too much to say so outright.
Carefully.
Completely.
Without asking you to notice.
So you stopped fighting the movement.
Your hands loosened against his jacket. Your body remembered the old rhythm. Follow the lean. Trust the balance. Breathe.
The city unfolded around you.
And you remembered.
You remembered the wind. The way it slipped around your helmet and tugged at loose strands of hair. The vibration beneath your legs where they pressed against warm metal. The strange freedom of having nowhere to be except exactly where you already were.
You remembered riding behind your father while desert nights settled over Nevada, still warm long after the sun disappeared. You remembered the smell of hot asphalt cooling beneath streetlights. You remembered resting your helmet against his back and listening to him laugh with people your grandmother swore were perfectly respectable until they got together.
You remembered loving it.
Not the recklessness people assumed came with motorcycles. Not the danger. You had never cared much about that part.
You loved the simplicity of it.
Road.
Balance.
Movement.
You couldn’t check your phone. Couldn’t make grocery lists. Couldn’t reorganize drawers. Couldn’t sit in the same quiet house trying to figure out who you had become.
There was only this.
The steady rhythm of the engine beneath you. The city moving around you. The warmth of another person in front of you.
Robby took the back roads exactly like he had promised.
Slow.
Careful.
He stopped completely at yellow lights most people would have pushed through. Checked mirrors with almost annoying consistency. Left more space between himself and every other car than strictly necessary.
You found yourself smiling inside your helmet. Of course he did. The ridiculous part was that it worked. Because every careful turn and measured acceleration loosened something in your chest. Because the steadiness did not feel like control. It felt like permission.
You did not have to brace for the next thing.
You did not have to explain why you had snapped.
You did not have to make your gratitude look prettier.
You only had to hold on.
Trees burned gold and orange above sidewalks you had walked a dozen times.
You rode past the bookstore in Squirrel Hill where you had spent an hour pretending to browse before leaving empty-handed. The coffee shop with the crooked chalkboard sign and pastries that had been worth the hype. The museum where you had wandered through exhibits reading the same paragraph three times without absorbing a word.
The bridge everyone insisted you had to see at least once. The park where you had walked until your feet hurt because you had not known what else to do with the day.
You had been to all of these places.
Taken pictures.
Ordered coffee.
Gone home.
But this felt different.
Not like visiting.
Not like trying.
Pittsburgh passed around you in flashes of old brick and turning leaves and sunlight caught on river water. And for the first time since arriving, you were not wondering whether you could learn to love it.
You were not comparing it to Vegas.
You were not measuring what it lacked.
You were just there.
Present enough to notice the cool air against your cheeks.
Present enough to feel Robby’s breathing beneath your hands.
Present enough to tighten your arms around him once, not because you were scared, but because your body had remembered how to move with someone else’s.
Present enough to realize the constant restless buzzing in your head had gone quiet.
Not fixed.
Not gone forever.
Just…
quiet.
At a stoplight, Robby glanced back at you.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice carrying through the helmets.
You looked at him. At the familiar slope of his shoulders. At the concern tucked into the question.
Then you looked past him at the city stretching out beneath a sky washed pale blue. Leaves skittered across the pavement. Somewhere nearby, someone was raking a yard.
You realized you had stopped thinking.
Completely.
You squeezed him once around the middle.
“Yeah,” you said.
And for the first time in weeks, you meant it.
Robby looked at you for one second longer. Not long enough to make it strange. Just long enough that you knew he heard the difference.
Then the light changed.
He faced forward again, and the bike moved smoothly beneath you.
You kept your arms around him.
Looser now.
Not because you were paying less attention, but because your body had remembered what to do. The balance. The lean. The small shifts with the road. The trust required to follow someone else’s movement without fighting it.
He kept riding.
Past streets you recognized now.
Places you had already been.
Places that had felt like assignments when you visited them alone.
Now they blurred past in pieces of color and sound, less like places you were supposed to appreciate and more like proof that the world was still moving around you.
You did not have to decide what any of it meant. You only had to hold on.
At some point, the route changed.
Not enough for you to notice right away. Pittsburgh still felt like a city made of turns you did not know and hills you had not learned by instinct yet.
But you did not ask immediately. The ride had loosened something in you. Or maybe it had quieted something. Enough that not knowing, for once, did not feel like danger.
Then fifteen minutes became twenty. Twenty became longer. The houses thinned slightly. The streets widened. The storefronts changed from coffee shops and restaurants into older brick buildings, repair shops, warehouses with garage doors rolled halfway open.
Your arms tightened slightly around his middle.
“Michael?”
He turned his head just enough for you to see the edge of his helmet.
“Yeah?”
“Where are we going?”
For a second, he did not answer.
Then, “One more stop.”
You rolled your eyes even though he couldn’t see it. Then you settled back against the seat. The wind tugged at your sweatshirt. The engine hummed beneath you.
Whatever came next, you were still moving.
For now, that was enough.
A few minutes later, the bike began to slow. Robby eased off the street and into a small lot beside a low brick building. He pulled into a spot near the open bay and cut the engine.
The sudden silence rushed in around you. For a second, neither of you moved. Then Robby climbed off first. He pulled his helmet off and dragged a hand through flattened hair before turning back toward you.
Without a word, he reached for the strap beneath your chin. The clasp gave beneath his fingers. Cool fall air brushed against your face as he lifted the helmet away, taking the muffled quiet of the ride with it.
He hooked it over one arm before holding his hand out to you. You took it. The motion happened easily. Thoughtlessly. His grip steadied as you swung one leg over the bike and slid carefully down onto solid ground.
He let go once both of your feet were beneath you. Then he stepped back, tucking both helmets against his side like none of it was worth mentioning.
You adjusted the sleeves of your sweatshirt and looked up.
Auto & Cycle.
That was it. No name. No explanation. Just two words painted in faded block letters above the open garage bay.
The smell reached you next.
Oil.
Rubber.
Hot metal.
You turned toward him. “Michael.”
“Yeah?”
“Where are we?”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“Duke’s,” he said.
You looked past him at the low brick building, the open bay, and the dark oil stains baked into the concrete.
Then back at him.
“This is Duke’s?”
“Yeah,” Robby said. “This is Duke’s.”
Then a man appeared in the bay, wiping his hands on a rag. Older. Broad through the shoulders. Grease on his shirt. His face unreadable enough to make most people rethink small talk.
He looked at Robby first.
“Thought you’d be back later,” he said.
Robby shifted the helmets against his side. “Plans changed.”
Duke’s gaze landed on you then. There was no obvious surprise there. Just assessment. The kind that came from years of looking at people and deciding whether they knew what they were doing.
Robby glanced between the two of you and introduced you.
Duke gave a short nod. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too.”
Duke wiped his hands on the rag again, then nodded toward the open bay.
“Come on in.”
It was casual. Not warm exactly. Just an invitation.
You glanced at Robby.
He did not say anything. Did not nudge you forward or explain why you were there. He only stood beside you with both helmets tucked against his side, letting the choice belong to you.
So you stepped inside.
Duke’s shop was cleaner than your dad’s had been. Not clean. No working shop was ever really clean. But there was a system here. A rough one. Enough order under the mess to tell you Duke knew where things belonged even when they were not there.
Duke nodded toward Robby’s bike.
“Robby says you diagnosed his bike from the couch.”
You glanced over at Robby. He looked mildly uncomfortable.
“I didn’t diagnose anything,” you said. “He told me when it rattled.”
Duke’s eyes narrowed slightly, like that was exactly the point.
“Most people wouldn’t know what to do with that.”
You shrugged. “It’s just process of elimination.”
“Most people’s process of elimination starts and ends with ‘sounds expensive.’”
A corner of your mouth moved.
“They’re not wrong.”
“No,” Duke said. “They usually aren’t.”
He jerked his head toward the motorcycle sitting near one of the lifts.
“You want to take a look at this one?” he asked casually. “Could use a second opinion.”
You blinked.
“Me?”
“Unless there’s another motorcycle whisperer hiding in here.”
Your eyes shifted toward the bike.
It was older. Half-disassembled in a way that suggested someone had already thrown time and money at the obvious answers. The tank rested off to the side. Side covers leaned against the workbench. Parts had been arranged neatly enough to tell you Duke had a system, even if no one else could read it.
You found yourself stepping closer before you’d fully decided to. “What’s it doing?”
Duke leaned against the workbench. “Depends who you ask.”
You looked over at him.
“Owner says it started acting up out of nowhere.”
You made a face. “So the owner’s lying.”
“Almost definitely.”
That got the smallest huff of amusement out of him.
“The actual problem?” you asked.
“Rough idle on cold mornings. Hesitation under throttle. Intermittent misfires once it’s hot.”
You circled slowly around the bike.
“Compression?”
“Good.”
“Fuel pressure?”
“Within spec.”
“Plugs?”
“Changed.”
“Coils?”
“Swapped.”
“No difference?”
“Nope.”
You hummed softly. “Annoying.”
“Exactly.”
Your gaze moved over the exposed engine. Not touching. Just looking.
“Any codes?”
Duke rattled them off.
You frowned. “Only when it’s hot?”
“Mostly.”
You glanced up at him. “‘Mostly’ is a dangerous word.”
“Yeah,” Duke said. “That’s where I keep getting stuck.”
You bent slightly to get a better angle.
“If compression’s good, fuel pressure’s good, and plugs and coils didn’t change anything…” You trailed off. “I’d start looking at things that change once everything heats up.”
“Like?”
“Vacuum leak. Sensor drift. Wiring issue that only shows itself once everything gets warm enough to expand or shift.”
Duke nodded slowly. “You troubleshoot for a living?”
You kept your eyes on the bike. “I just don’t like guessing.”
“Neither do I.”
For a second, the two of you stood there looking at the motorcycle.
Then Duke pushed away from the bench.
“Alright,” he said. “Show me where you’d start.”
You pointed toward the intake side of the engine. “Did you smoke test it hot?”
Duke paused. “No.”
“But you did cold.”
“Yeah.”
“I’d rule that out before chasing electrical ghosts.”
Duke looked at you for a beat. Then nodded. “Fair.”
The conversation settled after that.
Question.
Answer.
Theory.
Counterpoint.
Duke would ask what you’d check next. You’d answer. He’d throw out another possibility. You’d explain why you agreed or disagreed. Nothing formal. Nothing forced. Just two people working through a problem.
Somewhere behind you, Robby stayed quiet. When you glanced back once, he was leaning against the opposite workbench with both helmets tucked against his side.
Watching. The thoughtful line between his brows had disappeared. He looked relaxed. Like maybe this had been what he’d hoped for when he pulled into the lot without telling you where you were going.
You looked away before you could sit with that too long.
Duke tapped the side of the bike. “Let’s see if you’re right.”
And for the first time in weeks, you realized nearly an hour had passed without thinking about what came next.
By the time Duke stepped away from the bike, the sun had started slipping lower behind the buildings. None of you had noticed the hour slipping by.
The garage doors stayed open, letting cool fall air drift through the shop. Long shadows stretched across the concrete, cutting between toolboxes and crates and the half-disassembled bike still sitting near the lift.
At some point, Duke pulled beers from an old refrigerator near the back. One for himself. One for Robby. Then he looked at you, looked briefly toward your stomach, and handed you a bottle of water without comment.
You took it without making him say anything. That felt easier somehow.
A few minutes later, the three of you had settled near the open bay.
Duke sat on an overturned crate, beer balanced against one knee. Robby leaned back against the workbench with his ankles crossed, nursing his bottle slowly. You sat on another crate, one hand wrapped around your water, the other resting loosely against your thigh.
The shop had gone quiet in the way working places did after the day was mostly done. Not silent. Just lower.
The radio hummed somewhere behind you. Traffic passed outside. Metal ticked softly as the bike cooled near the lift.
Duke took a drink, then stared out through the open bay like the memory was somewhere past the street.
“Once rode through Arizona with no front brake.”
You blinked. “What?”
Robby looked over slowly. “You’ve never told me that.”
“Because you make that face.”
“I’m a doctor. This face is appropriate.”
Duke ignored him. “Line went bad outside Flagstaff. Responsible thing would’ve been to stop.”
You waited.
He took another drink. “I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I was twenty-five and stupid.”
Robby tipped his beer toward him. “Half that sentence is still true.”
Duke gave him a flat look.
You tried not to smile.
“How far did you ride?”
“Too far.”
“That’s not a distance.”
“It is when you’re the one learning from it.”
Robby shook his head. “You’re impossible.”
“Back brake worked,” Duke said.
“Oh, well,” you said. “Perfectly safe.”
“See? She gets it.”
“I absolutely do not.”
Robby’s mouth twitched despite himself.
“What happened?” you asked.
Duke looked back toward the open bay.
“Came down a mountain road too hot. Had to choose between laying it down or becoming part of the guardrail.”
You went still for half a second. “And?”
“Didn’t become part of the guardrail.”
Robby closed his eyes. “Jesus Christ.”
Duke shrugged. “Bike was mostly fine.”
“You were not mostly fine,” Robby said.
“I could walk.”
You stared at him. “That is a very low standard.”
“Worked for me.”
You laughed then, sharp and surprised.
Duke’s mouth twitched like he’d been waiting for it.
“So the lesson was fix your brakes?” you asked.
Duke considered it. “No.”
“No?”
“The lesson was don’t let twenty-five-year-old men vote on important decisions.”
Robby lifted his beer slightly. “Hard to argue with that.”
Duke ignored him again. “They were idiots.”
“You rode with them,” you pointed out.
“I was also an idiot.”
There was no shame in his voice. Just fact. That made you laugh harder.
The conversation moved from there without effort.
Duke told you about a ride to Tennessee where six grown men had gotten lost because none of them wanted to admit they could not read a paper map. Another time, he and two friends ended up sleeping behind a laundromat because someone had confidently declared they could “absolutely make it another hundred miles.”
“Who was someone?” you asked.
Duke took a drink. “Me.”
Robby shook his head faintly.
You told them about Vegas.
Not the painful parts. Not the lonely parts. Just the ones that came easier in a garage with the sun going down.
The bartender stories. The tourist who cried because she thought she had lost her hotel, only to realize she was standing inside it. The man who tried to convince you Canadian money counted as a tip because it was “basically the same.” The bachelorette party that lost a bridesmaid for three hours and found her playing blackjack with three retired firefighters from Ohio.
Duke listened with his beer resting against one knee, expression still mostly flat, but not unreadable anymore. Every so often, his mouth pulled slightly at the corner, or his eyes narrowed in that dry, entertained way that made it clear he was enjoying your stories.
Robby mostly stayed quiet. Every now and then, he added something dry enough to make you glance over. But mostly he watched. Not the way he had been watching at home lately. Not worried. Not measuring whether you were tired or hungry or quietly falling apart.
Just watching you talk. Watching you laugh. Watching you lean into a conversation that had nothing to do with appointments or bills or what came next.
And for once, you did not mind being seen.
You took another drink of water and listened while Duke described a night ride through West Virginia that had apparently involved a wrong turn, a thunderstorm, and a man named Spider who refused to ride behind anyone because he believed it was “spiritually humiliating.”
“What happened to Spider?” you asked.
Duke looked at his beer.
“Married a librarian. Moved to Arizona.”
“Good for Spider.”
“He sends Christmas cards now.”
Robby’s mouth twitched.
You laughed again, softer this time.
The sound felt strange in your chest. Not because it hurt. Because it didn’t. For weeks, your days had been so quiet that even your own thoughts had started sounding too loud. Now you were sitting in a garage on a crate, listening to an old ex-biker tell stories like regrets were just facts with better lighting.
It was the first time in a long time you had been out of the house without feeling like you were trying to prove you were fine. You were not trying to be fine here. You were just there. And somehow that was easier.
The sun dropped lower. The light at the edge of the bay turned amber, then thin.
Eventually, Duke looked toward you.
“You get bored at the house,” he said, “come by.”
You blinked. “What?”
He took another drink of beer. “I could use company from someone who knows what they’re doing.”
For a second, you did not answer. The offer was so casual you almost missed the weight of it.
Not a job.
Not charity.
Not a favor.
Just an open door.
Your eyes moved automatically to Robby. He was already looking at you. Quiet. Unsurprised. Like maybe he had hoped Duke would say it, but he had not asked him to.
“It’s up to you,” Robby said.
You searched his face. “You’d be okay with that?”
His answer came easily. “You don’t need me to be okay with it.”
You had not realized you were waiting for permission until he refused to give it.
Duke glanced between the two of you.
“You can also say no,” he said. “I’m not adopting you.”
You looked back at him.
The corner of your mouth moved.
“That’s a relief. I’m terrible with curfews.”
“Figured.”
Robby glanced down, hiding a smile behind his beer.
Duke pointed the bottle toward the half-disassembled bike. “But you might be useful.”
The words settled somewhere warmer than they should have.
Useful.
Not fragile.
Not waiting.
Not someone being carefully kept safe inside a house.
Useful.
You looked around the shop again.
The crates.
The tools.
The open bay.
The old stories still lingering in the air.
Then you nodded once.
“Yeah,” you said softly. “Maybe I will.”
Duke gave a short nod like that was all he needed. “Good.”
Robby looked down at his beer, but you caught the brief relief in his face before he hid it.
Outside, the last of the sun slipped behind the buildings.
And for the first time since you came to Pittsburgh, the thought of tomorrow did not feel quite so empty.
—
The ride back was quieter.
Not worse.
Just quieter.
The kind of quiet that came after a day had finally loosened its grip and left both of you careful with what remained.
You held onto Robby as he took the long way home, the city slipping past in darkening streets and porch lights and trees thinning into shadow. The air had cooled since earlier, sharper now against your cheeks, but the engine stayed warm beneath you.
This time, you did not count turns or wonder how far from home you were.
When the bike stopped at a light, you rested your forehead briefly between his shoulder blades. Robby did not look back. He only covered one of your hands with his for half a second before the light changed.
The touch was brief. Barely anything. Still, something in your chest ached.
Because earlier, you had stood in his kitchen and tried to hand him an exit. You had said papers. Vegas. Mistake. Words that still sat between your ribs like bruises.
And he was still here. Steady beneath your hands. Taking the long way home.
By the time Robby pulled into the driveway, the sky had gone deep blue at the edges.
He cut the engine.
The silence settled around you slowly.
No radio.
No tools.
No Duke telling stories like nearly dying in Arizona was a normal personality flaw.
Just the quiet street.
The house.
Michael.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then Robby got off first, same as before. He pulled his helmet off and tucked it under one arm before turning back to you. His fingers found the strap beneath your chin. The clasp gave.
Cool evening air touched your face as he lifted the helmet away. Neither of you said anything.
He set both helmets against his side, then held out his hand. You took it without thinking.
His grip was steady as you climbed off the bike. He let go once your feet were beneath you, but only after making sure they were.
Inside, the house felt different.
Not changed.
Just less narrow.
You stood near the entryway while Robby set both helmets down by the door.
The hallway light was off. The kitchen was dim except for the glow over the stove. Somewhere deeper in the house, the refrigerator hummed.
The junk drawer was still spread across the counter.
Pens.
Batteries.
Loose screws.
The mess you had left behind.
For the first time all day, looking at it did not make your chest tighten.
Robby followed your gaze. He did not say anything about it. He only set his keys in the bowl and leaned one shoulder lightly against the wall, giving you room to decide what happened next.
You looked at the helmets by the door.
Then at him.
“Thank you, Michael.”
Robby glanced over. “For what?”
You swallowed once. “For not letting me disappear in here.”
His expression changed.
Small.
Quiet.
Enough.
Then you added, because that felt too bare, “And for introducing me to Duke.”
Robby looked down for half a second.
When he looked back up, his face was softer.
“You liked him.”
You shrugged one shoulder. “He’s fine.”
“High praise.”
“He’s tolerable.”
“That’s basically friendship.”
A faint smile tugged at your mouth. It faded, but not completely.
“I mean it,” you said, quieter now. “Thank you.”
Robby rubbed the back of his neck. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”
“I do.”
You tucked your hands beneath your arms. “I know you were trying to help.”
He looked at you for a second.
Then nodded once.
“I was.”
The honesty settled between you. Not awkward. Just there.
You glanced toward the helmets again. “I just don’t want to invade your personal life.”
His brow pulled together. “My personal life?”
“Duke. Your friends. Your places.” You looked back at him. “I know I’m already in your house. I don’t want to start showing up in all the corners of your life, too.”
Robby’s gaze dropped briefly. When it came back to you, there was something steadier in it.
“You’re not invading anything.”
“You say that.”
“I mean that.”
You pressed your lips together.
He pushed away from the wall, but he did not come too close.
“You’re allowed to have people here,” he said.
The words were quiet. Careful, but not fragile.
“You’re allowed to make friends. You’re allowed to have places that aren’t this house or the doctor’s office or whatever grocery store has the least offensive produce.”
A small breath left you.
His thumb worried once at the edge of his sleeve.
“You don’t have to ask permission to take up space.”
The words settled somewhere low in your chest. For a second, all you could hear was the refrigerator. The soft settling of the house around you.
Robby’s voice stayed quiet. “I don’t want you watching the front window and wondering if that’s it.”
You looked down at the floorboards. The sentence hurt. Not because it was cruel. Because it was too close to something you had not said out loud.
You swallowed once before looking up again.
He glanced toward the living room, then back.
“If something isn’t working,” he said carefully, “tell me before you decide to just live with it.”
“We’ll figure something out.”
Your throat tightened. “You make that sound easy.”
“I don’t think it is.”
That somehow made it easier to hear.
Robby held your gaze. “But I’d rather know.”
For a second, the house felt too quiet again. But not like before. Not like walls pressing in. More like a room waiting for you to choose where to stand.
“Okay,” you said softly.
Robby nodded. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then his mouth twitched faintly.
“And if you ever need actual girl company, I know a few residents who would be thrilled to have someone new to complain about me with.”
A surprised breath left you.
“Residents?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re offering me your residents?”
“I’m offering you potential allies.”
“Against you?”
“Realistically, yes.”
Your mouth curved despite yourself. “They don’t like you?”
“They like me fine.”
“Uh-huh.”
A faint smirk pulled at his mouth.
“I’ve been called an asshole once or twice.”
You looked at him. “You?”
“Allegedly.”
Your mouth curved. “That tracks.”
“See?” His shoulders loosened at the sight of your smile. “You’ll have plenty in common.”
This time, the smile stayed a little longer. Robby saw it. He didn’t comment. You were grateful for that.
You glanced toward the door, toward the helmets resting side by side.
Then back at him. “I did like getting out.”
“I know.”
You looked at him.
He blinked, like he had answered too quickly.
“I mean…” His hand fell away from where it had half-lifted. “I’m glad.”
A small silence settled. This one felt easier.
You nodded once. “Me too.”
Then you turned toward the hook by the door and hung your jacket there. Not over the back of a chair. Not folded beside your bag like you might need it again at any second.
On the hook.
Beside his.
For the first time in weeks, you did it without looking over your shoulder first.
Robby noticed.
He didn’t say anything. He only reached past you, took the helmets from the floor, and set them side by side on the shelf.
Yours beside his.
The house was still the house.
Quiet.
Safe.
Waiting.
But it did not feel like the edge of your life anymore.
SUMMARY: The ER is not a pleasant place to work when you’re six months pregnant. The constant check-ins from your coworkers and patients is one thing, but the attention from Jack Abbot? That’s another thing entirely, and it thrills and terrifies you all at once.
NOTES: Pregnancy, single mother reader, mentions of absent co-parent, canon-typical workplace stress + scenarios, mentions of Jack’s wife, vulnerability, Jack is so sappy and sweet in this.
REQUESTED BY: Anonymous.
NAVIGATION | PITT MASTERLIST | KO-FI
You hated being treated differently. The frustrating thing was that everyone seemed to think they were being kind.
Ever since the pregnancy had become impossible to hide, people had started looking at you differently. Patients asked if you should really be working. Nurses tried to take things out of your hands. Residents hovered whenever you lifted anything heavier than a clipboard. Every conversation seemed to begin or end with somebody asking if you were alright.
You knew they meant well, and that somehow made it worse. You were twenty-six weeks pregnant, not made of glass.
Most days you could ignore it. Most days you smiled politely, accepted the concern for what it was, and carried on. You had chosen to keep working. You loved your job. The emergency department was exhausting and chaotic and occasionally heartbreaking, but it was yours. It gave structure to days that might otherwise have been swallowed whole by anxiety.
The anxiety was harder to admit, but nobody seemed concerned about that part. Nobody saw the moments you sat alone in your apartment after a shift with one hand resting over your stomach, wondering if you were making the right choices. Nobody saw the nights when you woke up terrified by the sheer scale of what was coming.
You were going to be somebody’s mother. The thought still knocked the breath out of you. You were going to do it alone, and that part was worse.
The baby’s father had left months ago, long before anyone at work knew about the pregnancy. There had been no screaming argument. No dramatic betrayal. Just a gradual retreat until one day you realised you were the only person still fighting for something that no longer existed.
You had survived it. You would continue surviving it. You didn’t have any other choice. Which was why you absolutely refused to become somebody else’s responsibility, especially Jack Abbot’s.
“Why have I got room fourteen?”
The question escaped before you could stop yourself. Dana looked up from the desk.
“What about room fourteen?”
You stared at the assignment sheet in your hand. Room fourteen contained the sweetest little old lady currently waiting for discharge paperwork. Room twelve contained a man with a minor fracture. Room nine needed routine medication.
That was it. No aggressive intoxication. No psychiatric hold. No combative family members. No complicated trauma patients. Nothing.
It was practically a holiday.
You narrowed your eyes. Across the department, Jack was discussing scans with one of the residents, words thorough and professional despite the toll the rare day shift was taking on him.
Your gaze lingered. Unfortunately, Jack’s eyes lifted almost immediately. Straight to you. The man possessed some supernatural ability to know when you were looking at him.
Your stomach performed an irritating little flip. That was becoming a problem. Actually, no. The crush was the problem. The stomach flipping was merely a symptom.
Jack’s expression remained perfectly neutral. You pointed at your assignment sheet. He looked away immediately, seemingly guilty.
You knew it.
Ten minutes later you cornered him near the medication room. “Stop it.”
His eyebrows rose. “Good afternoon to you too.”
“You’re doing it again.”
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You keep changing my assignments.”
“I don’t make assignments.”
“Jack.”
His mouth twitched. That tiny almost-smile somehow made him more infuriating.
“You have no proof.”
“I don’t need proof.”
“Yes, honey, you do.”
“Don’t ‘honey’ me, Jack. You keep giving me easier patients.”
Jack folded his arms. The movement pulled at the sleeves of his scrub top. Your traitorous brain noticed entirely too much about him these days. The broad shoulders. The wedding ring he still wore. The permanent exhaustion around his eyes.
The gentleness he tried so hard to hide beneath sarcasm. “You think I have nothing better to do than secretly manipulate patient assignments?”
“Yes.”
That earned an actual laugh. A short one. Rare enough that it briefly distracted you. Jack shook his head.
“I think that’s insane. You’re being a bit… God, what did Javadi call it? Delulu?”
“Never say that again. I’m serious.”
“God forbid a guy try something new.”
You stared at each other. The familiar tension settled into place almost immediately. Neither of you ever acknowledged it. Nobody else seemed to notice it either, which felt impossible.
You noticed everything when it came to him. The way his voice softened around frightened patients. The way he instinctively positioned himself between vulnerable people and whatever was upsetting them. The way he always appeared beside you whenever a shift became overwhelming.
That last one was definitely intentional.
The problem was that Jack never did anything obvious enough to challenge. Every act of care was disguised as practicality.
A patient would need transferring and somebody else would mysteriously volunteer before you could. You would arrive at the break room to find tea already waiting. A difficult relative would somehow end up redirected towards an attending physician instead of a pregnant nurse nearing the end of a twelve-hour shift.
None of it was dramatic. None of it could be called out without sounding ridiculous. Still, you knew.
“You don’t need to look after me.”
The words came out quieter than intended. Something changed in his expression. Not much. Just enough.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The noise of the department seemed strangely distant.
“You know,” Jack said eventually, “it’s possible for people to help each other without it meaning something.”
The statement should have reassured you. Instead it hurt. You weren’t entirely sure why. Perhaps because you wanted it to mean something. That was the truth you kept trying not to examine too closely. You wanted his attention. You looked for him at the start of every shift. You noticed when he wasn’t there. You noticed when he looked tired. You noticed everything.
The feelings had arrived slowly and then all at once. Now they sat heavily in your chest, impossible to ignore.
You forced a smile. “Fine.”
“Fine.”
“You still need to stop.”
His eyes held yours. For a second you thought he might argue. Instead he sighed.
“You are the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.”
You laughed despite yourself. “That’s rich coming from you.”
A trauma alert sounded overhead. The moment vanished instantly. Jack pushed away from the wall. Professional mask sliding neatly back into place.
You hated how easily he could do that.
As though he could simply lock parts of himself away whenever necessary. You wondered what it would be like to be that controlled. To not feel everything so intensely all the time.
“Come on,” he said. “Work calls.”
You fell into step beside him. Close enough to hear his breathing, and to smell hospital soap and coffee. Close enough that the ache in your chest returned before you’d even reached the trauma bay.
You wished it would stop. You wished it would get worse. Neither option seemed particularly safe.
Especially not when Jack glanced at you as the doors opened and asked, quietly enough that nobody else could hear,
“You feeling alright today?”
The concern in his voice was genuine. Simple. Uncomplicated. Somehow that made it harder to answer than any question you’d faced all week.
The trauma ended up being far less dramatic than the alert had suggested. A motor vehicle collision. Two patients, both conscious. One broken wrist, one nasty laceration that looked significantly worse than it actually was. Nobody needed a miracle.
For once, the emergency department managed to survive a trauma call without the world ending. You should have felt relieved. Instead, the restlessness that had settled beneath your skin earlier refused to leave.
Jack’s question kept replaying in your head. ‘You feeling alright today?’. Such an ordinary thing to ask. People asked it all the time. The difference was that most people weren’t really asking. Most people wanted reassurance. A quick smile and a simple yes.
Jack always seemed to want the truth. That was what made him dangerous. He paid attention. It would have been easier if he didn’t. Easier if he were merely an attractive older guy with freckles and muscles and curls. A crush based on appearances would eventually burn itself out.
Unfortunately, every shift seemed determined to reveal another reason to fall for him. You hated that. Mostly because there was absolutely nothing sensible about it.
Jack was older than you. Widowed. Emotionally complicated in ways you suspected only a therapist fully understood.
You were carrying another man’s baby.
The timing couldn’t have been worse if someone had deliberately arranged it.
Yet every time he looked at you, some foolish part of your heart seemed convinced there was still something worth hoping for.
By three, your lower back felt like it had been replaced with concrete. The baby had apparently decided sleep was for cowards and had spent the last hour enthusiastically rearranging your internal organs.
You were updating notes at the nurses’ station when a sharp kick landed beneath your ribs. The involuntary wince escaped before you could stop it.
Unfortunately, somebody noticed. Of course somebody noticed. “Everything alright?”
You looked up. Jack. Again. The man appeared with the consistency of a haunting. You straightened immediately.
“Fine.”
“You know I was literally standing here when that happened, sweetheart.”
“I’m still fine.”
“You made a face.”
“I make faces all the time.”
“You looked like somebody stabbed you.”
“That’s slightly dramatic.”
His expression remained unconvinced. The irritating thing was that he wasn’t hovering. Not really. He wasn’t fussing or ordering you to sit down. He was simply standing there looking concerned. Which somehow made it impossible to dismiss.
The baby kicked again. Your hand moved automatically towards your stomach. A subconscious gesture. One you’d barely realised you’d started doing.
Something softened in Jack’s face. The sight of it nearly undid you. There was no pity there. No awkwardness. No discomfort. Just warmth.
Your pulse stumbled. Dangerous. Very dangerous.
“You should take ten.”
“No.”
“Five.”
“No.”
“Two and a half?”
A laugh escaped despite yourself.
“You negotiate with trauma surgeons like this?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“They aren’t as terrifying as you.”
You rolled your eyes. Jack looked suspiciously pleased with himself. The sight made something warm spread through your chest. You hated how often that happened around him. The feeling had become increasingly difficult to ignore. Particularly during the quieter moments.
Those moments were always the worst. Those were the moments when you remembered how easy it felt to talk to him. You couldn’t pinpoint when it had started. At some point he’d stopped feeling like an attending physician and started feeling like Jack. The distinction mattered more than it should have.
“You know,” he said eventually, leaning against the counter beside you, “it’s alright to admit that you’re tired.”
You stared at the computer screen. The blinking cursor suddenly seemed fascinating.
“Who says I’m tired?”
“You’ve had three cups of coffee in ninety minutes.”
“Maybe I like coffee.”
“You hate coffee.”
Your head dropped backwards. “Oh, come on.”
His smile widened. “You told me.”
“When?”
“Six months ago.”
You looked at him. Actually looked. The man remembered entirely too much. The realisation struck with uncomfortable force.
Six months ago.
You couldn’t remember half the conversations you’d had yesterday. Jack remembered an offhand comment from six months ago.
Your chest tightened. The feeling wasn’t entirely pleasant. Part of you wanted to bask in it. The rest wanted to run. Nobody had paid attention to you like this in a very long time. Not before the pregnancy. Certainly not after.
The baby’s father had forgotten things constantly. Appointments. Plans. Conversations. You had spent months shrinking your expectations just to avoid disappointment.
Now here was Jack remembering your coffee preferences. The comparison felt unfair. Your emotions didn’t seem particularly concerned with fairness.
His gaze lingered. Not challenging. Not pushing. Just waiting. You wondered whether he knew how difficult that made things. Most people demanded explanations.
Jack simply offered space. The urge to step into it was becoming overwhelming.
A sudden rush of emotion caught you completely off guard. Exhaustion. Fear. Hormones. Loneliness.
Whatever combination was responsible, it hit hard enough to sting behind your eyes. You looked away immediately. Embarrassing. The last thing you needed was to start crying at the nurses’ station.
Jack didn’t comment. Another kindness. He simply moved slightly closer. Close enough that you could feel the steady presence of him. Not touching. Never assuming. Just there. Ready if needed. The gesture nearly hurt.
“You’re allowed to lean on people sometimes.”
The words were quiet. Careful. As though he wasn’t entirely sure he should be saying them.
You laughed softly. A humourless sound. “That’s easy for you to say.”
His expression shifted. Something sad flickering briefly across his face. “You’d be surprised.”
The answer lodged somewhere deep. You knew enough about Jack to understand what wasn’t being said. The grief he carried everywhere despite pretending otherwise. Perhaps that was why being around him felt so different.
He never treated pain like weakness. He understood it too well.
A call light sounded down the corridor. The interruption should have felt annoying. Instead it came as a relief. The conversation had wandered dangerously close to honesty. Neither of you seemed entirely prepared for that.
You pushed away from the desk. Professional instincts taking over. Work was easier. Work always had been. People made sense when they were patients. Charts and medications and treatment plans were infinitely simpler than feelings.
Jack watched you stand. Something unreadable lingered in his eyes. Then it disappeared, locked away behind professionalism once again.
You found yourself wishing, not for the first time, that he would let you see what lived underneath it. The frightening thing was that you suspected he wished exactly the same thing about you.
The shift should have ended an hour ago. That was the thought repeating itself through your head as you stared at a computer screen that no longer seemed capable of forming coherent words.
Every part of you ached. Your feet hurt. Your back hurt. Your shoulders felt impossibly tight. Even the baby seemed exhausted, the constant movement from earlier reduced to occasional sleepy stretches beneath your ribs.
The emergency department had entered that strange period between night and morning. The chaos was winding down. Exhaustion was settling over everyone like a heavy blanket.
Those were always the dangerous hours. The hours when emotions started slipping through cracks you’d spent all shift holding together.
You rubbed a hand across your face and tried to focus on the discharge paperwork in front of you. The words blurred. For a moment you simply sat there staring at them.
Then, completely without warning, your eyes filled.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” You muttered it to yourself.
Nobody else heard. At least, that was what you thought. You blinked rapidly and forced yourself to take a breath. You were not going to cry.
Not here. Not now.
The ridiculous thing was that nothing had actually happened. It was just exhaustion. Pure, relentless exhaustion. The kind that seemed to hollow you out from the inside.
You loved your baby already. Loved them with a fierceness that still startled you.
That didn’t mean you weren’t frightened.
Every day seemed to bring a new thing to worry about. The nursery. Money. Childcare. Labour. The future. The endless responsibility waiting just around the corner.
Most of the time you managed to carry it.
Tonight it suddenly felt very heavy.
“You missed a spot.”
You jumped.
Jack was standing beside the desk, a takeaway cup rested in one hand.
You stared. Then frowned. “What?”
“The discharge summary.” He pointed towards the screen. “There.”
Sure enough, you’d missed an entire section. Your shoulders slumped. “Oh.”
Jack studied you for a second. Long enough that you knew he’d noticed. The tears. The exhaustion. All of it.
You looked away first. Humiliation immediately flooding your chest.
“You should go home.”
You laughed quietly. “I was planning to.”
“No.” His voice softened. “I mean now.”
The concern in it almost made things worse.
You swallowed hard. “I’m nearly finished.”
“You look exhausted.”
“I am exhausted.”
“Then go home, sweetheart.”
Something inside you cracked. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just enough that holding everything together suddenly became impossible.
You looked down at your hands, at the hospital ID badge hanging from your neck, at anything except him.
The words came out before you could stop them. “I don’t get to stop.”
Silence.
Your throat tightened. You hated this. Hated feeling exposed. Hated feeling weak. Most of all, hated how desperately you wanted somebody to understand.
“I don’t get to fall apart,” you continued quietly. “Everybody keeps telling me to rest and take breaks and ask for help, but at the end of the day it’s still just me.”
The confession hung between you. Entirely honest. You hadn’t meant to say any of it. Months of fear seemed to have slipped free without permission.
“I go home and it’s just me.”
Your voice wavered. You pressed your lips together immediately.
For a long moment neither of you spoke. The department carried on around you, life continuing exactly as normal. Meanwhile your entire chest felt like it had been turned inside out.
Then Jack set the coffee cup down. Carefully. As though sudden movements might break something. And, maybe they would.
His gaze never left yours. “You know what’s been driving me insane for the last few months?”
The question caught you completely off guard. You frowned. “What?”
“You.” Jack huffed out a short laugh. Not amused. Nervous. The sound alone was shocking. You weren’t sure you’d ever seen him nervous before. “You refuse help from everybody.”
Your mouth opened.
He continued before you could interrupt. “You carry everything yourself. Every shift. Every appointment. Every problem.”
“Jack—”
“You never let anybody look after you.”
The words landed harder than they should have. Emotion immediately tightened your throat again. You looked away. He wasn’t finished. You could tell. The realisation sent your pulse racing.
“I keep telling myself to stop.” His voice had gone quieter now. Rougher. “I keep telling myself you’re perfectly capable and none of this is my business.”
You slowly looked back at him. Neither of you seemed capable of looking away anymore. The space between you felt impossibly small, despite the fact neither of you had moved.
“I know you don’t need me.” The confession sat heavily between you. “I know that.”
His jaw tightened briefly, the way it always did when he was forcing himself to continue.
“But every time you walk into a shift looking exhausted, I want to help.”
Your heart stumbled, then stopped entirely.
“I want to take the difficult patients.” His eyes never left yours. “I want to make things easier.”
Another breath. Another heartbeat.
“I want to be the person who carries some of it when it gets too heavy.”
The world seemed strangely quiet. Every sound fading into the background. Your eyes burned again. This time you didn’t care. You’d spent months convincing yourself you were imagining it. Misreading kindness. Projecting your own feelings onto harmless gestures.
Now Jack was standing in front of you looking like he’d rather face another mass casualty event than this conversation.
The sight nearly broke your heart.
“You know why that’s a problem?” he asked softly.
You shook your head. The answer came anyway.
“Because somewhere along the way I stopped doing it just because I care about my staff.”
The breath left your lungs. “Oh.”
Brilliant response. Truly. Jack laughed quietly, a little helplessly. The sound made your chest ache.
“Oh,” he echoed.
For one terrifying second neither of you spoke. Then something shifted. Perhaps it was exhaustion, or relief, or simply the fact you’d both spent too long pretending.
Whatever it was, it finally pushed you forward.
“You make me feel safe.”
The words escaped before you could second-guess them. Jack froze. You continued anyway.
“If that’s a horrible thing to admit, then fine.”
A shaky laugh slipped out. Your eyes filled again.
“You make me feel looked after. I keep trying not to need that.”
Jack’s expression softened completely. “You don’t have to earn being cared for.”
The sentence hit harder than everything else combined. Nobody had ever said that to you before. Not like that. Not as though they genuinely believed it. A tear escaped, and then another, but you couldn’t even bring yourself to care.
Jack stepped closer. Slowly. Giving you every opportunity to stop him. You didn’t. His hand settled against your arm. The simple contact nearly undid you.
For months you’d been carrying everything alone.
Not because you wanted to, but because you thought you had to. The difference suddenly felt enormous.
Neither of you said anything for a while.
There wasn’t much left to say. The truth was already sitting between you. Visible at last. Jack’s thumb brushed lightly against your sleeve. A tiny movement so careful that it made your chest ache.
The man looked at you as though you were something precious. The realisation was terrifying. It was also wonderful.
For the first time in a very long while, the future didn’t seem quite so frightening.
Nothing had magically been fixed. You were still pregnant. Still scared. Still facing a thousand uncertainties.
Jack was still carrying grief of his own. Life remained complicated. Messy. Difficult.
Yet standing there beneath fluorescent hospital lights, with exhaustion pulling at both of you and dawn beginning to creep through distant windows, something fundamental had changed.
The loneliness wasn’t quite so sharp anymore.
For months you’d been trying to convince yourself that strength meant carrying everything alone. Looking at Jack now, you finally understood how wrong you’d been. Sometimes strength looked a lot more like letting somebody stay.
new dad!Jack Abbot doing skin to skin with your newborn baby <3
It's quiet in the hospital room. Jack's been sitting by the window for a long time now, watching the snow fall and looking over to check on your sleeping form ever so often.
The last 24 hours have been a lot on you. You're sleeping, getting well-needed rest, your little puffs of air the only sound in the room. This and the little coos coming from the bundle in Jack's arms.
Jack smiles down at yours and his baby, his heart hurting with overflowing unconditional love for the little worm resting easy against him. His hand is so large against baby's head, it baffles him how something so loved can be so small.
It's a good thing he runs warm in general because the little worm seems to be very comfortable like this, snuggled against his naked chest and soaking all that loving attention up like a sponge. Baby coos once more and Jack hums, his knuckles brushing over the soft peachy cheek that isn't resting over his heart.
"Let's give mommy some more rest, okay, sweety? Cuddling with daddy is nice, isn't it? No need to make a fuzz, hm?"
Baby blinks at him, thinking about it for minute before seemingly agreeing and snuggling back into the warmth Jack provides.
God, his heart is so full.
His beautiful strong supergirl is finally sleeping and her and his baby is with him, all cozy.
Jack leans back and closes his eyes, letting the bliss wash over him. Baby's hair is whispy soft against his hand and your lips part peacefully in your sleep...
summary: jack abbot has made it his life's mission to take care of you, so obviously he doesn't take it very well when he finds out you've been living on the abandoned floor of the ptmc. (3k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, roommate whitsantos crumbs
contents: sugar daddy jack abbot universe, established relationship, protective!jack, hurt/comfort, cw for brief mentions of harassment and allusion to smut 18+ (MDNI)
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
There is nothing about you that Jack Abbot wouldn’t immediately notice.
He nurses a sweaty can of beer in his right fist from where he sits on the opposite side of the park bench, keeping several agonizing inches of space between you in front of the rest of your coworkers. It leaves a wet ring on the thigh of his camo fatigues when he forgets to drink it, far too busy looking at you looking at Whitaker, who rants about a hefty surcharge on his Lyft account across the way.
“I thought she was a nice old lady! How was I supposed to know she was racist?”
“Well, you know what they say,” Santos croons from beside him, cheers-ing with her near-empty can. “No good deed, St. Fuckleberry…”
Jack knows you’re about to laugh before you’ve even done it. He’s got it down to a science, almost. He knows the signs too well: the way your eyes crinkle at the edges first, and the way your nose bridge scrunches slightly second. A laugh sputters from your mouth a second later, coated in sunshine and painting the starry night a vivid shade of flaxen gold.
The rays hit him square in the chest.
He can almost time when you’re about to take a drink, too — the way your fingers fidget around the chilled aluminum, right before your tongue darts out to wet your mouth. You tip your head back with the can to take a quick sip, then lick your lips again when you bring the beer to your lap again.
It’s subtle and mostly unconscious, but Jack can’t help but notice all of it.
The same way he can’t help but notice how flustered you get when he asks, “Did you get that dress I bought you?”
Your head snaps in his direction. Your eyes widen with a set of owlish blinks. The smile you had before softens slightly as your shoulders tuck in, going painfully shy in a flicker.
It’s not so much the reminder that Jack scoured the internet for the butter-yellow dress Kate Hudson wore in How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days — after a passing comment you made about it during movie night some weeks back. It’s more so the reminder that you didn’t get it because you no longer had a real address to receive it at.
Because you’d rather die than tell him you’ve been sleeping in the PTMC for the past week.
“Uh… No. I-I don’t think so,” you stammer.
Jack’s brows lower. “Really? The e-mail said it was delivered yesterday.”
You glance away again — fingers fidgeting, tongue darting. “Maybe it went to the wrong place?” you shrug and bring the can up to your mouth again.
Jack notices how you shift awkwardly on the bench beside him; how you struggle suddenly to meet his gaze, and how you try and fail to tune back into Whitaker’s rambling. There’s something more going on inside your head, something more you’re not telling him, but he figures prying after a twelve-hour shift probably isn’t the best idea.
“Yeah…” he says slowly. “Maybe…”
There’s a long beat of silence between you thereafter, filled by members of the dayshift exchanging staggered goodbyes. Jack takes a quick sip of his beer. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing, and turns to you with the sheen of alcohol coating his lips.
“I should probably start heading out to,” he clears his throat. “Want me to walk you home?”
You fake a shy smile, instead of telling him that you have no real home to go to.
“I’m a big girl, Abbot. I think I can get there on my own,” you lilt drily. Jack’s stare hardens into an unwavering deadpan; not mean, just firm. You cave with a roll of your eyes. “You go ahead. I’ll walk with Trinity and Whitaker— They live closer to me, anyway.”
Jack hesitates for a lingering beat.
He wants to tell you that it makes him feel better when he walks with you, that sometimes he thinks he lives and breathes only to protect you, but he’s self-aware enough to know how insane that sounds. So he just nods with a slow exhale.
“Okay… Just— Call me when you get home?”
You give him a soft smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “Of course.”
Jack takes the long way out to give you enough time to pack up your things and head out in the opposite direction with Santos and Whitaker.
He cuts around the block instead of heading straight out, positioning himself just far enough away from the entrance that he can still see it. When he turns the corner, he spots you brushing shoulders with Trinity and tipping your head back to laugh at something he can’t hear from here.
The sound of your giggling is carried on the summer’s evening breeze, along with your words as you veer suddenly towards the side of the hospital again. “Shit— I left my keys in my locker. You guys go ahead, I’ll catch up with you.”
You slip inside through the automatic doors.
Jack straightens his back and tightens his hold on the strap of the camo bag slung over his shoulder. He gets a strange feeling in his chest that he just can’t shake and decides to follow you back inside the PTMC. He figures it’s better to be safe than sorry — better to seem insane by following you like a creep instead of risking something bad happening to you, anyway.
He weaves through the noisy emergency department with strong shoulders and a sharp gaze. He checks for you in the locker room first, then the break room second, then doubles back for Shen at the workstation.
“Said she left something up in ortho,” the attending shrugs through a short sip of his iced coffee. Then he jokes,“What do you wanna bet she’s screwing around with Park the Shark?”
Jack's chest flares, but he tries not to let it faze him as he makes a beeline for the elevators.
He knows you’re lying — you wouldn’t have said something different to Trinity otherwise — not unless you really were sneaking around with Dr. Park, that is. Jack has to shake the thought physically from his head, which Shen had unknowingly planted there, the entire ride up to the eighth floor.
No one goes up there anymore — no one other than you and Jack — and it’s the only other place he hasn’t yet looked to find you. The west wing of the upper floor has been nothing short of abandoned, and is eerily quiet compared to the E.D. below, save for the faint buzzing of fluorescent lights that are bound to die out any day now.
As he passes the old rooms, left clean and untouched, he hears a faint song playing from behind a shut door. One of those old 2000s pop songs you always play in the car when you’re together. He knocks first and, when he receives no answer, pushes it slowly open with a call of your name.
This room, unlike the others, is not abandoned. Not exactly. There are blankets folded neatly on the edge of the bed; a duffel bag tucked in the corner by the nightstand; and a pile of books stacked on the windowsill. A laptop sits open on the pillows, where music spills from its speakers.
“‘Cause every time we touch, I get this feeling; and every time we kiss, I swear I could fly—!”
It’s all so organized, so lived in. Jack feels his chest tighten accordingly. He wonders how long you’ve been staying here, how long you’ve been lying to him.
The drumming water faucet shuts off from behind the closed bathroom door. He hears your voice behind it, singing softly to the music, and freezes when the door clicks open a few moments later.
“Can’t you hear my heart beat so, I can’t let you go! Want you in my—” You cut yourself off with a scream when you find a figure standing in front of your bed.
Your hand rises instinctively to your mouth to muffle the sound. Your chest deflates with a breath of relief when you realize it’s Jack, then tightens again when you realize that it’s Jack.
“Fuck…” you huff. “You scared me…”
Your free hand readjusts the fluffy white towel wrapped around your body, still warm from the shower and glistening with droplets of water. As the steam rolls out from behind you, he gets a whiff of your sweet body wash — and, as you shift awkwardly on your feet, he notices that you’re wearing a fluffy pair of house slippers. All of which tells him you’ve been staying here for way, way longer than he initially thought.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Jack squints, a little harsher than he means to be.
“What are you doing here?” you retort. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“I was worried about you,” the man shoots back, firm hands propped on his hips as he sways slightly on his aching prosthetic. “And obviously for good reason— What is this? Are you living here?”
Your mouth opens to argue, but you hesitate with a wavering breath in. You adjust the towel on your naked form and fight back a shiver as the humming AC cools the water on your skin.
“I’m… I’m just… I’m in between places right now. That’s all.”
Jack lets a short, disbelieving chuckle. His stern stare never wavers as you duck past him for the desk across the room, where your pajamas sit on the back of the chair.
“In between places?” he echoes. “What does the even mean?”
You sigh, gaze averted, and try to get dressed without dropping your towel.
“You remember when I told you about my creepy landlord? You know, the one who won’t stop calling me?” you ramble, sliding on a pair of underwear before reaching for your sweatpants. “Well, I was going to move to a new place, and I had already started the process of moving out, but I didn’t get approved for the apartment I wanted—”
The canvas of your bare back is revealed to him when you throw the towel to the side and reach for the sweatshirt laid out before you. Your voice goes slightly muffled as you shove it over your head.
“—And I can’t go back to my old place, obviously, so I just… Moved in here. You know. For the time being.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jack presses. “I would’ve helped you.”
“I know,” you roll your eyes. “Because you’re always helping me. Because I can’t do anything for myself—”
“That’s not what I said—”
“You don’t have to say it,” you snap, flashing him a wide-eyed glare. “That’s just what it is. And I can’t keep going to you every single time I have a problem that needs fixing.”
Jack shrugs, oblivious. “Why not?”
Your face twists at his confusion.
“Because I can’t just rely on you for the rest of my life, Jack! That’s not— sustainable,” you rant, gesturing wildly with your hands. “I mean, what if you get bored of me? What if this stops— being fun for you, and I become a burden? Then where does that leave me?”
The words hang in the quiet, still, sweet-smelling air between you for several long moments.
Jack’s stern expression melts into something softer as a white-hot feeling sears his chest from the inside out.
“You aren’t a burden to me, honey— You’ve never been a burden to me,” he tells you, closing the distance between you in a few short strides.
You peek through your lashes to meet his gaze when he towers over you. The corner of his mouth flickers into a smile as he huffs a breathless laugh.
“I mean, not to sound like a selfish asshole here, kid, but this is more for me than it is for you… I don’t buy you stuff just because you want me to; I do it because it makes me happy. I take care of you because it makes me feel good…” Jack trails off, going foreignly sheepish as he crosses his arms and bounces his shoulders in a lazy shrug. “Us being in love with each other is just a… super cool bonus.”
You blink up at him with wide, wet eyes. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “And you know what would make me feel really good?”
You hesitate for a moment, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “…What?”
“If you stopped squatting in an abandoned hospital room, and come stay with me at my place,” Jack says. “And if not with me, then at least in my guest room. That way, I know you’re sleeping in an actual bed. And have access to a real kitchen— What have you been eating, anyway?”
You cower under his squinted stare.
“I don’t know... Uber Eats on a good day. And whatever’s in the vending machine on a bad day…” you answer shyly. “And cafeteria food on a really bad day…”
Jack nods slowly, smacking his lips against his teeth.
“Yep,” he deadpans. “You’re coming home with me.”
Home, as it turns out, wasn’t so bad.
You had been to Jack’s place before, to be sure, but never with the intention of staying long term. It makes the place feel a bit foreign to you as you try to find your footing within it, when you arrive with nothing but a bathroom bag and your haphazardly-packed duffel, ‘cause Jack assured you he’d get all the rest of it for you later.
You leave your things in his guest room while he orders you something for dinner. You eat together in his living room, like usual, and wind up inevitably in his bedroom before the night is over.
Casino plays on the television, bathing the dark room in its flickering neon glow. You lie on your stomach with your legs kicked up behind you, while Jack slouches against the headboard, legs spread to accommodate your body between them. He holds your right foot against his chest with a pair of wide hands, massaging the ache in the ball of it with his fingers.
“God, I would die for that coat…” he hears you mumble to yourself, as Robert De Niro slides the white fur over Sharon Stone’s shoulders. (He makes a mental note to find that one for you, too, and send an email to recover the dress from yesterday.)
“Isn’t this so much better than a hospital bed?” Jack wonders aloud.
You scoff a faint laugh, lifting your heavy head from your fist to flash him a deadpan look. “I think the floor would be better than that hospital bed.”
Jack chuckles quietly to himself before realizing, “…That’s why you’ve been complaining about your back so much, isn’t it?”
You feel him shift behind you, bed frame creaking under his weight. Your foot falls to the mattress as he sits between your legs, careful to keep the weight off his amputated limb as he kneels on the mattress.
His warm, calloused hands smooth under the fabric of your sweatshirt. His thumbs dig into the unrelenting ache between your shoulder blades. You exhale a slow sigh and drop your head between your arms, melting under his touch.
You don’t realize he’s leaning over you until his lips brush your neck. You fight back a shiver when his silver scruff brushes the delicate skin.
“From now on…” Jack mumbles against you, low and quiet and just shy of menacing. “I want you to come to me the next time you need or want anything, alright? Anything.”
Your breath catches. Something warm pools in the pit of your stomach.
“Don’t keep it from me… Don’t brush me off…” Jack continues with a voice like honey as his hands press firmly against your back. “Come to me— directly. That’s my job now. Understand?”
You don’t trust your voice, so you just nod in response. Jack can feel it with his lips still pressed against your skin. You can feel his mouth curling into a smile as his hands smooth down the length of your spine, with a tenderness that sends chills pebbling across your skin in his wake.
You forget how to breathe when his fingers curl in the hem of your sweatpants.
“Who takes care of you, honey?” he murmurs lowly in your ear.
“You do…” you hear yourself say, half-muffled with your head still bowed.
Jack grins. He pulls your bottoms and your underwear down the curve of your ass in one fell swoop.
“Can’t hear you, baby,” he says in gritty monotone before sitting back on his haunches.
You lift your heavy head, blinking away the haze of desire clouding your vision when you glance at the man behind you. You find him kneeling there, with a hand shoved down his pajama bottoms, massaging himself the rest of the way hard.
Jack smiles wider when he catches you staring. He feels his cock twitching in his fist at your heavy-eyed and wanting gaze.
“Who takes care of you?” he echoes, more firmly this time, but with a teasing squint in his light eyes.
The corner of your mouth lifts in a mischievous half-smile. “You do,” you repeat, more eager this time.
Jack nods once, almost approvingly so, and sighs as he squeezes hard at his stiffening cock. “Hell yeah, I do…” he murmurs to himself, proud.
Michael Robinavitch x Chronic Pain!Reader x Jack Abbot
synopsis: Your boyfriends are drowning in an understaffed ED while you drown in a pain flare
warnings/Notes: discussions of chronic pain and migraines as well as treatment. everyone's journey with chronic pain is their own. Flangst, my favorite. This is much longer than i intended.
wc: 5.4k
You hadn’t seen your boyfriend in three days, which was a feat really when you considered you had two of them and you all lived in the same house.
Flu season was a bitch for patients and doctors alike. You knew that. They were covering shifts for sick colleagues so you tried not to complain, tried not to add to their burden. But sometimes, just sometimes, you felt like you could disappear and they wouldn’t even notice. They hadn’t even sought you out to say hello or goodbye or thanks for the food. It was hard not to take it personally. Especially when you’d been in a pain flare for days and hadn’t felt like doing half of things you had been.
You sat on the edge of your bed and scrolled through the texts on your phone. You’d noticed their responses to your texts getting shorter if they weren’t being ignored completely. As you scrolled you realized you were always the one that initiated the conversation, always sent the first message. Maybe you were just annoying them.
All of you had your own rooms, but you were used to them climbing into bed with you or dragging you into their rooms to sleep with them. Jack hadn’t been getting home until midmorning and Robby was closer to midnight some nights. You were already at work in the home office by the time Jack arrived home but he hadn’t popped his head in to say hello once. Hadn’t found you to say goodbye. You’d tried to stay up for Robby one night and woke up on the couch shivering in the chill at the two in the morning, telling you he hadn’t even noticed. A quick glance in his room showed him passed out in his bed. You could have crawled in with him, with either of them, but you weren’t certain they wanted you to anymore.
The last time you’d seen them, Robby had just seemed irritated that you were in his space and Jack hadn’t listened to a word you said before saying “That’s nice, sweetheart. I’m gonna get some sleep.”
So, you decided to stop. Stop messaging them first, stop seeking them out at home, just stop. The days passed and they didn’t seem to notice. You continued taking care of them for a few days, leaving food to make sure they ate, washing their scrubs, etc. You knew these back to back shifts were hard on them but you were hurting mentally and physically and just so, so tired. You knew you should talk to them, make them see you, but you didn’t want to burden them with anything else.
So, you called your best friend and packed your things, biting back your tears as you walked out the door.
Jack was the first to notice that something was wrong.
He came home just after ten from an extended shift. The house was quiet but that wasn’t out of the norm as you shut yourself up in your office to work. He opened the microwave and frowned at finding it empty. You always left them something, worried they wouldn’t eat unless you fed them. He checked the fridge only to find it devoid of a meal as well. Maybe you were annoyed that he hadn’t eaten the meals the last couple of days, grabbing something at work to combat the hollow feeling in his stomach during his long shifts. He grabbed a protein shake, too tired to do anything else.
As he headed for his bedroom, he paused outside your office, hesitating, wanting to see you, wondering if perhaps you hadn’t been up to cooking today. When your condition flared, you didn’t feel like doing much of anything. But if that was the case, you were more likely to be curled up on the couch. He sighed and eventually moved on without knocking. He didn’t want to bother you just to say hello and goodnight. After a shower, he had just enough energy left to collapse into his bed and crash, far too exhausted to realize it was Saturday and you shouldn’t be working at all.
When he woke a few hours later, he went looking for you, wanting to apologize for not eating the meals you’d undoubtedly left him. Besides, he just missed you. These long shifts were killing him. You didn’t answer his gentle knock at your office or bedroom doors. A glance in the garage showed your car was gone. He looked in the kitchen to find no note. He frowned. None of this was like you. He glanced at the time and cursed under his breath. He couldn’t worry about it now. Half an hour later found him standing by the hub talking to Robby.
“I’m telling you man, something’s not right,” Jack said.
Robby huffed. “Why because she didn’t make you breakfast? Maybe she just forgot.”
“Okay, but she didn’t leave a note. She always leaves a note. She knows we worry.”
Dana looked between them as they talked wondering how two incredibly intelligent men could be so fucking stupid. You’d been in her guestroom for two days now and they were just noticing something was up? No wonder you left their asses. Idiots. She made a sound of disgust.
Both men’s heads snapped in her direction. “What?” they asked in unison.
She arched one brow and pursed her lips. “Nothing. Don’t mind me.”
Robby and Jack turned to look at one another and reassess. Dana was your best friend. If she was pissed off at them, that meant you were as well. Shit. “Okay, well what did she say the last time you talked to her?”
“I think she told me to have a good shift,” Jack said with a frown, pulling out his phone. That had been five days ago and he’d responded with a terse thanx. “Uh, Mike, when’s the last time she texted you?”
He pulled out his phone to find much the same scenario as Jack. You usually texted them multiple times a day just to let them know you were thinking of them. “Oh.”
Jack raked his hand through his hair. “Okay, okay. Did anything seem off when you saw her?”
Robby shook his head. “I’ve been too tired when I get home to do anything but shower and crawl in bed. My bed. Figured she’d come to my room if she wanted.”
Jack’s brain short circuited and he froze. “Michael, when is the last time you physically laid eyes on our girlfriend?”
Robby sighed and ran a hand down his face. “I don’t know. Earlier this week? I’ve just been so fried I haven’t been seeking her out. What about you? What’s she been like with you?”
“I haven’t seen her either.” His voice was quiet, worried.
Robby’s gaze sharpened. “Like since when?”
Jack bowed his head as he thought. “Jesus. It’s been a week. At least. She sat at the table with me while I ate but I was too tired to even process what she was saying. I didn’t stress about it because I figured she had you.”
“And I was the same way. Fuck.” Robby’s eyes went wide and he pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead. “Fuck!”
Dana hummed in acknowledgment of their idiocy.
Jack turned to her immediately. “She’s obviously said something to you. What did she say? How mad is she?”
She glanced over the top of her glasses, entirely unimpressed. “Since when has that ever worked with me, Jack Abbot? You want to know how mad she is, try talking to her. If she’ll listen. I’m going home. You two better get your shit together.”
Handoff with Lena complete, Dana grabbed her things and headed out the door without looking back, Robby and Jack’s eyes trailing her as she went.
“Oh, our girl must be furious,” Robby muttered.
“Yeah,” Jack agreed, swallowing the lump in his throat.
Robby left his shift when he was supposed to for the first time in two weeks. This matter with you was more pressing. Your car was still gone. He knocked at your office out of habit as he opened the door. Everything you needed for work was gone. Shit. His footsteps carried him quickly down the hall. He threw open the door to your bedroom to find a neatly made bed. Your suitcase and a large amount of your clothes were missing.
Robby pulled out his phone, nearly dropping it in his haste. He called Jack who answered immediately. “Is she home?”
“She’s gone, Jack.” Robby’s voice broke on the words. “Her office is empty. Half of her clothes are gone.”
“Shit,” Jack said. “Trauma’s coming in. See if you can reach her.”
Robby tried to call first. You sent the call to voicemail three times before he gave up.
Next, he sent you a text. Baby please pick up the phone. I want to talk to you. I need to make sure you’re alright.
I’m fine, came not even a minute later.
He heaved a sigh of relief. At least you responded. I don’t think you are. Please talk to me.
You haven’t cared if you talked to me in weeks. Why should now be any different?
God, you always knew exactly what to say to make your point in the sharpest way possible. Please. He didn’t know what else to say.
I moved out two days ago. You didn’t even notice.
Two days? That can’t be true surely. Jesus. He knew you well enough to know that he and Jack had been horribly wrong. You weren’t pissed. You were hurt. That was so much worse. They’d hurt you. They were going to lose you and they’d deserve it.
I don’t know what I can say to that. There’s no excuse for it. I’m sorry. I love you. I love you so much.
Okay. Goodnight Michael.
No, no, no. That couldn’t be your response. This couldn’t be the end of everything. What the fuck had they done?
Baby please. Just meet us at least. Let us sit down and talk about this. Please.
The two of you will never have the time for that. I can say yes but it will never happen so why bother. I’m done talking.
Please talk to me.
Please don’t leave us.
I love you.
Just give us a chance
All four messages were left on read.
Jack tried next.
Robby hadn’t told him how things had gone until handoff, not wanting Jack to dwell on it all night. While part of him understood Robby’s reasoning, the rest of him was pissed off. If he’d known, maybe he could have gotten you to respond. It wasn’t logical, you weren’t any more likely to talk to him than Robby but Jack couldn’t just give up.
He sent the first text as he walked to the truck.
Honey I am so sorry. Please talk to us.
He tossed his phone on the passenger seat. When he pulled in the drive, he was disappointed to find no response.
I love you. I miss you.
He took a shower to scrub the day away. When he got out, he found that you had responded to his texts with a link. He clicked on it and was taken to a local housekeeping service that did cleaning and laundry. His brows snapped together and a muscle twitched in his jaw.
What’s that?
Figured that’s what you were missing. You can probably find someone to make meals for you too. Or doordash.
Jack scowled. What the fuck? I don’t give a shit about any of that. I miss you. I want you. Not some fucking maid service. Why would you think that?
Are you telling me that you didn’t notice stuff wasn’t getting done before you noticed you hadn’t seen me? It’s been days Jack. Days.
Look I know things haven’t been ideal lately. Mike and I have both been working more than we should have. We just have to get through this and then things will go back to normal.
I don’t want normal.
What?
When was the last time either of you texted me first? Took me on a date? It was a long time before the flu.
Jack frantically scrolled through his texts knowing you had to be wrong. The two of you talked all the time. Another message from you came through.
You just got off shift. You should get some sleep. Goodbye Jack.
Jesus fucking Christ. Now he understood what Robby had been talking about. You were talking like this was over. He wasn’t ready for this to be done. Didn’t think he would ever be.
I’m fine Honey. I’m worried about you and hating myself for fucking this up.
I can’t do this anymore Jack. Not right now.
He tried to text you two more times before switching to phone calls. The third time he called he went straight to voicemail. He raked a hand through his hair and tossed his phone on the bed before dropping back to lay flat. He pressed the heels of both hands against his eyes. How the fuck were they going to fix this?
Two days passed of them trying to call or text and getting no further response from you. They’d managed to learn from Dana that you were staying with her and were ‘doing just fine. Now fuck off’. Jack and Robby stood at the hub just before seven going over the schedule, trying to figure out who would be willing to shift around so they could head over to Dana’s together to beg for forgiveness.
Dana hurried through the bay doors and made her way straight to them. Both of them turned at her unusual behavior. “What’s up with you?” Robby asked.
“I need you both to behave like fucking adults or I’ll get Gloria down here,” she snapped.
Jack’s brows shot up. “Who pissed in your cornflakes?”
“Stow it, Abbot.” She glanced over her shoulder, eyes scanning the department. “Whitaker, grab a chair. Patient being dropped off in the bay.”
Both men straightened at that. “Dana,” Robby said drawing out the word.
She pursed her lips and sighed. “She’s been in a flare for days. Meds triggered an intractable migraine. Neuro told her to come here.”
“Is she okay?” Robby asked then immediately said, “Don’t answer that. Stupid question.”
“How long?” Jack asked already heading for the doors.
She huffed out a breath knowing they weren’t going to like the answer. “Three days.”
Jack stopped and turned back. “Three fucking days? And she’s just now coming in?”
“I can’t imagine why she would be hesitant.” Dana rolled her eyes as she moved past him to meet Whitaker at the door.
“What’s open, Lena?” she called over her shoulder.
“Five is all yours.”
Robby and Jack froze as you were wheeled inside. You had an icepack pressed over your eyes, the elbow of the hand holding it resting on the arm of the chair. You were curled in on yourself and had an empty bucket in your lap. Dana shot them a look as she pushed you past them and into your room.
As much as they wanted to invade the room, to check on you themselves, they waited. Dana emerged nearly twenty minutes later. “I’ve got her in a gown and got an IV started for fluids. She’s checked in and waiting for a doctor. She said you can come in.”
They stepped forward and she held up a hand. “Don’t upset her or I’ll kick your ass.”
Entering the room quietly, their eyes immediately fell on you. You were curled on your side, icepack still laying on your head. They split, each one taking a different side of the bed. Jack sat on a stool and wheeled it to your side, clasping your hand in his. You sucked in a breath at the contact and immediately started to sob.
Robby had pulled a chair up on your other side, placing a heavy hand on your back. “Shh, baby. It’s okay.”
Jack touched the icepack to find it warm. He moved it aside so he could see your eyes. He wiped away your tears with his thumb. “Why are you crying, honey?”
“It hurts.” You practically whimpered the words. “It hurts so bad. Nothing is helping.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” he said.
Before he could say anything else, Dana came back into the room hands full. She sat the tray full of medication aside and hung a bag of saline to run into your IV. “Doc Reynolds sent in the order for a cocktail.”
“What’s he giving her?” Robby asked as he put on his glasses and headed over to the computer.
Dana ignored him and started filling syringes with meds.
“Well?” Jack asked.
Robby glanced over with a frown. “Toradol, Reglan, Zomig, and Decadron.”
“Jesus.” Jack watched Dana inject the drugs into your IV. “Must be particularly stubborn, huh?”
Another tear ran down your face in answer.
Dana glanced at Robby. “You working or calling someone in?”
Robby ran a hand down his face. “Shit. Yeah. I’ll take care of it.”
She nodded and moved to the computer to make her notes.
Robby went back to your side and kissed your temple. “I’ll be back, sweetheart. Just let me get things settled out there.”
“I need to do handoff,” Jack said, looking between you and Robby.
You turned away from him, careful not to tangle your IV. “I’m fine. Just go.”
The pain in your voice pierced through him. “Honey—”
“Go!” you yelled then winced.
Dana’s gaze snapped over to Jack. “You heard her. Out.”
When he hesitated, she said, “Now.”
“We’ll be back,” he said at the door, turning back to look at you. Dana had her hand resting on the side of your face, talking to you in a low tone. He sighed and left the room, sliding the door shut behind him.
“I feel like we just failed a test,” Robby said, voice tired.
“Yeah.”
You didn’t want to be a bitch, to be unreasonable. You knew your temper was shorter because of your migraine, because of the pain that you had been drowning in for days. The truth was you’d been in a flare for two weeks at this point. You’d been careful with your meds but eventually they’d caused the headache you’d had since you left their house. Stress undoubtedly playing a large part in both the flare and the migraine. You’d only admitted to it three days ago. If Dana knew you were going on five days, she’d beat your ass.
But you’d told the neuro the truth. He’d told you if the cocktail didn’t work, they’d have to admit you for stronger meds. You knew that of course, this wasn’t your first trip to the hospital for a stubborn migraine, but you hated it. All you’d wanted from the beginning was to curl up with one of your men and let them take care of you.
You missed them and they always seemed to make everything better. Well, they used to. It’s why you’d told Dana they could come into the room. You’d hoped they’d choose you. Take care of you. Prioritize you. But once again the Pitt won.
It wasn’t rational. They needed to do their jobs. They were attending physicians. Lives literally hung in the balance. But you didn’t want to be rational. You were tired of always being understanding. Of always letting yourself take a back seat. You were tired of always being the second choice.
Your heart ached when you thought about how long it took for them to even notice you were gone. They didn’t need you. Didn’t want you. Not really. You’d been crippled with pain for days and they hadn’t known, hadn’t cared. Had never once asked how you were doing. Dana had told you that you could stay as long as you wanted but you knew you were wearing out your welcome. No one wants a permanent houseguest.
You wondered how much money was in your savings. You didn’t check the balance often as you were afraid you’d spend it, so you left it and just added to it when you could. You’d need enough for a deposit and first and last month’s rent. Jesus, you hated apartment hunting. Hated apartments. You’d gotten used to the quiet neighborhood where you lived now. You didn’t want to think about it right now, it certainly wasn’t helping your headache.
Your head had that floaty feeling that told you the meds were working. Your thoughts were a little slow and time passed in weird increments but you were still aware.
Dana popped back in after almost an hour had passed. “How you doing, doll?”
“It’s definitely better, but it still hurts.”
She pulled you up on the computer. “Instructions here for another round. After that…”
“Yeah, I know.”
She patted your leg. “I’m going to get you some more fluids and something to drink. Need anything else?”
“Another icepack?”
“Sure. I can do that.” Her gaze ran over you as she crossed her arms over her chest. “They’ve stationed themselves in the hallway, you know.”
You frowned at her. You’d assumed they were working. Hell, Jack might have gone home for all you knew. “What?”
“I told them they couldn’t come back in, not after they made you cry.”
“They didn’t. I was crying because it hurt.”
She hummed in agreement. “And then you were crying because they told you they had to go back to work.”
“That’s not their fault.”
“It is. If they didn’t keep picking this place over you, you would be more understanding when they didn’t have a choice. And that’s okay. You’re allowed to be upset. They fucked up.” She sighed. “But they love you. And you miss them. That’s okay too.”
Another tear ran down your cheek.
“Do you want me to send them in?” Her voice had taken on that mom tone of hers that always made you feel comforted.
“Yes, please.”
She nodded once and patted your leg again. She stepped past the curtain and out the door. You heard her say, “I’m getting another bag of fluids. She needs water and an icepack. I’ll let you deliver them. Don’t upset her.” Then she shut the door.
Jack appeared first, cup of water with a straw in hand. “Just chilled. Don’t want to shock your system.”
“Thanks.” You licked your lips before leaning forward to take a sip. You hadn’t realized how dry your mouth was until then.
He sat it on the table when you finished, his hazel eyes running over you. His hands gripped the railing. “How are you feeling? You look better.”
“Still hurts but it’s better. Dana’s bringing me more drugs in a bit.”
Before he could respond, Robby came into the room. “Hey, sweetheart. One icepack as requested.” He snapped it to activate it and kneaded it before handing it over. You pressed it to the back of your neck with a sigh.
“Here,” he said and folded your pillow so it would keep the icepack pressed where you wanted without you having to hold it. Your eyes closed in relief.
“Where are you at on the pain scale?” Robby asked as his fingers found your pulse on your wrist.
You huffed out a breath without opening your eyes. “Already have a doctor, Robinavitch. If you’re going to stay, you can’t doctor me.”
You could feel him wanting to argue without looking at him. Could practically feel it vibrating under his skin.
“Okay,” he said instead, hand shifting to lay on yours instead.
You opened one eye to look at him in disbelief.
A small laugh fell from his lips and he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Honey, I would do about anything you asked to keep you talking to me.”
You hummed and closed your eye. They settled to either side of you, each of them holding one of your hands. Jack kissed the back of the one he held, then Robby kissed the inside of your wrist on the other. Your lips twitched in amusement.
“You can talk. I meant it when I said I was feeling better. Another dose should kill it completely.”
“I’m going to lecture about one thing, then I’ll shut up,” Jack said.
You cracked your eyes to look at him.
“I don’t care how upset you are with us, you don’t wait three days to come to the hospital when you’re hurting like this.”
Your nose wrinkled before you could stop it. Damn it.
Robby’s gaze immediately narrowed. “How long?”
“It started before I even left the house.”
“What?” Jack snapped, the sharpness in his tone making you wince. “Sorry, sorry,” he immediately apologized, rubbing your hand with his thumb.
“Your doctor know that?” Robby asked.
“Yes.”
You could tell there was so much he wanted to say but he simply nodded once and said, “Okay.”
“I kinda like the you that’s trying to stay in my good graces,” you said. Guilt flashed through his eyes but you couldn’t bring yourself to feel bad for your words. They’d earned them.
Dana came in and hung another bag of saline. Jack slid out of the way so she could give you the next dose of meds. She looked between the men when neither of them said anything before looking to you in question.
You grinned. “I told them they couldn’t doctor if they wanted to stay.”
She laughed. “Good for you,” she said before putting them out of their misery. “Same meds as last time. If it works, she can go home under supervision. If not, she’s heading upstairs.”
“Thanks, Dana,” Jack said, voice rough with worry.
She gave you a nod and left.
“Don’t you guys need to go back to work?” you asked, trying to keep your voice even.
“Nope.” Robby leaned back in his chair, hand still on yours. “We put in for some of our PTO.”
“And Gloria’s just going to let you do that?”
“She doesn’t have a choice. Told her to get some temps in if she needed,” Robby said. “Neither one of us uses our time. Plus, we’re way over the hours we were supposed to be working the last two weeks.”
Your eyelids began to feel heavy as the new meds swamped your system.
“Hey, open your eyes, baby,” Jack said.
You blinked at him.
“This round working? Can we take you home?”
“Yeah, Jack. Take me home.”
You weren’t certain how much time passed before you became aware of your surroundings again. As you blinked away the slumber, you realized you were in Robby’s bed. Huh. At least you weren’t in the hospital. Seeing a glass of water waiting for you on the nightstand, you pushed yourself up on your elbow. You were halfway done downing it when the door opened slightly, Robby’s head popping into the gap. His concerned expression melted into a relieved smile. “Hey, you’re awake.”
You didn’t answer as you finished your water. You felt so dehydrated which was stupid considering how much fluid they’d given you at the hospital. Robby stepped into the room tapping on his phone which he slid back into his pocket when he saw you’d finished the water. He took the cup from you and set it aside. His fingers instantly found your wrist but he paused, “Can I doctor you for a second?”
“Sure,” you said, a smile teasing your lips.
He’d just finished checking your pulse when Jack stepped into the room. His gaze ran over you, assessing before giving you a bright smile. “Hey, baby. How you feeling?”
“Better. Much better.”
“Good.” He held a fresh glass of water out to you. “Mike said you were thirsty.”
“Thank you.” You took a drink then set the glass on the table. Your attention shifted to Robby who sat on the edge of the bed, fingers still on your wrist. “Will I live, doc?”
He nodded his head but didn’t look at you.
You tilted your head with a frown. “Michael, are you okay?”
“I’m sorry.” The words were quiet, broken. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
Your brow furrowed as Jack sighed. “I thought we were going to give her a chance to get her bearings before we got into this.”
Robby sniffed, finally releasing his hold on you only to wipe the moisture from his eyes. “Sorry.”
“Let me go to the bathroom,” you said and Robby hopped up, offering you a hand to help you out. “We’ll talk when I get back.”
You took your time in the other room, taking the chance to wash your face and feel a bit more human. Despite the obvious pain fatigue, you looked better than you had in days. Finally, you took a breath and stepped back into the bedroom. Both men stopped talking as you opened the door and stood from where they’d been sitting on the edge of the bed.
Robby cleared his throat after Jack nudged him. “I’m, uh, sorry about before. I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s fine,” you said, cutting him off. “I’d rather get the conversation out of the way if it’s all the same to you.”
“Oh, thank god,” Jack said, shoulders dropping as tension flowed from him.
You pressed your lips together to keep from snorting a laugh at the incredulous look Robby gave him. He muttered under his breath while he shook his head. He took your hand and led you over to the chair that sat in the corner of the room. “Sit. We have a couple of questions and then several things to say.”
Your gaze moved between the two of them. “Did you practice this or something?”
“Well, you were asleep for almost twenty-two hours,” Jack said.
You were only slightly surprised by that information. The meds always knocked you out. Usually not quite that long but you’d expected it. Jack sat on the edge of the bed in front of you while Robby stayed standing.
“First, Dana said you were in a flare before the headache. How long?” Jack asked.
You sighed, knowing they weren’t going to like the answer. “A couple of weeks.”
“Jesus, sweetheart. Why didn’t you say anything?” Robby said.
“What was I supposed to say? Hey, I know you’re incredibly busy at the hospital right now and barely have time to sleep but could you take care of me?”
“Yes,” Jack said without hesitation. He slid forward on the bed a bit. “That’s exactly what you should have done.”
You rolled your eyes. “Be serious, Jack.”
“I am.”
His tone was so sincere you could do nothing but look at him.
“I don’t know when you started believing that you were less important than us or our jobs, but you are not. And we’re so incredibly sorry for anything we’ve done that made you feel that way,” Robby said.
Hot tears rolled down your face before you could stop them. He swooped in immediately making hushing sounds as he wiped the tears from your cheeks. “Don’t cry, baby. You’ll get another headache.”
You sucked in a breath and tried to regulate your emotions. “I know.”
“Listen,” Jack said. “Mike and I have talked about this. We don’t want to start over. We all have to much history for that. But we do want to prove to you that you’re still our priority if you’ll let us.”
You thought about it for a moment. You loved these men. Yes, they’d hurt you, but there was reason you’d fallen in love with them in the first place. Maybe you all just needed a reminder of what that was. Finally, you nodded. “I’d like that very much.”
And prove themselves they did. They cut their hours, focused on making your relationship a priority. As Robby said, the three of you were hopefully going to be together long after they retired. It wasn’t long before your relationship was stronger than it ever had been. To the point that, though you maintained your own rooms on the off chance you needed the space, you all slept in Robby’s king-sized bed most of the time, whether he was home or not.
And the next time you had a flare that lasted for longer than a couple of days, they took turns taking care of you the way you always did for them. They loved you, and they never let you doubt that again.
Summary: Andrew always comes back. But after years of watching everyone pull pieces from him—Craig, Baz, Deran, Smurf—you bring him to the beach hoping, just once, no one will need Pope. You only wanted one night with Andrew. Instead, you realize coming back isn’t the same as staying.
WC: 9K
Tags: Angst with Hopeful Ending, Bittersweet, Fear of Abandonment, Emotional Baggage, Relationship Issues, Choosing Yourself, Reader Loves Andrew Anyway
The beach was almost empty by the time you got him there.
That had been the point. No crowds. No music spilling out from open bars. No Cody house behind him with all its windows lit up and all its problems waiting inside.
Just the dark water.
The moon.
The slow, steady pull of the tide.
Andrew walked beside you with his hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the breeze. His boots sank into the sand with every step. He hadn’t asked where you were going once you passed the last streetlight.
Maybe he already knew. Maybe he was just too tired to argue. The whole week had been like that.
Too much.
Too loud.
Too many people reaching for him with both hands.
Craig had called first.
You’d been in the kitchen when Andrew’s phone started buzzing across the counter. Dinner was almost done. Nothing special. Pasta from a box, sauce from a jar, garlic bread you’d almost burned because Andrew had distracted you earlier by standing behind you and resting his chin briefly on your shoulder.
For one whole minute, he’d been yours.
Quiet.
Warm.
There.
Then Craig’s name flashed across the screen, and something in Andrew’s face closed. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just enough. Like someone had reached over and lowered a shade.
He answered on the third ring. “Yeah.”
You kept stirring the sauce, pretending not to listen.
That was the thing with the Codys. Even when you didn’t want to hear, their emergencies filled the room.
Craig’s voice came through loud and irritated. Something about a guy who wasn’t paying. Something about a truck. Something about not wanting to deal with it alone.
“Come on, Pope. I need you.”
Not Andrew.
Pope.
The name landed like a leash.
Andrew’s eyes dropped to the floor. His free hand flexed once at his side.
“I’m coming,” he said.
Just like that. No question. No pause. No looking at you first.
He kissed the side of your head on his way out. Fast. Almost distracted. An apology pretending to be affection.
Hours later, he came back with bruised knuckles and dried blood near his thumb.
You asked what happened.
He said, “Nothing.”
Then he washed his hands in your sink until the water ran clear and went quiet for the rest of the night.
Andrew walked beside you now, that same hand hidden in his pocket. The bruises had started to fade, yellowed around the edges. You could still see them when the moon caught his skin right.
You didn’t mention it. You had learned, slowly and painfully, that naming every wound did not make him feel seen. Sometimes it only made him feel cornered.
So you walked. The water curled close to your feet and slid away again.
Out here, Andrew didn’t look relaxed exactly. Andrew Cody never looked relaxed. But he looked less like he was waiting for someone to call his name.
Then Baz had needed him.
Baz was different from Craig. Craig came loud. Baz came reasonable. That almost made it worse.
He showed up the next morning in sunglasses and a clean shirt, leaning against the doorframe like he belonged wherever he stood.
“Pope here?”
Andrew had come out of the bathroom with wet hair and a towel slung around his neck. He stopped when he saw Baz. Not startled. Never that. But you saw the shift.
The quiet morning you’d built around him disappeared. Coffee cooling on the counter. Eggs half-finished on a plate. Your hand still damp from rinsing dishes.
Baz looked him over once. “We gotta talk.”
Andrew didn’t ask if it could wait. Baz’s problems always came dressed like plans.
He spoke low, too low for you to hear all of it, but you caught pieces. A job. Timing. Smurf. J. Risk.
Andrew stood there listening, towel still around his neck, hair dripping water onto the collar of his shirt. He looked like a man interrupted in the middle of remembering he was allowed to have a life.
Baz glanced at you once. Quick. Measuring. Then back at Andrew.
“You good?”
Andrew nodded.
You hated that nod. It wasn’t agreement. It was surrender.
After Baz left, Andrew stayed by the door, staring at the knob like it might turn again.
“You don’t have to go,” you said.
He didn’t look at you. “Yeah, I do.”
“Why?”
His jaw tightened. “Because if I don’t, something gets missed.”
“And if something gets missed?”
He finally looked at you then. There was no anger in his face. That might have been easier. There was only certainty.
“People get hurt.”
You wanted to say, “And what happens when you do?”
But you didn’t. Because he already knew. Because it had never changed anything before.
So you watched him pick up his keys. Watched him leave his coffee untouched. Watched him become useful again.
Deran came after that.
Deran didn’t even call first. He just showed up angry two days later, pacing outside your apartment.
Andrew had been on your couch. For once. Actually sitting. His head tilted back, one hand resting over his stomach, the TV on low even though he wasn’t watching it.
You were pretty sure he’d been close to sleep.
Then came the knock. Hard. Impatient.
“Pope, open up.”
Andrew opened his eyes before the second knock landed. For a second, he just stared at the floor. Like maybe if he didn’t move, the world wouldn’t find him. Then he stood.
Deran started talking before the door was fully open. Something about the bar. Something about a guy running his mouth. Something about needing backup, though Deran would have swallowed glass before saying it that plainly.
“I need you,” he said instead, lower this time.
And there it was again.
Need.
Need.
Need.
Andrew’s shoulders settled under it like his body recognized the weight.
You watched from the couch, arms crossed tightly over your chest.
Deran looked past Andrew at you. His expression shifted for half a second. Guilt, maybe. Or annoyance. Hard to tell with Deran.
“Sorry,” he muttered, though he didn’t sound like he meant it enough to stop.
Andrew looked back at you. That was the worst part. That he did look this time. That you saw the apology before he made the choice.
“I’ll be back,” he said.
You didn’t answer fast enough.
His face changed. Just slightly. Like he expected the silence to become proof of something.
You forced yourself to nod. “Okay.”
He left anyway.
Smurf was last.
Smurf was always the worst. She didn’t come loud like Craig. She didn’t come reasonable like Baz. She didn’t come angry like Deran. She came sweet.
And somehow, that was harder to watch.
It had been late afternoon. Andrew was sitting on your kitchen floor, fixing the loose drawer handle even though you’d told him three times it didn’t matter.
He looked almost peaceful like that. Focused. Useful. Safe inside a task.
You leaned against the counter and watched him work.
“You know people usually relax by watching TV or taking a nap.”
He didn’t look up. “Drawer’s loose.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“It’s annoying.”
“You’re annoying.”
That got you a look. Flat. Unimpressed. Almost affectionate.
You were still smiling when his phone rang. The sound cut through the room.
Andrew froze. Not moved. Not flinched. Froze.
You knew before you saw the screen.
Smurf.
He stared at her name for two rings before answering.
“Yeah.”
Then his face emptied. You hated that most. The blankness. The way he went still when she talked, like feeling anything in response to her was dangerous.
Her voice spilled faintly through the speaker. Sweet. Sharpened.
“Baby.”
The word made your skin crawl. Not because it was cruel. Because it sounded like love from a distance. Close up, it looked like ownership.
You couldn’t hear everything she said. You didn’t need to. You heard enough. His name. A reminder. A request that wasn’t really a request. Family. Loyalty.
The kind of words that had been used on him so many times they didn’t even have to be raised anymore.
By the time he hung up, Andrew was somewhere else entirely.
“Andrew,” you said softly.
He stood too fast. “I have to go.”
“No, you don’t.”
The words left your mouth before you could stop them.
He looked at you then. Really looked. And for one second, he seemed almost lost. Like he wanted you to be right. Like he wanted there to be a world where he could put the phone down, stay on your kitchen floor, finish fixing a drawer that didn’t matter, and be wanted for nothing at all.
Then the moment passed.
“I do,” he said.
Not defensive. Not angry. Worse. Certain.
He left the screwdriver on the counter. The drawer handle still loose.
You stared at it long after he was gone.
That was the thing about his family.
Craig needed his fists.
Baz needed his loyalty.
Deran needed his steadiness.
Smurf needed the part of him she had trained to come when called.
And every time, Andrew went.
Because his family didn’t ask for Andrew.
They asked for Pope.
And Pope always answered.
The wind lifted off the water, cool against your face.
Andrew walked beside you, close but not touching.
Not yet.
He had been quiet since you left the apartment, but this quiet felt different from the ones he brought home from his family.
Those silences had edges. This one was tired. You could work with tired. Tired still had a way in.
“You’re quiet,” you said.
His mouth twitched. “I’m always quiet.”
“Not like this.”
He glanced at you. Only for a second. Long enough for you to see how exhausted he was. Long enough for your chest to ache.
Out on the beach, Andrew finally slowed.
You slowed with him.
The tide came in gentle, water spreading thin and silver over the sand before slipping back into the dark.
For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence felt different here.
At the Cody house, silence meant someone was thinking three moves ahead.
In your apartment, silence sometimes meant Andrew was trying not to say something that hurt.
But here, silence was just silence. The ocean kept moving. The wind kept breathing. Nobody was waiting by the door. Nobody was calling from the other room. Nobody was saying Pope like it meant come here, fix this, carry this, bleed for this.
You looked at him. Really looked. At the dark circles beneath his eyes. At the set of his mouth. At the man beside you who had spent the entire week being summoned, used, needed, and sent back to you in pieces.
A few steps later, your knuckles brushed the back of his hand where it rested in his pocket.
You didn’t grab for him. You didn’t want to make him feel caught. You just let the contact happen and waited.
One breath.
Two.
Three.
Then Andrew’s hand came out of his pocket. His fingers wrapped around yours. Careful. Like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to.
This was the man who noticed when your tire pressure was low before you did. The man who always walked on the street side of the sidewalk. The man who remembered that you hated pulp in orange juice and bought the right kind without ever mentioning it.
The man who checked your locks before leaving, not because he thought you were helpless, but because the world had taught him love looked like prevention. The man everyone kept mistaking for a weapon because that was what they needed him to be.
But you had never wanted a weapon. You had only wanted him.
You squeezed his hand once. He squeezed back. Brief. Quiet. There.
For the first time all week, Andrew Cody breathed like no one was calling his name.
You kept walking. Slowly. Nowhere to be. No one waiting.
Andrew’s hand stayed in yours, warm and rough, his thumb resting against your knuckle without moving.
You didn’t point it out.
That was another thing you had learned with him. Some moments only survived if you didn’t look straight at them. So you looked at the water instead.
The moon had cut a pale path across the waves, silver breaking apart every time the tide rolled in. Somewhere behind you, the city kept existing, but out here it felt softened by distance.
You could almost pretend the rest of the world had been left at the edge of the sand.
Andrew’s steps slowed beside yours. You slowed too. The tide rushed forward, cold water brushing the edge of your shoes before sliding back again.
“You’re gonna get wet,” he said.
His voice was low from disuse.
You smiled. “That’s your concern right now?”
He looked at your shoes. “They’re canvas.”
“Wow,” you said softly. “Romance is alive.”
His mouth twitched. This time, it almost stayed.
You bumped your shoulder into his. He let you. That felt like something. Everything with Andrew felt like something if you knew how to read it.
The hand not pulling away. The step closer instead of back.
The quiet warning about your shoes because he couldn’t quite say, I’m glad you brought me here.
You turned your face into the breeze. “I missed you this week.”
Andrew’s hand tightened around yours. “I was there.”
You looked over at him.
He was staring at the water.
“I know.”
The tide whispered across the sand.
Neither of you spoke.
“That’s not what I meant.”
His jaw shifted.
You could feel him searching for the safest answer.
The one that revealed the least. The one that let the conversation die before it got too close to anything tender.
You almost let him have it. Almost. But then you thought about the drawer handle still loose in your kitchen. The coffee gone cold. The couch cushion where his body had barely settled before Deran knocked.
The way he kept coming back to you exhausted from being everything to everyone else, then acted confused when you noticed what was missing.
So you kept walking. And you told the truth gently. “You were there,” you said. “But you weren’t with me.”
Andrew stopped. Not abruptly. Just enough that your joined hands stretched between you. You stopped too.
The ocean moved around the silence. For a second, you wondered if you’d pushed too hard.
Then Andrew looked down at your hand in his. Like he’d forgotten he was holding it. Like he was deciding whether to let go.
Your chest tightened.
“Please don’t,” you thought.
Not aloud. Never aloud. You were tired of making your staying sound like begging.
Andrew didn’t let go. But he didn’t look at you either.
“I don’t know how to do both,” he said.
The honesty of it startled you. “Do both?”
“Them and…” His brow furrowed, like the word wouldn’t come. “This.”
This.
You.
The two of you.
The fragile, unnamed thing he kept touching like he expected it to burn.
You softened despite yourself. “Andrew.”
His shoulders pulled tight again. “I know.”
“You don’t know what I’m going to say.”
“I know enough.”
That hurt. Not because it was cruel. Because it was familiar.
Andrew was always bracing for a sentence before you had the chance to speak it. Always meeting you at the end of an argument you hadn’t started.
You studied the side of his face. The hard line of his profile. The exhaustion beneath it.
“I’m not good at this,” he said.
Quiet.
Flat.
Like a fact.
You exhaled through your nose. There it was. The first stone in the wall.
“I know.”
His eyes flickered. Maybe surprise. Maybe hurt.
You didn’t soften the truth. Not completely. You loved him too much to pretend he was easy.
“But you’re here,” you added.
His gaze dropped again.
“To walk. To breathe.”
The words came out before you could think better of them.
“To be Andrew for a while.”
Something moved across his face. A flinch without motion. You saw it anyway. Because you knew him. Because you loved him. Because after nearly three years, you had learned that Andrew Cody reacted more to being seen than most people did to being touched.
“I don’t know what that means,” he said.
Your throat tightened.
“I think that’s the problem.”
He let go then. Slowly. Not angry. Not even defensive. Just retreating. One finger at a time until your hand was empty and cold in the night air.
You stared at the space where his hand had been. A familiar ache opened under your ribs. There it was again. That tiny step back. So small anyone else might have missed it. So polite anyone else might have forgiven it before it finished happening.
But you saw it. You always saw it.
Andrew dragged a hand over his mouth and looked down the beach. Like distance was something he could measure. Like leaving had already become a possibility.
“What?” he asked.
You almost laughed. Not because it was funny. Because of course he could feel your change but not his own.
“Nothing.”
His eyes sharpened. “You’re mad.”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I’m not mad, Andrew.”
“Then what?”
You looked at the water. The waves kept coming in. Kept leaving. Kept coming back like they trusted return was built into the world.
You wished you trusted it half as much.
“I’m tired,” you said.
Andrew went very still. You regretted it immediately. Not because it wasn’t true. Because you saw where his mind went.
Tired meant done.
Tired meant leaving.
Tired meant proof.
You stepped closer before he could disappear inside it. “Not of you.”
His jaw clenched.
You said it again, softer. “Not of you.”
He didn’t answer.
But he didn’t move away either.
So you kept going.
“I’m tired of watching everyone take pieces of you and then pretending it doesn’t hurt when there’s almost nothing left by the time you get back to me.”
His eyes dropped.
“I’m tired of missing you while you’re standing right in front of me.”
The wind moved between you. Andrew looked wrecked in the moonlight. Not crying. Worse. Like you had reached into him and touched a place he kept bandaged for a reason.
“I come back,” he said.
“I know.”
“I always come back.”
“I know.”
His voice roughened. “Then what else do you want?”
There it was. Not anger. Panic wearing its clothes.
You held his gaze even though it hurt. “I want you to come back before you’re empty.”
Andrew stared at you. Like the words didn’t make sense. Like he didn’t know that was allowed.
A wave rolled in, bigger than the others, rushing cold around the soles of your shoes. You barely felt it. Andrew did.
His eyes snapped down. “You’re wet.”
A broken laugh escaped you. “Andrew.”
He looked at your shoes with an intensity that might have been funny in another life.
“You said they were fine.”
“They are.”
“They’re canvas.”
“I don’t care about the shoes.”
He looked up at you then. And the sadness in his face almost undid you. Because he did. He cared about the shoes. He cared about the lock. The tire pressure. The drawer handle. The burnt toast you scraped into the trash before he could eat it anyway. He cared about every small thing he could manage. Every practical thing. Every fixable thing.
But when it came to letting himself be loved without earning it, Andrew still looked like a man standing at the edge of a language he had never been taught to speak.
You softened. You couldn’t help it.
“I know you come back,” you said. “That’s not the same as staying.”
You watched it hit him.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then, very quietly, he said, “I don’t leave you.”
You nodded. “No. Not all the way.”
His brow furrowed.
“But every time something gets too good, too close, too real…” You swallowed. “You pull back just enough to make me wonder if I imagined it.”
Andrew’s face changed. Not much. But enough. He knew. Maybe not fully. Maybe not in words. But somewhere in him, he knew.
You could see it.
You weren’t telling him anything his body hadn’t already confessed a hundred times.
The first time you said you loved him, he had gone quiet for nearly a week. Not cruel. Never cruel. He still came over. Still took out your trash before he left. Still noticed the porch light had gone out and replaced the bulb without being asked.
But he stopped meeting your eyes for too long. Stopped sleeping deeply beside you. Stopped reaching for your hand unless you reached first.
At the time, you had told yourself he was overwhelmed. That he needed time. That loving Andrew meant patience. And maybe it did. But patience had become something else when it was always yours to offer and never his to trust.
Then there was the weekend you’d asked him to spend the night and stay through breakfast. Not for any special reason. Just because you wanted to wake up without him already gone. He had agreed. He’d even looked pleased in that cautious, almost frightened way of his.
Then morning came. And you woke to his side of the bed cold. Coffee made. Door locked. No note. He showed up six hours later with new brake pads for your car. Like safety could apologize for absence. Like usefulness could replace being missed.
And you had let it.
Because when Andrew stood in your driveway with grease on his hands and guilt in his silence, you couldn’t bring yourself to punish him for loving you the only way he knew how.
But the thing was—
You didn’t want to punish him. You never had. You wanted him to stop punishing himself.
You looked at him now, standing in the moonlit dark with the ocean at his back.
“I know you think I’m going to leave,” you said.
His expression went blank.
Too blank.
There.
The wound.
You stepped carefully. “But Andrew, sometimes it feels like you start leaving first just so you don’t have to be surprised.”
He looked away. The words hung between you. Heavy. True. The kind of true that didn’t need to be loud. The kind that made the whole world go quiet around it.
For a second, you thought he might walk away. Not far. Just down the beach. Just enough to put space between his body and the sentence.
But he didn’t.
He stood there with his hands at his sides, breathing hard through his nose, staring at the water like it had betrayed him by witnessing this.
When he finally spoke, his voice was barely there. “I don’t know how to believe people.”
Your heart cracked so cleanly it almost felt calm.
You nodded. “I know.”
His eyes cut to you. Sharp. Pained.
“Then why are you still here?”
There it was.
The question under every retreat.
Every silence. Every unfinished morning.
Why are you still here?
Not because he didn’t want you. Because he couldn’t understand wanting without a cost. Because everyone in his life had needed Pope.
Used Pope.
Called Pope.
Praised Pope when he was useful and punished Andrew when he was human.
No wonder love looked like a trick from where he stood.
You closed the distance between you carefully. This time, you didn’t reach for his hand. You let him have the choice.
“I’m still here because I love you.”
He flinched. Barely. But you saw it. You always saw it.
“And because I know you’re more than what they ask you to be.”
Andrew’s eyes shone strangely in the dark. Not tears. Maybe almost. Maybe just moonlight.
You didn’t push. You’d done enough for one night. So you turned back toward the water and started walking again.
After a few seconds, Andrew fell into step beside you. Not touching. But close. Close enough that your sleeves brushed. Close enough that when the wind kicked up, his shoulder shifted toward yours without thinking, blocking some of the cold.
You smiled faintly.
There he is.
Still there.
Still trying.
Still terrified.
The beach stretched ahead of you, dark and open. For a while, neither of you said anything. And for once, you let the silence stay.
Then his phone buzzed. The sound was muffled in his pocket.
Small.
Ordinary.
But Andrew’s whole body reacted. His shoulders went tight. His stride stopped. The night changed around you.
You stopped too.
The phone buzzed again. Andrew looked down at his pocket.
You watched him. Not the phone. Him.
The way his hand twitched like instinct. The way his jaw set before he even knew who it was. The way the quiet you had worked so hard to give him cracked right down the middle.
“Don’t,” you said.
It came out softer than you expected.
Andrew looked at you.
You swallowed. “Just… don’t. Not yet.”
The phone buzzed a third time. Andrew pulled it out and looked at the screen. The light cut across his face.
Baz.
Of course. Reasonable. Polished. Persistent.
Baz’s name disappeared.
Missed call.
For half a second, hope rose in you so fast it hurt. Then the voicemail notification appeared. Andrew’s throat worked.
He turned the phone over in his hand.
Once.
Twice.
Then he unlocked it.
“Andrew,” you whispered.
“I need to see what he wants.”
“No, you don’t.”
His eyes lifted. There it was. That flash of defensiveness. Like you had stepped between him and a duty he’d been trained to obey.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know it’s ten-thirty at night.”
“Doesn’t mean anything.”
“I know.” Your voice thinned. “That’s the problem.”
He played the voicemail. Not on speaker. But the beach was quiet enough that you caught pieces anyway.
Baz’s voice.
Low.
Controlled.
Pope.
Need you to call me back.
Tonight.
Smurf’s asking questions.
Not good.
Andrew closed his eyes. Just for a second. Then he saved the message and slid the phone back into his pocket. He didn’t call back. But he also didn’t breathe the same after that.
You waited.
Maybe for him to say something. Maybe for him to choose the quiet again. Maybe for proof that leaving the phone unanswered could be enough.
Andrew stared out at the water. His hand flexed at his side.
“I should go.”
There it was. Three words. Small. Familiar. Devastating.
You nodded once, very slowly. Not because you agreed. Because something inside you had gone still.
“You should?”
His eyes found yours. “It might be important.”
“It might be?”
His brow pulled together. “You want me to ignore it?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
You looked past him at the ocean. At the moonlight breaking itself over every wave. You had brought him here because he was tired. Because all week, everyone had pulled at Pope until Andrew was barely visible underneath him.
You had brought him here because you loved him. Because you missed him. Because for a handful of minutes, walking beside you in the dark, he had almost seemed like someone who belonged to himself.
And now he was already halfway gone.
Not because Baz had come to the beach and dragged him away. Not because Smurf had snapped her fingers from the sand. Because Andrew had heard the call and stepped back inside the cage himself.
Your throat tightened. “I want you to want to stay.”
Andrew’s face changed. A crack in the blankness. There and gone.
“I do.”
The answer came too fast. Too desperate. You almost believed him. Maybe that was the worst part. Maybe he believed it too.
“Then stay.”
Silence.
The wind moved between you.
Andrew looked down the beach. Toward the street. Toward the truck. Toward the life that never stopped asking him to prove himself.
“I can’t.”
The words were quiet. Not angry. Not even apologetic. Just certain.
Something in you sank. Not shattered. Not yet. It was slower than that. Heavier. Like watching water rise in a room and realizing you’d spent too long calling it rain.
Andrew noticed. Guilt moved across his face.
“I’ll come back after.”
You almost laughed. You didn’t. Because you knew he would. That had never been the problem. He always came back. Back to your apartment. Back to your bed. Back to your kitchen with blood on his hands and quiet in his mouth.
Back with groceries. Back with parts for your car. Back with a new bulb for the porch light. Back with evidence that he had thought about you while he was gone.
But never with the thing you needed most. Never with all of himself.
“I know,” you said.
Andrew took a step closer. “I will.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you looking at me like that?”
You met his eyes. “Because I’m wondering how many times you can come back before I stop feeling like you stayed.”
His face went still. The sentence scared him. You could see it. Not because it was cruel. Because it sounded too much like an ending.
Andrew’s mouth opened. Closed. His hand lifted slightly, like he might reach for you. Then it dropped. Another step back. Tiny. Instinctive. There it was again.
Your chest ached. “Go,” you said.
He blinked. “What?”
You nodded toward the street. “Go.”
His expression hardened immediately. Defense rising where hurt had been.
“That’s what you want?”
“No.”
The answer came out sharp. Too sharp. You took a breath and softened it, because you were not trying to wound him.
God, you were so tired of trying not to wound him while bleeding quietly beside him.
“No,” you said again. “It’s not what I want.”
Andrew stared at you. “Then why are you telling me to?”
“Because you already decided.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
His jaw flexed. “I said I should.”
“And I said stay.”
The silence after that felt enormous.
Andrew looked away first. That was answer enough.
You nodded, mostly to yourself. “Okay.”
He looked back fast. Panic flashed across his face before he could hide it. The sight of it nearly broke you. Because even now, even while leaving, some part of him was terrified you would be gone when he returned.
“Okay?” he repeated.
You looked at him for a long moment.
At the man you loved. At the man who wanted you with one hand and held the door open with the other.
At Andrew.
Not Pope.
Never Pope.
Not to you.
“Okay,” you said softly. “Go handle whatever needs handling.”
His eyes searched your face. “You’re mad.”
“I’m hurt.”
He flinched.
“Good,” you thought, then hated yourself for it.
Not because you wanted him to suffer. Because you wanted him to understand. Just once. You wanted him to stand still long enough to see the shape of what he kept leaving behind.
Andrew swallowed. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I know.”
“I don’t.”
“I know, Andrew.”
His voice dropped. “I’ll come over after.”
You shook your head. “No.”
His face went blank. “What?”
“Not tonight.”
The words almost didn’t make it past your throat. But once they did, the air around you shifted.
Andrew stared at you like he hadn’t understood. Or like he had, and that was worse.
“Go if you need to go. But don’t come to my apartment afterward half gone and exhausted and expect me to pretend that counts as choosing me.”
His breathing changed.
Shallow.
Controlled.
“Is that what you think I do?”
You closed your eyes briefly.
“No.” You wished the answer ended there. “Yes.”
The truth hurt both of you.
You opened your eyes. “I think you come back because you love me.”
His face cracked again. “I do.”
“I know.”
You stepped closer. Close enough that you could see the moon reflected in his eyes.
“I know you love me, Andrew.”
For one fragile second, something like relief passed over his face.
Then you finished.
“But sometimes I think you don’t trust me enough to let it matter.”
The relief vanished.
He looked like you had hit him.
You wished you could take it back. You didn’t. Because it was true. And truth, you were learning, did not become cruelty just because it hurt.
Andrew took a slow breath. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I don’t want you to say anything.”
“Then what do you want?”
The question came out rough. Almost angry. Almost pleading.
You looked toward the street. The lights in the distance. The path back. Then you looked at him.
“I wanted one night where no one needed Pope.”
His face changed.
Your voice shook. “I wanted one night with Andrew.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. Neither did you.
The waves filled in everything you were both too afraid to touch.
Then his phone buzzed again. Andrew’s eyes closed.
Your heart fell.
There it was.
The answer.
Not in words.
In his body.
In the way need still pulled harder than want.
He looked at you. You looked back. This time, you didn’t say “don’t.”
This time, you let him choose.
Andrew stood there with the phone buzzing in his pocket and the ocean moving endlessly behind him.
Then he reached for it.
You nodded once.
Small.
Final enough to scare you.
He saw it.
“Don’t do that,” he said.
Your eyebrows pulled together. “Do what?”
“Like you’re done.”
The words came out too raw. Too honest.
You nearly stepped toward him.
Habit.
Love.
Both.
Instead, you stayed where you were. “I’m not done,” you said.
His shoulders lowered a fraction.
“But I am tired.”
The fraction disappeared.
You swallowed against the ache in your throat. “And I can’t keep pretending those are different just because you’re scared of one of them.”
Andrew’s hand went still around the phone. He didn’t answer it. Not yet. But he didn’t put it away either.
That was where the night left you.
Between one thing and another. Between the man he was taught to be and the man you knew he could become. Between the call and the quiet. Between Pope and Andrew. And for the first time all week, you were not sure which one would walk away with him.
Andrew didn’t answer the phone right away.
For one second, he only stood there with it in his hand, the screen lighting up his face in the dark.
You wondered what he saw when he looked at you.
Anger.
Disappointment.
The beginning of goodbye.
Maybe all three.
Maybe none.
Maybe Andrew had spent so long expecting people to leave that every expression started looking like an exit sign eventually.
The phone buzzed again. His thumb moved. Not to answer. To silence it.
The sudden quiet felt worse somehow.
He looked down the beach, toward the parking lot, then back at you.
“I’ll just call him back.”
You nodded.
The kind of nod that didn’t mean yes. The kind that meant you had heard him and had nothing left to offer.
Andrew noticed. His eyes narrowed slightly, not with anger, but with fear trying to disguise itself as focus.
“You want me to stay.”
It wasn’t a question.
You almost smiled.
Almost.
“I already said that.”
His jaw flexed. “I can’t.”
“I know.”
He hated that.
You could tell.
He hated that you weren’t fighting him. He hated that you weren’t begging. He hated that your voice had gone quiet in a way he didn’t know how to fix.
A fight would have been easier for him. A fight gave him something to survive.
But this?
This calm, exhausted hurt?
Andrew had no idea what to do with that. He glanced toward the street again.
The parking lot sat beyond the dunes, out of sight but not far. His truck was there. His keys were in his pocket. Baz was waiting for a call. Smurf was asking questions. Somewhere, something had become a problem, and everyone knew exactly who would come running to solve it.
Pope.
Always Pope.
Never Andrew.
You looked at him in the moonlight and felt the strangest thing settle over you. Not anger. Not even heartbreak. Clarity. Clean and terrible.
He was going to go. Not because he didn’t love you. Because love had never been the thing that taught Andrew how to stay.
“I’m going to walk a little longer,” you said.
His brow tightened. “By yourself?”
You looked at him. “Andrew.”
He looked down, like he’d heard the correction inside your voice.
Like he knew how ridiculous it was to worry about you walking alone on a quiet beach while he was preparing to leave you there.
Still, he said, “It’s late.”
“I know.”
“You shouldn’t—”
“Don’t.”
The word came out soft. That was what stopped him. Not the word itself. The softness.
Andrew went still.
You took a breath and made yourself continue.
“Don’t take care of me right now because it’s easier than staying with me.”
His face changed.
You knew he’d felt it.
You wished he didn’t have to.
You wished you could love him without learning exactly where to press.
His mouth opened, then closed again. For once, there was no useful thing to say. No lock to check. No shoes to worry over. No drawer to tighten.
Just you.
Just him.
Just the thing between you that neither of you could fix with your hands.
Finally, Andrew nodded once. Small. Stiff.
“I’ll call you.”
You nodded back. “Okay.”
He didn’t move.
Neither did you.
It almost would have been funny, if it hadn’t hurt so much, watching him stand there with every part of his body pointed toward leaving while his eyes kept begging you not to let him.
But that was the problem.
Wasn’t it?
Andrew wanted you to stop him. Wanted you to prove it again. Prove you would chase. Prove you would forgive. Prove you would still be there after he disappeared into whatever needed Pope more than he needed peace.
And God help you, some part of you wanted to.
Some part of you wanted to reach for his sleeve, pull him back, tell him you understood, tell him it was fine, tell him you knew his family was complicated and his life was complicated and he was complicated and you loved him anyway.
But you were starting to understand something. Loving someone anyway did not mean loving them through everything silently. It did not mean making yourself small enough to fit around their fear.
So you stayed still.
Andrew waited another second. Then another. Finally, he turned.
You watched him walk toward the dunes. His shoulders were tight. His phone was in his hand. He looked back once.
You hated that he looked back. Hated that your chest lifted before you could stop it. Hated that some foolish, hopeful part of you thought maybe he would turn around.
He didn’t.
He disappeared over the path toward the parking lot, and a minute later, you heard his truck start.
The sound carried faintly over the water. Then it faded too.
You stood there alone with the waves curling around your ruined shoes.
For a while, you didn’t move.
The beach stretched out on both sides of you, wide and dark and indifferent. The moon kept shining. The tide kept coming in. Nothing about the world seemed to understand that something had shifted.
That was almost rude.
You laughed once.
Short.
Humorless.
It vanished into the wind.
Then you started walking. Not toward the parking lot. Away from it. Down the beach, where the sand grew smoother and the houses thinned behind you.
Your shoes squelched with every step. Andrew would have hated that. The thought almost made you cry. Not because of the shoes. Because even now, even after everything, part of your mind was still arranging itself around what Andrew would notice.
He would notice your wet shoes. He would notice the way your hands were cold. He would notice if your tire pressure dropped two pounds. He would notice a dead porch light from the street. He would notice everything except the thing you kept trying to show him.
That you were tired. That you loved him. That both were true.
You walked until your breathing evened out. Until the ache in your throat stopped feeling like something you might choke on. Until the anger finally found you.
Not hot.
Not loud.
Just enough to keep you upright.
Because you had been understanding for so long. Understanding when he went quiet. Understanding when he disappeared. Understanding when he came back with apologies hidden inside oil changes and groceries and repaired hinges.
Understanding when he flinched from softness like tenderness had teeth. Understanding when he heard endings in sentences that had never meant goodbye.
And maybe all of that had been love.
Maybe patience was love. Maybe seeing the wound beneath the behavior was love.
But somewhere along the way, your understanding had become a place Andrew could hide. That was the thought that stopped you.
You stood at the edge of the water, staring out at the black ocean. Your breath caught. Because there it was. The thing you had not wanted to name.
You understood him so well that you had started translating every hurt before it reached you. He didn’t mean it. He was scared. He was overwhelmed. He didn’t know how to stay.
He came back, didn’t he?
He always comes back.
You had said those things so many times they didn’t even sound like excuses anymore. They sounded like facts. But facts could still hurt. And Andrew coming back had never erased the ache of watching him leave.
Your phone buzzed in your pocket. For one wild second, your heart leapt.
Andrew.
It wasn’t.
A message from him would have been worse anyway. You knew exactly what it would say.
Sorry.
Or maybe:
Had to go.
Or maybe nothing at all until morning.
You pulled your phone out.
No new message from Andrew.
You stared at the blank screen longer than you needed to. Then you tucked it away again. Of course he hadn’t texted.
He was probably on the phone with Baz already. Probably standing somewhere with arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight, voice flat. Probably becoming Pope with frightening ease.
You wondered if anyone ever noticed the transition.
If Craig heard it.
If Deran did.
If Baz knew exactly how to call it out of him.
If Smurf had built the switch herself and spent years making sure no one else could reach the man underneath it.
“Baby.”
Your stomach twisted. You hated that word in her mouth. Hated how it made him freeze. Hated how quickly love could be made into a command when given by the wrong person.
You walked until the sand grew firmer near the waterline. Cold crept through your socks. You ignored it. For once, you let yourself think about all of it without softening the edges.
The first time Andrew told you he loved you, he looked like it hurt.
Not because the words weren’t true.
Because they were.
That had been the frightening part.
It had happened in your hallway, late one night after he’d come over to fix the dead porch light. You hadn’t asked him to. You’d only mentioned it once, offhand, while unlocking the door two nights before.
By the weekend, he had shown up with a replacement bulb and a small toolbox in his hand.
“You know I could’ve done that,” you’d said.
Andrew had glanced up from the step stool. “I know.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
“Because it was dark.”
You had leaned against the doorway, watching him screw the new bulb into place with careful, steady hands.
The light clicked on a second later, warm and yellow, spilling over the porch and the front walk.
“There,” he said.
Like that solved everything.
Maybe for him, it did.
He climbed down, folded the step stool, and carried it inside without asking. You followed him down the hallway, amused despite yourself.
“You really can’t help it, can you?”
He set the toolbox by the door. “Help what?”
“Fixing things.”
His shoulders went still.
You hadn’t meant it like that.
Not as an accusation.
Not as a wound.
But Andrew heard wounds in places you hadn’t meant to put them.
His eyes dropped to the floor.
You softened immediately.
“Hey,” you said. “I didn’t mean that badly.”
“I know.”
But he said it too fast.
You stepped closer.
“Andrew.”
He looked up then, and whatever he saw on your face made something in him shift. Not relax exactly. Andrew never relaxed all at once. But his guard slipped just enough for you to see the fear beneath it.
“I love you,” he said.
Quiet.
Rough.
Like the words had been dragged out of him before he could stop them.
For a second, you forgot how to breathe.
Then your face softened.
“Andrew.”
His jaw tightened immediately, like he already regretted it. Like he had thrown something breakable into the air and was waiting for it to hit the floor.
You reached for him carefully.
He didn’t move away.
“I love you too,” you whispered.
His eyes closed.
Just for a second.
Relief passed over his face so quickly you might have missed it if you hadn’t been looking.
Then came the fear.
He stepped back before you could kiss him.
Not far.
Just enough.
Just enough to make the warmth between you feel suddenly fragile.
“I should go,” he said.
Your chest tightened.
“Andrew.”
“It’s late.”
“It’s ten.”
“I gotta do something in the morning.”
You both knew that wasn’t the reason.
But he was already reaching for his keys, already looking at the door, already leaving the moment before it could ask anything else from him.
So you let him go.
At the time, you told yourself it was enough that he had said it.
That loving Andrew meant not asking too much from a moment he had barely survived giving you.
And maybe that had been true.
Maybe patience was love.
But patience had become something else when it was always yours to offer and never his to trust.
You kept walking.
The waves hissed across the sand. Then there was the morning after he stayed over for the first time without leaving before sunrise.
You remembered waking slowly, sunlight warming the edge of your bed, the weight of him beside you unfamiliar and miraculous.
Andrew had been awake already. Lying on his back, one arm bent behind his head, staring at the ceiling like he was waiting for it to fall.
You had turned onto your side and smiled sleepily at him. “Morning.”
His eyes shifted to you. “Morning.”
He looked so uncomfortable that you almost laughed. Not because it was funny. Because he was still there. Because he had made it through the night and somehow seemed more frightened by the morning.
You had rested your hand against his chest. His heartbeat had been fast beneath your palm.
“You okay?”
He nodded. A lie. But then, after a moment, he covered your hand with his. That was enough. Back then, it had been enough.
You made coffee. He watched you move around the kitchen like he was memorizing the exits. Still, he stayed through breakfast.
He even smiled once when you burned the toast and tried to scrape the black off with a butter knife like that could save it.
Then your phone rang.
Not his.
Yours.
A coworker asking if you could switch shifts.
You said no.
You didn’t think anything of it.
Why would you?
But Andrew went quiet after that.
Later, you realized he had heard it all wrong.
He had heard someone asking for you. You saying no. You choosing the morning. Choosing him. And somehow that had scared him more than if you had left.
By noon, he was gone. No fight. No explanation.
Just a kiss to your temple and a muttered, “I gotta do something.”
He came back six hours later with brake pads for your car. Like safety could apologize for absence. Like being useful could make him less afraid of being wanted.
You stopped walking.
The memory hurt more now than it had then. Maybe because back then, you had mistaken it for tenderness. And it was tender. That was the awful part.
Andrew had loved you in every way he knew how. He had just never learned how to let that be enough.
Your phone buzzed again.
This time, it was him.
Andrew: You home?
You stared at the message.
Two words.
No apology.
No explanation.
No punctuation.
So painfully Andrew that your eyes burned.
You could see him typing it. Deleting something longer.
Settling for the safest version. You didn’t answer right away. The old version of you would have. The old version of you would have reassured him before he had to ask.
No, I’m still walking.
Yes, I’m safe.
Yes, I’m okay.
Yes, you can come over later.
Yes, I’m still here.
Always here.
You held the phone in both hands and let yourself feel the full weight of not replying. It was terrifying. A tiny silence, and still it felt like betrayal.
Not of Andrew.
Of the role you had accidentally accepted.
The one where he ran and you followed. The one where he panicked and you soothed. The one where he left first and you made sure there was always a way back.
Your thumb hovered over the keyboard.
Then you typed:
Still at the beach.
You almost added:
I’m okay.
You deleted it.
Then:
I’m going home soon.
You almost added:
Call me when you can.
You deleted that too.
Finally, you sent the message as it was.
Still at the beach. Going home soon.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Disappeared.
You stared until your screen dimmed.
No reply.
You slipped the phone back into your pocket and let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
There.
A tiny boundary.
Almost nothing.
And still your hands shook.
You turned back toward the parking lot. The walk felt longer in reverse.
Colder.
By the time you reached the street, your shoes were soaked through, your cheeks felt tight from the wind, and your chest had gone hollow in that strange way that came after too much feeling.
Andrew’s truck was gone.
You had known it would be. Still, seeing the empty space hurt.
You drove home with the radio off. Your apartment was quiet when you got back.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that made every absence louder.
The kitchen light was still on from earlier. The loose drawer handle sat exactly where Andrew had left it, the screwdriver beside it on the counter.
You stood in the doorway and stared at it.
Of all the things to break you, it was the stupid drawer.
Not the phone call.
Not Baz.
Not the beach.
The drawer.
Because Andrew had wanted to fix it.
Because he had been on the floor in your kitchen, looking almost peaceful, doing the kind of small, careful thing that let him be near you without having to explain what near meant.
Because Smurf had called and pulled him away before he could finish.
Because he had left it undone.
Because you had left it undone too.
You walked over and picked up the screwdriver. For a moment, you considered finishing it yourself. Then you set it back down.
No.
Not tonight.
You were so tired of finishing what Andrew left half-done.
You took a shower.
The hot water burned against your cold skin. Sand washed down the drain in thin, gritty trails. You stood there until the bathroom mirror fogged and your fingers pruned, but the ache inside you stayed exactly where it was.
Afterward, you changed into dry clothes and sat on the edge of your bed.
Your phone rested faceup beside you. No new messages. You checked anyway. Then hated yourself a little for it. You didn’t want to be the kind of person who waited by the phone. You had never wanted that.
But loving Andrew had turned waiting into a habit.
Waiting for him to come back. Waiting for him to explain. Waiting for him to believe you. Waiting for him to stay long enough to realize you weren’t leaving.
Your phone rang at 1:13 a.m.
You stared at it.
Andrew.
For a second, you only watched his name flash across the screen. He’d said he would call. And he had.
Your throat tightened.
You answered before you could lose your nerve. “Hey.”
Silence. Not empty. Breathing. The low hum of his truck engine drifted through the speaker.
“Hey.”
His voice sounded rough. Worn down.
You closed your eyes. There it was. The return. Right on time. You could picture him without trying. Parked somewhere beneath a flickering gas station light or pulled onto a dark side street. One hand wrapped around the steering wheel. The other holding the phone too tightly.
“You’re home?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
Nothing.
“Okay.”
The words landed awkwardly between you.
Not small talk.
A fact.
You realized he had been waiting to know.
“I’m in bed,” you confirmed softly.
Silence settled again. You heard him breathe in. Breathe out.
“Can I come by?”
God.
You wanted to say yes. That was what hurt most. Not that you didn’t love him. That you did. So much that your whole body still leaned toward him even when your heart was begging for rest.
You closed your eyes. “Not tonight.”
Nothing.
The truck engine idled.
You waited for him to argue.
He didn’t.
“…Okay.”
Too quick. Too controlled. You knew that voice. You pressed your fingers into the blanket gathered in your lap.
“I’m not done, Andrew.”
Silence.
“You said that.”
“I meant it.”
Nothing.
The quiet stretched.
“I said I’d call.”
“You did.”
“You answered.”
“I did.”
“I came back.”
The words sounded firmer that time. As if he needed to establish the facts before he lost his footing.
You swallowed. “I know.”
Silence.
“…You still said no.”
Not angry. Not accusing. Just confused. Like he was trying to solve a problem with pieces that didn’t fit together.
“Not tonight,” you corrected gently.
Nothing.
“I don’t…”
He stopped.
The truck shifted into park.
You heard the click through the speaker.
“You’ve never done that before.”
The truth of it settled heavily in your chest.
“No,” you whispered. “I haven’t.”
You had always opened the door. Always made room. Always softened the edges before they could cut him. You’d translated his fear into patience. His retreat into understanding. You’d told yourself love meant never making him choose.
The silence stretched.
“Are you mad at me?”
Your eyes burned. “No.”
Nothing.
“You sound mad.”
“I’m hurt.”
A long pause.
Long enough that you checked the screen to make sure the call hadn’t dropped.
“…That’s worse.”
The words came out quiet.
Matter-of-fact.
You let out a shaky breath that sounded dangerously close to a laugh.
“Yeah,” you admitted. “I think it is.”
Nothing.
Neither of you rushed to fill it.
“What happens tomorrow?”
You blinked. “What?”
“If I don’t come over tonight.” His voice flattened slightly. “What happens tomorrow?”
Your throat tightened. “You call me.”
Silence.
“You answer?”
“Yes.”
Nothing.
“You mean that?”
“Yeah.” You swallowed. “I mean it.”
The truck engine hummed softly through the line.
“I love you.”
Your breath caught.
No buildup. No warning. Just dropped between you like something he’d been holding for too long.
“I love you too,” you whispered immediately.
Nothing.
“…You do?”
The question broke something open inside you.
“Yeah, Andrew.” Your voice shook. “I do.”
Silence.
You could hear him breathing.
“You still said no.”
Tears slipped down your cheeks.
“Because I love you,” you said softly.
The line stayed quiet.
“You come back exhausted and half gone, and I always let you in anyway.” You pressed your hand against your mouth. “And then we both pretend that’s enough.”
Nothing.
“I don’t think it is anymore.” The words trembled as they left you. “I love you. But not tonight.”
Silence.
“Feels the same.” He said it so quietly you almost missed it.
Between love and no. Between boundaries and endings. Between tonight and forever.
You closed your eyes. “I know.”
Nothing.
“I don’t want this to be goodbye.”
“It isn’t.”
Another pause.
“You mean that?”
“Yeah.”
“What happens tomorrow?”
A fresh wave of tears burned behind your eyes. “You can call me.”
“You’ll answer?”
“Yes,” you promised again.
“You still love me?”
You broke then. Not loudly. Just enough for him to hear your breath hitch through the phone.
“Andrew.”
Silence.
Then, softer, “Do you still love me?”
“I do.” The answer came without hesitation. “I love you.”
You wiped at your face.
“And tomorrow?”
Nothing.
“…Tomorrow,” he said finally.
Not a question. A fact. A promise he was trying to trust.
“Tomorrow,” you agreed.
The silence that followed wasn’t easy. It wasn’t fixed. But neither of you hung up.
Eventually, Andrew said, “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
Another pause.
“I love you.”
Your eyes closed. “I love you too.”
The call ended.
Andrew didn’t come over. He didn’t knock on your door. And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t chase him.
Somewhere between the hurt and the fear and the terrible tenderness of loving someone who kept bracing for you to leave, you understood something with a clarity that made your chest ache.
Andrew was not the only one who had to learn how to stay.
You had to learn that loving him didn’t mean following him every time he ran.
And maybe love surviving one small “no” was the first place both of you could finally start learning the difference.
Summary: Would it be enough if he could never give you peace?
WC: 7K
Tags: Animal Shelter Volunteer Pope, One Shot, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fear of Being Loved, Romantic Angst with Happy Ending, Inspired by peace by Taylor Swift
Andrew learned the names of the difficult dogs first.
Not the puppies. Not the friendly ones that bounced against kennel doors with wagging tails and hopeful eyes. Not the dogs volunteers fought over during walks.
The difficult ones.
The biters. The barkers. The ones who flattened themselves into corners and growled at anyone who got too close.
You noticed that before you noticed anything else.
Andrew Cody had been volunteering at the shelter for nearly three weeks before either of you exchanged more than ten words. Every Tuesday. Every Thursday. Two o’clock sharp.
He’d sign his name on the volunteer sheet, grab a bucket and cleaning supplies, and disappear into the kennel rows. No small talk. No introductions. No standing around the coffee station discussing weekend plans like the other volunteers.
Just work.
At first, you barely paid attention to him.
The shelter always had volunteers coming and going. College students looking for hours. Retirees looking for purpose. People who stayed a month and disappeared. You assumed Andrew would be the same. Then one afternoon, a German shepherd named Tank proved you wrong.
Tank had been returned three times. The first family said he was too anxious. The second said he was destructive. The third brought him back after he snapped at their teenage son. By the time Tank arrived at your shelter, he had a bright red warning sticker on his kennel file and a reputation that followed him into every room.
Nobody liked walking him. Nobody volunteered for his kennel. Nobody expected much from him. Including Tank.
You were carrying fresh water bowls down the kennel row when barking erupted from the far end. Loud. Aggressive. The kind that made visitors jump. Tank. Again.
A new volunteer, a teenager completing community service hours, stood frozen outside the kennel door.
“He’s gonna bite me,” the kid said.
“You don’t have to take him,” you replied.
The teenager looked relieved.
Tank kept barking. Throwing himself against the chain-link door. You were already reaching for the clipboard to mark him as skipped when another voice spoke.
“I’ll take him.”
You looked up. Andrew stood a few feet away, holding a leash.
The teenager handed it over immediately.
“You sure?” you asked.
Andrew nodded once. That was it. No bravado. No speech. Just a nod.
You expected a struggle. Expected barking. Expected chaos. Instead, Andrew crouched outside the kennel. Not opening the door. Not reaching inside. Just sitting.
Tank barked himself hoarse for nearly five minutes. Andrew waited. The dog barked. Andrew waited. The dog paced. Andrew waited. Finally, Tank stopped. Not because he’d calmed down. Because he got tired. For the first time, silence settled between them.
Andrew looked at him. Tank looked back.
And then Andrew said, “Yeah.”
Nothing else. Just that. Yeah.
Like Tank had told him something. Like he’d understood it. You frowned. The dog blinked. Andrew held out the leash. Another minute passed. Then another. Eventually, Tank stepped forward. Not much. Just enough.
Andrew clipped the leash on. No struggle. No drama. No barking. Then he stood and walked away with eighty pounds of formerly impossible German shepherd trotting quietly beside him.
You stared after them.
“What the hell?” muttered another volunteer.
You didn’t have an answer. Neither did Tank. But after that day, Andrew became harder to ignore.
You started noticing things. The way he always arrived early. The way broken things somehow stopped being broken after he touched them. The way he remembered every dog’s name after hearing it once. The way frightened animals followed him around the yard like he carried some invisible signal only they could hear.
Mostly, though, you noticed the patience.
Everybody talked about patience like it was kindness. With Andrew, it felt different. It felt like recognition. Like he understood fear because he’d lived with it long enough to recognize it in someone else. Or something else.
One Thursday afternoon, that understanding got him bitten. Hard.
You were restocking food bins when shouting erupted near the intake kennels. Not panicked shouting. Surprised shouting. You rounded the corner to find three volunteers standing around Daisy’s kennel. Daisy had arrived that morning. Three-legged pit bull. Recently rescued. Terrified of everyone. Especially men.
Andrew stood outside the kennel holding a leash. Blood ran down the back of his hand. A bite. Not severe. But enough.
“Oh my God,” one volunteer said.
“Jesus—”
“Get the first-aid kit.”
The room filled with voices. Questions. Concern. Noise. Andrew ignored all of it. His eyes remained fixed on Daisy.
The dog had retreated to the far corner of the kennel. Trembling. Ears pinned back. Terrified. Not of what she’d done. Of what might happen next.
Andrew noticed immediately. “Don’t.”
The word cut through the room. Everyone stopped.
“Don’t what?” asked a volunteer.
Andrew nodded toward Daisy. “Don’t yell at her.”
Nobody had been. But somehow the entire room understood what he meant. Don’t be angry. Don’t punish her. Don’t make this worse.
Blood dripped from his hand onto the concrete. Andrew barely looked at it.
“She’s scared.” His voice softened. Directed entirely at the dog. “That’s all.”
The kennel fell quiet.
You looked at Daisy. Then at Andrew. Then back again. For a strange moment, neither of them seemed dangerous. Just frightened. And somehow that realization stayed with you long after the bite healed.
—
The bite should have healed quickly. It probably did. The mark disappeared from the back of Andrew’s hand within a couple of weeks. The impression it left behind lasted much longer.
After that day, you started paying attention. Not intentionally. At least that’s what you told yourself. You weren’t watching for him when you arrived each morning. You weren’t checking the volunteer sheet to see if his name was signed in. You weren’t noticing when the parking space near the maintenance shed was empty.
Except you were. A little. Enough that on Tuesdays and Thursdays, your eyes automatically drifted toward the front desk around two o’clock. Enough that you noticed if he was late. Enough that you knew he was never late.
The shelter ran on routines. Feeding schedules. Medication charts. Walking rotations. People were harder. Volunteers came and went. Staff burned out. Life happened.
Andrew stayed.
Every Tuesday. Every Thursday. Two o’clock sharp. Like clockwork. And somehow, things worked better when he was there.
You’d spend twenty minutes fighting with a jammed kennel latch. Turn around to grab a tool. Turn back. And it would be fixed. A leaking faucet that maintenance hadn’t gotten to yet would suddenly stop dripping. A broken gate would swing smoothly again. A stubborn printer would start working after Andrew wandered past it.
Half the time you never even saw him do it. You’d just notice the problem had disappeared. He never mentioned it. Never waited for thanks. He just noticed things and fixed them, like it was as natural as breathing.
One afternoon, nearly two months after the bite incident, you found him sitting on the floor in the storage room. At first, you thought he was hurt. The sight was strange enough to stop you in the doorway. Andrew sat cross-legged beside a stack of donated blankets, staring at something in his lap.
You stepped closer. Then laughed. A tiny gray kitten glared back at you. The kitten couldn’t have been more than six weeks old. One ear flopped sideways. Its eyes were too big for its face. Its entire body fit comfortably in Andrew’s hands. And it looked furious about it.
“What are you doing?”
Andrew looked up. Then down at the kitten. Then back at you.
“He doesn’t like anybody.”
The kitten immediately hissed.
You snorted. “Clearly.”
Andrew nodded.
The kitten hissed again.
“He’s been doing that for twenty minutes.”
“Why are you sitting here with him?”
Another shrug. Like the answer was obvious.
“Nobody else would.”
The kitten attempted to climb onto his shoulder. Failed spectacularly. Slid into his lap. Andrew steadied him with one careful hand. You felt something strange settle in your chest. Not romance. Just curiosity. Because most people would have laughed. Most people would have walked away. Andrew had apparently devoted half an hour of his afternoon to keeping an angry kitten company.
“You know he hates you, right?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah.”
The kitten hissed again.
Andrew nodded toward him. “See?”
You laughed.
This time Andrew actually smiled. Small. Brief. Gone almost immediately. But real. It was the first genuine smile you’d seen from him. For some reason, it felt like discovering a secret.
—
The first real conversation happened because of rain.
Southern California rarely got enough of it to cause problems. When it did, everything stopped functioning properly. The shelter parking lot flooded. The roof leaked near the laundry room. Half the volunteers called out. By six o’clock, only three people remained. You. Andrew. And Ruth. Ruth left at six-thirty.
The storm got worse. You were balancing paperwork, medication records, and tomorrow’s intake forms when the lights flickered.
“Don’t,” you said.
Andrew stood on a ladder near the electrical panel.
“What?”
“The lights.”
The lights flickered again. You pointed your pen at the ceiling.
“If the power goes out, that’s fate telling me the paperwork can wait until tomorrow.”
Andrew looked down from the ladder. “No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“No chance.”
You narrowed your eyes.
He went back to the electrical panel. “You’d stay.”
“I absolutely would not.”
“You would.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You always finish the paperwork.”
“I could leave it.”
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
Andrew glanced down at the clipboard in your arms. “You brought two pens.”
You looked at the pens clipped to the top of the clipboard. Then back at him. “One could die.”
His mouth twitched. “There’s another one behind your ear.”
You froze. Then slowly reached up. Your fingers brushed the pen tucked there.
Andrew turned back to the panel like knowing you that well meant nothing.
You laughed hard enough to nearly drop your clipboard. The sound surprised both of you. Because Andrew immediately looked away. Not uncomfortable. Just… startled. Like he wasn’t used to being the reason someone laughed.
The realization made your chest ache unexpectedly.
—
The friendship happened so slowly neither of you noticed it.
One day he was a volunteer. Then he was Andrew. Then he was somehow part of your routine.
You started saving him coffee if you stopped before work. He always pretended he didn’t expect it. The lie got less convincing every week.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“You say that every time.”
“I mean it every time.”
“You drank half of it before I sat down.”
He paused. “That’s unrelated.”
You laughed.
Andrew looked pleased with himself. Not enough to smile. But close. Very close.
The more time you spent around him, the more you noticed other things too. Not just what he fixed. What he remembered.
Andrew remembered everything.
Which dogs hated thunder. Which ones needed their bowls lifted higher. Which volunteers forgot to latch the side gate. Which brand of creamer you pretended not to care about.
Andrew collected details quietly. And somehow, without meaning to, you started wanting to be one of them.
—
The first time he walked you to your car, you didn’t think much of it.
The shelter closed late. You grabbed your keys. Andrew happened to be heading outside too. The parking lot was mostly empty.
You chatted about a dog adoption event scheduled for the weekend. Normal conversation. Nothing special.
At your car, you unlocked the door. Andrew stopped behind you, hands in his pockets.
“You don’t have to wait.”
“I know.”
“You’re waiting.”
“Yeah.”
You turned, confused. “For what?”
His gaze moved to the empty parking lot, then back to you. “For you to be okay.”
You blinked.
Andrew nodded. Then turned and walked toward his truck.
You stood there staring after him. Nobody had ever made your safety sound so matter-of-fact.
The next week, it happened again. And the week after that. Eventually you realized he wasn’t walking himself to the parking lot. He was walking you.
Not making a big deal out of it. Not asking permission. Not expecting thanks. Just making sure you got there safely. Like he’d decided you mattered.
And once Andrew Cody decided something mattered, he tended to stick with it.
—
The first time you saw him angry, it wasn’t directed at you.
A woman stormed into the shelter carrying a small terrier mix. She was already yelling before she reached the desk. Complaining about the dog. Complaining about the shelter. Complaining about how nobody wanted to help her.
Every answer you gave seemed to make her louder.
You tried to explain the surrender process. Tried to stay polite. Tried to de-escalate. Nothing worked.
The woman leaned across the counter. Voice rising. Finger pointed directly at your face. For a moment you weren’t sure what to do.
Then the room went quiet.
Not because she stopped. Because Andrew had appeared beside you. You hadn’t even seen him walk over. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t threaten her. Didn’t posture.
He simply looked at her. And said, very calmly, “You’re done yelling at her.”
The woman froze. The entire room froze. Andrew wasn’t loud. That somehow made it worse.
There was something in his expression. Something absolute. The kind of certainty that made people rethink their decisions.
The woman sputtered another complaint.
Andrew didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “Either surrender the dog respectfully or leave.”
Silence. A long silence. Then the woman sat down. Just like that. The fight drained out of her.
You stared.
Andrew turned back toward you. Asked if you were okay. Then immediately started helping with paperwork as though nothing unusual had happened.
No victory lap. No smugness. No acknowledgment that he’d just shut down a situation everyone else had been struggling with for ten minutes.
That was the first time you started understanding the rumors.
Because there were rumors. You’d heard them in pieces. Whispers from longtime volunteers. Comments that stopped when you walked into a room.
You hadn’t grown up here. Hadn’t lived in the area long enough to know the history everyone else seemed to share. All you knew was that Andrew Cody had a past. People talked about his family in lowered voices. There were stories. Some true. Some exaggerated. Most of them impossible to piece together.
But standing beside him that day, watching an angry stranger back down without another word, you understood why those stories survived.
Not because he was cruel. Not because he was violent. Because there was something undeniably dangerous beneath the surface. Something controlled. Something restrained. Something that chose, every single day, not to be what people expected.
Later that same week, a man arrived looking to surrender a dog.
An elderly lab mix. Gray around the muzzle. Arthritis in both hips.
The owner complained about vet bills the entire intake process. Complained about medication costs. Complained about the dog’s accidents. Complained about how much work he was.
The dog sat quietly beside him. Tail wagging. Still trying to be good.
You saw Andrew standing across the room. Silent. Still. Listening.
The owner finally left. The dog watched the door close behind him. Waited. Waited some more. Then slowly sat down. The room fell quiet. Andrew walked over. Knelt beside the dog. Rested one hand against his neck.
The dog leaned immediately into the contact. Trusting. Hopeful. Heartbroken.
Andrew’s jaw tightened. You saw it. Not the sharp, controlled anger from earlier. Something quieter this time. Older. Grief, maybe. Or recognition.
Then the old lab rested his head in Andrew’s lap. And just like that, the anger disappeared. Gone beneath grief. Beneath tenderness. Beneath something so heartbreakingly gentle it made your throat tighten.
That was the day you started wondering if the world had ever bothered to learn the difference. Between what Andrew was capable of and who he chose to be.
—
The first text arrived on a Sunday.
Your phone buzzed while you were grocery shopping. A picture message. No words. Just an image.
Daisy. Covered in mud. Holding a tennis ball twice the size of her head.
You laughed immediately.
A second message appeared.
Andrew: Found contraband.
You stared at the screen. Then at the grocery store aisle. Then back at the screen.
Before you could stop yourself, you smiled.
You typed back before you could think better of it.
You: Armed and dangerous.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Then Andrew replied:
Andrew: Very.
You laughed alone in the grocery aisle.
And somehow, without either of you noticing when it happened, Andrew Cody had become someone you were always willing to answer.
—
The texts did not become constant.
They became familiar. That was different. A photo from Andrew every now and then. Daisy muddy. Tank asleep against the fence. The old lab stealing treats with no remorse.
A reply from you. A dry answer from him. Sometimes nothing for hours. Sometimes nothing until the next day, when he’d walk into the shelter and continue the conversation like time had simply paused between you.
It should have been awkward. It wasn’t. By then, you had learned that Andrew did not move through closeness the way other people did.
He did not rush toward it. He circled it. Tested it. Stepped close enough to feel the warmth, then back again before it could burn him.
So you let him. You didn’t chase. You didn’t push. You only stayed steady enough that, eventually, he started trusting the space beside you.
The first time he touched you on purpose, it was barely anything.
You were both in the yard after closing, trying to convince Daisy to come inside. She had decided the patch of dirt beneath the eucalyptus tree belonged to her now and no amount of calling, bribing, or dignity seemed likely to change her mind.
“She’s ignoring us,” you said.
Andrew stood beside you, leash in hand. “She’s ignoring you.”
You looked at him. “She’s ignoring both of us.”
“No.”
“Andrew.”
“She looked at me.”
“She looked at you because you have turkey in your pocket.”
His eyes flicked to yours. “That counts.”
You laughed.
Daisy, unimpressed by your laughter, rolled onto her side in the dirt.
You sighed and stepped forward. “Fine. I’ll get her.”
“She’ll run.”
“She has three legs.”
“She’s fast.”
“She is not faster than me.”
Andrew looked at you for a long second.
Then, dryly, “She might be.”
You turned to glare at him, and your foot slipped in the damp grass. Not badly. Not enough to fall. But enough that his hand closed around your elbow before you could catch yourself.
Quick.
Firm.
Warm.
You froze.
So did he.
His fingers stayed there for one second longer than necessary. Then two.
Daisy barked once from under the tree, like she had opinions about the tension.
Andrew let go first. “Careful,” he said. His voice had gone low.
You looked at the place his hand had been. Then at him.
“I thought I was slower than the dog.”
His mouth twitched. “You are.”
But he didn’t move away. Neither did you. And for the first time, the silence between you felt less like comfort and more like something waiting to happen.
—
After that, touching became dangerous.
Not because either of you did much of it. Because you didn’t. Because every small contact started to matter more than it should.
His shoulder brushing yours in the storage room. Your fingers grazing when you passed him a leash.
His hand at the small of your back once, guiding you around a puddle near the intake gate before he seemed to realize what he’d done and dropped it immediately.
You never called attention to it. Neither did he. But something changed.
Andrew started standing closer. You started letting him.
On slow evenings, after the dogs were fed and the last volunteers had gone home, the two of you sat outside on the bench near the exercise yard.
Not every night. Never planned. It happened naturally, which somehow made it more intimate.
You’d finish locking up. Andrew would still be there, wiping down tools or checking the back gate. You’d sit for a minute because the night air felt good after hours of kennel noise. He’d sit too.
At first with a careful distance between you. Then less. Then none at all.
One night, your knees touched. Neither of you moved. The yard was quiet except for Tank pacing along the fence, ears perked toward the street.
Andrew sat with his elbows on his thighs, hands loose between his knees.
“You okay?” you asked.
He glanced over. “Yeah.”
“You got quiet.”
“I’m always quiet.”
“Quieter.”
He considered that. Then looked back toward the yard.
“Didn’t know if I should move.”
Your heart gave a soft, painful twist. You looked down. Your knee was still pressed against his.
“Do you want to?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately. Too honest to be casual.
Andrew’s jaw tightened after he said it, like he wished he could drag the word back and inspect it before handing it to you.
You kept your voice gentle. “Then don’t.”
He didn’t.
Andrew looked back toward the yard. Tank had finally settled near the fence. For a long moment neither of you spoke. But the tension didn’t leave.
The two of you sat like that for twenty minutes. Knees touching. Hands separate. Neither of you brave enough to reach further. Neither of you wanting to leave.
—
The first time you went somewhere together that had nothing to do with the shelter, Andrew looked like he expected to be caught doing something wrong.
It was your idea. Technically. The shelter had closed early for fumigation, and you’d both ended up standing beside your cars in broad daylight with nowhere you were required to be.
It felt strange. Seeing him outside the routine. No kennels. No barking. No clipboard. Just Andrew in the parking lot with his keys in his hand and uncertainty written all over him.
You could have said goodnight. He probably expected you to.
Instead you said, “Have you eaten?”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “No.”
“Do you want to?”
“With you?”
The question came out so bluntly that you almost smiled.
You didn’t, because he looked like the answer mattered more than he wanted it to.
“Yes,” you said. “With me.”
Andrew looked toward the road. Then back at you.
“Okay.”
You picked a diner ten minutes away because it was quiet and familiar and unlikely to ask anything from either of you.
Andrew sat across from you in the booth, shoulders tight, hands wrapped around a glass of water he hadn’t touched.
“You don’t have to look so suspicious,” you said.
“I don’t.”
You smiled.
He looked at you then. Really looked. And something in his face shifted. Not a smile. Something softer. Like he was pleased he’d made you do that.
The waitress came by. You ordered first. Andrew ordered second, short and simple.
When she left, he looked relieved.
“You okay?” you asked.
He nodded. Then, after a moment, shook his head.
“I don’t do this much.”
“Eat?”
His mouth twitched. “Go places.”
“With people?”
“Yeah.”
You leaned your arms on the table. “That’s okay.”
He studied you for a long second. “Is it?”
The question had weight under it. Too much weight for pancakes and bad diner coffee.
You answered carefully. “Yes.”
His thumb moved once against the side of the glass.
“I don’t always know what I’m supposed to do.”
“You don’t have to perform dinner correctly, Andrew.”
He looked down. “People notice.”
“People notice a lot of things.”
“I notice when they notice.”
That hurt. Quietly. You imagined him moving through the world collecting every glance, every pause, every shift in tone. Filing them away as proof.
You softened your voice. “I’ll tell you if something matters.”
His eyes lifted. “What?”
“If you say something that hurts me, I’ll tell you. If I need something, I’ll tell you. If I’m uncomfortable, I’ll tell you.”
He stared at you.
You shrugged. “I’m not going to make you guess.”
For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then his shoulders lowered by maybe half an inch. Not much. Enough.
“Okay,” he said.
And this time, okay sounded like relief.
—
Dinner became another thing neither of you named.
Not dating. Not officially. Just sometimes, after late shifts or early closings, you ended up somewhere together. A diner. A taco stand. The beach parking lot with takeout balanced between you on the hood of his truck.
You learned that Andrew ate slowly unless he was nervous. That he hated cilantro but would forget to ask for no cilantro unless you reminded him. That he always sat facing the door. That he noticed exits without seeming to. That he didn’t like crowded places, but tolerated them longer when you sat beside him instead of across from him.
He learned things about you too. How you picked onions off everything but pretended you weren’t picky. How you got quiet when you were tired. How you always said “I’m fine” too quickly when you weren’t. How you hated asking for help but accepted it better if he didn’t make a production out of offering.
The first time his hand found yours, you were sitting in his truck after dinner, watching the ocean move black and silver under the moon.
Neither of you had meant to stay that long. The food was gone. The windows were fogged slightly at the edges. The radio was on low, more static than song. Your hand rested on the seat between you. So did his.
Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. For a long time, neither of you moved. Then his pinky brushed yours. Accidentally. Maybe.
You turned your hand over. Open. Waiting.
Andrew stared at it.
“You don’t have to,” you said.
“I know.” His voice was rough.
A moment passed. Then his hand slid into yours. Slowly. Carefully. Like there were rules he didn’t know and he was terrified of breaking them.
His palm was warm. Calloused. His grip loose at first. Testing. When your fingers curled around his, he inhaled quietly. Not sharply. Just enough for you to hear.
You looked over.
His eyes stayed fixed on the windshield.
“You okay?”
He nodded.
Then, after a second, “Yeah.”
You believed him.
So you looked back at the ocean and let him hold your hand until his grip finally stopped feeling like a question.
—
The first kiss almost happened three weeks before it actually did.
Rain again. Because apparently the universe had a sense of humor.
You had both gotten caught in it while bringing dogs in from the yard, and by the time the last kennel was latched, your shirt clung damply to your skin and Andrew’s hair was wet enough to drip onto the concrete.
You were laughing. He wasn’t. Not exactly. But he was watching you laugh. That had become its own kind of tenderness.
Andrew watched joy like it was something he did not fully understand but wanted to learn.
“You’re soaked,” he said.
“So are you.”
“You should change.”
“I don’t keep spare clothes here.”
He looked away. Then back.
“I have a hoodie in my truck.”
Something about the offer made the air shift. Maybe it was the way he said it. Quiet. Careful. Like he knew a hoodie was not just a hoodie if it came from him.
“Okay,” you said.
He brought it to you without meeting your eyes. Dark gray. Worn soft. Too big. Still warm from the cab of his truck.
You slipped it on in the staff bathroom, then came back out with the sleeves covering half your hands.
Andrew looked at you. Stopped. The expression on his face made your breath catch. Not hunger. Not exactly. Something more vulnerable. Like seeing you in something of his had touched a place in him he had not expected anyone to reach.
“What?” you asked softly.
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Andrew.”
His eyes moved to the sleeves. Then to your face.
“It looks…” He stopped.
You waited.
He swallowed. “Good.”
That one word landed harder than it should have. You stepped closer. Not much. Just enough.
His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then lifted quickly, almost guilty.
You could have kissed him then. You wanted to. God, you wanted to. Instead, you touched his wrist. A small mercy. A smaller promise.
“Thank you.”
His fingers flexed once under yours.
“Yeah.”
The kiss waited. Neither of you was ready. Not yet.
—
After the hoodie, something shifted.
Not between you. Inside Andrew.
At first, it was subtle. The sort of thing you could explain away if you wanted to. He left a little sooner after closing. Stopped lingering outside your car. Answered questions with less than before.
Not cold. Never cold. Just measured. And somehow that felt worse.
You spent nearly two weeks convincing yourself it meant nothing. Then one Thursday you found him sitting alone behind the shelter. The sun had already gone down. The exercise yard sat empty. Most of the dogs were asleep.
Andrew sat on an overturned bucket near the fence, staring into the darkness beyond the lot. Not occupied with anything. Just sitting. And that, more than anything, felt wrong.
You approached quietly. “Hey.”
His shoulders tightened before he looked up. “Hey.”
You leaned against the fence beside him. For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched between you. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once and fell quiet.
Andrew rubbed a thumb along the rim of the bucket.
You watched the motion repeat. “Did I do something?”
His hand stilled. “No.”
“Then what’s going on?”
A muscle jumped in his cheek. He turned toward the field.
You waited.
He let the silence stand. “You should probably stop.”
You blinked. “What?”
He bent forward, forearms resting on his knees. “This.”
Your fingers tightened around the fence wire. “Andrew—”
“You should.” He exhaled through his nose and shook his head once. “You should stop before it gets worse.”
For a moment, the words didn’t land. Then they did. You stared at him. Andrew kept his gaze fixed ahead, jaw locked hard enough to show in the fading light.
“Before what gets worse?”
His tongue pressed briefly against the inside of his cheek. The answer took its time. When it came, it was barely audible.
“Before you start wanting things I can’t give you.”
The fence creaked softly under your grip.
Andrew looked down at the dirt between his boots and dragged the toe of one shoe through it.
Neither of you spoke.
Then he stood. The bucket scraped hard against the ground.
“You don’t know me.”
You looked up at him. “I know you here.”
His mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something worse.
“Yeah.” He nodded toward the shelter. “That’s the problem.”
You frowned. “Why?”
For a moment he didn’t answer. He looked away, toward the kennels, toward the rows of chain-link fencing and concrete runs. Anywhere but at you.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter.
“Because this place is easy.”
You waited.
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “The dogs make sense.” A moment passed. “They need something. You give it to them.” His gaze dropped to the bucket at his feet. “Food. Water. A clean kennel.”
You watched him carefully. “And people?”
A humorless smile touched his mouth. “People aren’t like that.”
The silence stretched between you. You let it. Andrew shifted his weight. Like he was deciding whether to keep talking. Like every word cost him something.
“You see me here,” he said at last. “You see me doing this.” His hand gestured vaguely toward the shelter. “The work. The routine.” His eyes lifted to yours. “You see the version of me that knows what he’s supposed to do.”
You opened your mouth, but he shook his head. Not angry. Just asking you to let him finish. So you did.
“You know what time I show up. You know I bring coffee.” His jaw tightened. “You know I remember things.” He paused. “You know the parts that fit.”
The words hung there.
You took a slow breath. “And the parts that don’t?”
His expression hardened. “There you go.”
“What?”
“That.” He looked away again. “You hear something bad and immediately start trying to understand it.”
“I am trying to understand it.”
“I know.”
The answer came tired rather than sharp. For the first time, he sounded exhausted. Not angry. Just worn down.
Andrew stared at the ground for a long moment before speaking again.
“You ever meet someone and know exactly what they think you are?”
You blinked. “Sometimes.”
He nodded once. “Most people look at me and decide pretty fast.” His fingers tightened around the bucket handle. “Quiet. Weird. Difficult.”
You didn’t interrupt.
“Sometimes useful.” A bitter edge slipped into his voice. “People like useful.” His gaze dropped. “Useful’s easy.”
You took a step closer. Only one.
“Andrew.”
This time he looked at you. Really looked. And for a second he seemed surprised that you were still standing there listening. A bitter laugh escaped him.
“You know this version. The guy who shows up, does the work, remembers your coffee order.” His eyes met yours. “But you don’t know me.”
“Andrew—”
“No.” His voice sharpened. “You keep acting like if you care enough, you’ll find something worth saving.” He hit a hand against his chest. “What if there isn’t?”
Silence stretched.
“I’ve hurt people.”
Silence.
“Bad.”
His jaw worked.
“Not by accident.”
Another pause.
“Sometimes by accident.”
His eyes squeezed shut.
“I don’t know.”
Your grip tightened on the fence.
“Still looking for the good?” he asked.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Try to make me afraid of you.”
His eyes flashed. “You should be.” He turned away, then back again. Restless. “You think feeding dogs and fixing things makes me safe?”
“No.”
“You think because I haven’t hurt you yet, I won’t?”
The word hung between you. Ugly. Intentional. A flicker of regret crossed his face before he buried it.
“You should go.”
“No.”
His hands curled at his sides. “Why?”
“Because you’re trying to scare me.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“You’re telling me part of it.”
His laugh was harsh. “You don’t want the rest.”
“Then don’t give me the rest. But don’t stand here and pretend cruelty is honesty.”
That stopped him. Briefly.
“I’m not cruel?”
“I said you’re choosing it right now.”
His jaw worked.
You stepped closer. “I think you’re choosing it because it’s easier than letting me choose you.”
Andrew stared at you. His breathing changed. A dog barked inside the shelter.
Then, low and rough he spoke again, “I don’t want you to love me.”
Your heart twisted. “Why?”
“Because I’ll ruin it.” The answer came too fast. “I ruin everything I care about.” He dragged both hands over his neck. Frustrated.
“Take your time,” you said.
“I don’t know how.” The words cracked out of him. He looked at you helplessly. “You. Me. All of it.”
“Okay.”
“It’s not okay.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
He shook his head. “You keep making it not bad.”
“What’s bad?”
“All of it.”
You held his gaze. He wanted fear. Disgust. Something simple. You gave him none of it.
“I’m trying to tell you something,” he said.
“You are.”
“No. That’s the problem.”
His hand pressed against his forehead.
“The thing in my head—it doesn’t come out right.”
“I’m listening.”
His eyes dropped. “I’m not good.” The words were quiet. Simple. “I mean it. There’s something wrong.”
“Andrew—”
“Don’t make it soft.” His voice cracked. “You take everything and make it into something I can live with.”
The anger slipped for a moment. Underneath it was fear. Raw and exposed.
“I don’t know what to do with that.”
You swallowed.
He looked away. “I did everything they wanted. I tried.” His hands opened helplessly. “Useful,” he said finally. “That was the good one.”
Your heart ached.
“I wasn’t easy.”
“You don’t have to be.”
His face tightened. “You say that because you don’t know what it means.”
“Then tell me.”
He hesitated.
“I get stuck.”
He looked away.
“I miss things. I watch people, try to figure them out, and sometimes I still get it wrong.” His jaw tightened. “That’s not okay.”
“It is with me.”
“You say that now.”
“I mean it now.”
“You’ll get tired.”
“Maybe.”
He froze.
So you kept your voice steady.
“Maybe some days. People get tired, Andrew. That doesn’t mean they leave.”
His mouth parted slightly. “You don’t know that.”
“I know I’m still here.”
For a second he looked almost young. Lost. Then he stepped back.
“That’s not enough.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know why you’re still here.”
The words escaped him before he could stop them. You didn’t move.
His face twisted. “I don’t know why.”
“Because I want to be.”
He shook his head. “There are people who don’t do this.”
“What?”
He gestured helplessly between you. “All of it.”
You understood. The anger. The confusion. The sharp edges he couldn’t smooth down.
“There are people who can just be,” he said bitterly. “People who can be loved and not turn it into—” The sentence broke apart. “You should’ve picked somebody else.”
“I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want somebody else.”
His eyes snapped to yours. Hope flashed there. Small and terrifying.
“You don’t know.”
“I do.”
His voice cracked. “You like the coffee. The dogs. The hoodie.”
A faint smile touched your mouth. “Yes.”
“That’s not me.”
“It is.”
“It’s not enough.”
“I didn’t say it was everything.”
His eyes were wet now. “You keep finding pieces. Like that makes a whole person.”
“It can.”
He shook his head. “There are other pieces.”
“I know.”
“Bad ones.”
“I know enough to know they’re there.”
For once, he had no answer. You stepped closer. He didn’t move away.
“I’m not asking for every bad thing you’ve ever done. I’m not asking you to explain your whole life so I can decide if you’re worth loving.”
He flinched.
“I already decided.”
Andrew stared at you. His breath shook.
“You can’t.”
“I can.”
“I don’t deserve it.”
“Love isn’t a prize for people who make it through life untouched.”
His brow furrowed.
You swallowed. “You’ve done terrible things.”
Pain crossed his face. You let the truth stand.
“But monsters don’t worry about the damage they leave behind.”
His breathing caught.
“Monsters don’t sit outside kennels because a dog is scared.”
His eyes closed.
“Monsters don’t bring coffee and pretend they didn’t.”
His mouth trembled.
“Monsters don’t stand in front of someone they want and try to protect them from the worst parts of themselves.”
Andrew opened his eyes. They were wet. “I’m not good.”
“I’m not asking you to be perfect.”
“I’m not peaceful.”
“I’m not asking for a life without pain.”
He shook his head, searching for words. Finally, barely above a whisper:
“Would it be enough if I could never give you peace?”
There it was. The real question.
You lifted your hand but stopped short of touching him.
“I think peace is something people build,” you said softly. “Not something one person hands over finished.”
He stared at you.
“I think it’s telling the truth when it’s ugly. Staying when leaving would be easier.”
His throat worked.
“I think it’s this.”
“This isn’t peace.”
“No,” you said. “But it could be the beginning of it.”
For a long moment he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he leaned into your palm. His eyes closed. The breath that left him was unsteady. You stepped closer. His hand caught your wrist. Not to pull you away. To keep you there.
“You’re still scared,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
His eyes opened.
“But I’m not leaving because you’re scared too.”
Something in his face folded. Not dramatically. Just enough to reveal the wound underneath.
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Then don’t do anything yet.”
He swallowed.
“Just stay.”
His fingers tightened around your wrist. Not hard. Enough.
“I can do that.”
The words were rough. Fragile. A promise small enough to carry.
You smiled through the ache in your chest. “Okay.”
The shelter was quiet behind you. Dogs sleeping. The world holding still. Then Andrew glanced at your mouth. Back to your eyes. The question was there. Terrified. Hopeful.
You answered by moving closer. Slowly enough that he could stop you. He didn’t.
The kiss was barely a kiss at first. A brush of mouths. A question. His lips trembled against yours, and your heart broke all over again because even this felt like something he was afraid to want.
You kissed him back. Softly. Clearly. Your hand stayed against his cheek. His hand stayed around your wrist. Then his other hand rose, hesitant, settling at your waist like he was asking permission.
You leaned into him. He made a small, wrecked sound. The sound seemed to surprise him. Like he hadn’t meant to let you hear it. His fingers tightened at your waist. Not possessive. Just desperate. Just real.
The kiss deepened by a fraction. Enough to stop feeling like a question. Enough to feel like an answer.
Andrew’s forehead furrowed as if he was fighting something even now, the instinct to pull away, to apologize, to ruin the moment before it could matter. Instead he stayed. And when your thumb brushed his cheek, he broke. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a soft exhale against your mouth that sounded painfully close to relief.
His hand left your wrist. For one terrifying second you thought he was retreating. Then he cupped the back of your neck. Careful. Reverent. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were there. The gesture stole your breath. Because Andrew never reached for things he wanted.
He held himself back. Made himself smaller. But not now. Not this time. When he kissed you again, it was still gentle, still uncertain, but there was want in it now. Trust. The beginning of belief. And that felt bigger than passion ever could.
When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His eyes stayed closed. His breath shook. A faint, disbelieving laugh escaped him. Not happy. Not sad. Just overwhelmed.
“You’re still here,” he whispered.
Like he was testing the fact. Like he needed to hear it out loud.
You brushed your nose against his.
“Yeah.”
His eyes opened. Red-rimmed. Vulnerable. And for the first time since you’d met him, he didn’t look away.
You stayed there with him. Not fixing. Not saving. Just holding the moment steady until he could breathe inside it. Nothing was solved. Nothing was erased.
But Andrew Cody, who had spent his whole life being told he was too much and never enough, stood beneath the dim shelter light with your hand against his face and let himself believe, for one impossible second, that maybe love did not have to be earned by becoming someone else.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8
Summary: After a drunken Vegas wedding, Robby disappears by morning, leaving you with nothing but a ring and a mistake that was supposed to stay in Vegas. But when a pregnancy and state paperwork force you to track down the husband who vanished, Robby learns the truth and this time, walking away isn’t so easy.
WC: 13K
Tags: Drunken Vegas Wedding, Runaway Husband, Unexpected Pregnancy, Forced Reunion, Second Chance Romance, Robby Wants to Stay, Romantic Comedy vibes with some Angst, No use of Y/N
A/N: I would like to apologize. I’ve come to the realization that I can only write one shots or lengthy chapter stories. I can’t write anything in between. With that saying I don’t know how long this story will be but it will definitely be more than the 10 chapter goal I had… sorry 🫥
The movie had been on for almost forty minutes.
You knew that because you’d checked the clock three times in the last ten minutes. Not because you were waiting for Robby. Because you were watching the movie. Obviously.
You shifted deeper into the corner of the couch, blanket tucked over your legs. Rain tapped softly against the windows. The dishwasher hummed in the kitchen, and a covered plate waited in the microwave. Robby’s dinner.
Somehow, that had become normal too. Not just making it. Not just leaving it covered in the microwave. The expectation that eventually the front door would open, his boots would hit the floor, and another day would end the way most of them ended now. Together.
Not always in the same room. Not always talking. Just existing in the same space. Some mornings, you woke up to a travel mug waiting beside the coffee maker because he’d left before sunrise and knew nausea hit hardest before breakfast. Some nights, he came home to dinner already made because cooking for one felt ridiculous when there were two people living in the house.
You texted him when you couldn’t find something. He texted when he was running late. Neither of you had discussed when that started. It just had. A routine forming quietly around the edges of everything neither of you knew how to name. The strangest part was the evenings.
At first, Robby disappeared into his room after work. You understood why. The hospital took pieces out of him some days. Nothing dramatic or visible. Just enough that by the time he got home, he looked like a man whose battery had hit the blinking red line.
Then one night, he wandered into the living room carrying a glass of whiskey and sat in the armchair without explanation. You had been reading. Neither of you said much. An hour later, he finished the drink, said goodnight, and went to bed. The next day, it happened again. And again. Until sitting in the same room became another habit.
Sometimes, he talked. About the elderly patient who finally agreed to use a walker. About a diabetic whose numbers looked better for the first time in months. About a resident who finally got a difficult procedure right after struggling with it for weeks. Little victories most people would never think twice about.
Other nights, he barely said a word. He sat in the chair with his whiskey while you read, watched television, or pretended to understand whatever movie was playing. The silence never felt awkward. Just shared.
You still weren’t entirely sure what that made the two of you. Friends felt wrong. It wasn’t the coffee or the groceries or the dinners. It was the assumption underneath them. The quiet certainty that tomorrow would probably look much the same. Him leaving for work. You being here when he came home. But more than friends felt wrong too.
Neither of you had said anything like that out loud. Neither of you had crossed any lines. You weren’t dating. You weren’t together. You weren’t even sure what pretending would look like. Most days, you weren’t sure what word belonged here.
The father of your child? Technically true.
Except that sounded like somebody you exchanged custody schedules with. Not the man who left coffee beside the machine before work because he knew mornings were rough lately. Not the man who listened to you complain about grocery-store strangers with the same attention he gave trauma reports. Not the man who sat in the living room after impossible shifts because somewhere along the way being alone had stopped feeling preferable.
So maybe there wasn’t a word for it. Maybe that was why it felt so strange. Maybe that was why you kept checking the clock. Because whatever Robby was now, his coming home had quietly become part of your day.
The lock turned.
Your head lifted before you could stop it. A second later, the front door opened and Robby stepped inside, bringing the damp smell of rain and hospital air with him. His helmet hung from one hand. His bag was slung over one shoulder. His jacket was unzipped over rumpled scrubs, and his hair was flattened in the back like he had dragged his hand through it too many times before getting on the bike.
One look was enough. He didn’t have to say anything. You knew. A normal day came through the door talking. Usually with some dry observation about the least catastrophic part of his day. Tonight was not that. His shoulders sat lower than usual. The crease between his brows was faint but familiar now. Not angry. Not frustrated. Tired. The kind that lived deeper than sleep.
He closed the door behind him and stood there for a second, staring at nothing in particular before his eyes finally found you on the couch.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.”
His gaze lingered briefly, checking. You were starting to realize he always did that. A quick inventory.
Are you in any pain?
Need anything?
Still awake?
Still here?
The usual.
Somewhere along the way, his check-ins had stopped feeling like a doctor assessing symptoms and started feeling like someone coming home.
You lifted your phone slightly. “Dinner’s in the microwave.”
Something softened in his expression. Not enough to erase the day. Enough to acknowledge the gesture.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
That earned the smallest hint of a smile.
“Thanks.”
You nodded, but your attention had already dropped back to the phone in your hand.
The notification was still there.
Women’s Health Associates, Appointment Reminder: Wednesday – 10:00 AM Ultrasound Appointment
You stared at it. Then locked the screen. Then unlocked it thirty seconds later. Tomorrow. The word felt heavier than it should have. You were having an ultrasound.
Not the first one. Planned Parenthood in Nevada had done one early on, enough to confirm what the test and your body had already told you. Enough to give you a grainy picture you’d barely been able to look at for more than a few seconds at a time.
This one was different. It was mostly for the new doctor. Baseline measurements. Dating. Making sure the records started somewhere solid now that you were transferring care. Practical. Routine. Except now Robby was here.
Now he was ten feet away, exhausted from a bad shift, with dinner waiting in the microwave and no idea you were sitting on his couch trying to decide whether to ask him to come. And somehow, telling him about it felt less like sharing information and more like giving him a place beside you. It should have made you feel safer. Mostly, it made everything feel harder to pretend away.
Robby shifted near the door, and you looked up again. He was still watching you. Not obviously. Not in a way that demanded anything from you. Just enough to tell you he had noticed your attention kept falling back to your phone.
“You okay?” he asked.
You closed your fingers around it. “Yeah.”
He did not look like he believed you. He also did not push.
Another thing you were learning about him. Robby brought bad days home with him. He just didn’t open them where anyone else could see. You could feel them anyway. In his face. In the set of his shoulders. In the quiet that entered the room before he said a word.
Mostly, he locked it down. He didn’t unload it onto whoever happened to be nearby or spend hours dragging every terrible thing back into the light. He just carried it until it changed the air around him. You were still learning how to tell the difference between wanting to be left alone and not wanting to be alone.
He rubbed one hand over the back of his neck and glanced toward the hallway.
“I’m gonna shower.”
“Probably for the best.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly.
“You smell like hospital,” you added.
He glanced down at himself, then back at you. “That bad?”
“You’re not a biohazard, but you are giving strong antiseptic-and-regret energy.”
This time, he almost smiled. Almost. “Fair.”
He set his helmet on the small table by the door, dropped his bag beside it, and headed down the hall. A minute later, the shower turned on.
You looked back at your phone. The appointment reminder still waited on the screen. You chewed lightly on the inside of your cheek. Maybe you’d bring it up after he ate dinner. Maybe when the movie ended. Maybe tomorrow morning.
The fact that you were strategizing a simple conversation like it required a full operational briefing probably wasn’t a great sign. Neither was the fact that part of you already knew you wanted him there. You just had not figured out how to say it yet.
The shower shut off. You looked toward the hallway before you could stop yourself. A few seconds later, cabinets opened in the kitchen. The microwave beeped. A fork scraped lightly against a plate. Small sounds. Familiar sounds. The kind you were starting to recognize without meaning to.
When Robby came back into the living room, his hair was still damp, his T-shirt clinging slightly at the collar. He carried the plate you had left him in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. He paused at the edge of the couch, just long enough to ask without asking.
You shifted your legs under the blanket, making room. “You can sit.”
His mouth moved faintly. “Good to know.”
“Don’t get sentimental.”
“I’ll try to control myself.”
He sat beside you, not close enough to touch, but closer than he would have two weeks ago. The couch dipped under his weight. The movie kept playing, ignored by both of you.
For a while, he ate in silence. You tried not to watch him too obviously. He was quieter than usual. Even for a bad day. His fork moved slowly. His eyes stayed on the television without following any of it. Every so often, his jaw shifted like he was holding a thought in place with his teeth.
You waited until he set the plate down on the coffee table.
“Bad?”
His eyes flicked toward you. He understood you weren’t asking about the shift. Not really. He seemed to understand that, because he didn’t answer right away.
Then he leaned back against the couch and let out a slow breath through his nose.
“Yeah,” he said. Simple. Flat. Honest.
Your fingers tightened once in the blanket.
He looked back at the television. “Just one of those days.”
You nodded. No questions. No digging. No careful attempt to pull the story out of him and make it smaller. You were learning that pushing Robby rarely opened anything. Usually, it only made him seal the door tighter. So you let it go.
The movie filled the space between you badly. Someone on-screen shouted a name into the rain. Neither of you reacted. After a minute, you looked down at your phone again. Locked. Unlocked. The appointment reminder waited there like it had patience.
You swallowed once. “Are you working tomorrow?”
Robby’s attention shifted to you. “No.”
You kept your eyes on the screen. “No?”
“I’m off.”
“Rare.”
“Try not to sound too impressed.”
“I’m overwhelmed.”
That earned the smallest breath of amusement from him.
He picked up his beer, then set it down without drinking. “I was probably going to stop by Duke’s for a bit.”
“The shop?”
“Yeah. Bike needs looking at.”
You glanced over. “That’s usually what people say right before they spend a thousand dollars.”
“Hopefully I’m lucky and it’s something cheap.”
You snorted softly. “That is not how bikes work.”
Robby looked over. “You suddenly an expert?”
“No,” you said, too quickly. “I just know ‘something cheap’ usually means ‘I haven’t found the expensive part yet.’”
His eyes stayed on you for half a second longer.
“What kind of sound?” you asked.
His brow lifted. “What?”
“The bike,” you said, nodding toward him. “What kind of sound is it making?”
For the first time since he’d come home, his attention sharpened for a reason that had nothing to do with the hospital.
“A rattle,” he said.
“When?”
He blinked. “When?”
“Cold start? Idle? When you throttle? Under load?”
Robby stared at you.
You stared back. “What?”
“You know what under load means?”
“Michael.”
“No, seriously.”
You looked back at the television. “If it rattles cold and settles once it warms up, check the cam chain tensioner.”
The room went quiet. Not the heavy kind this time. The surprised kind.
Robby slowly set his fork down. “You know what a cam chain tensioner is.”
“I know lots of things.”
“No normal person knows that.”
“Maybe I’m secretly fascinating.”
“I already knew that,” he said, then seemed to realize he’d said it.
Your eyes flicked toward him. His jaw shifted once.
You looked away first. “My dad rides.”
“Rides?”
“A lot.”
His expression changed slightly. Not teasing now. Careful. “How much is a lot?”
You adjusted the blanket over your legs. “Enough that I spent half my childhood holding flashlights and being told I was pointing them wrong.”
That got a quiet laugh out of him. “Universal childhood experience.”
“Yeah, well, most kids weren’t learning the difference between primary chain noise and valve train tick before they learned long division.”
Robby’s eyes stayed on you long enough that you felt yourself trying to make the story smaller.
“He tried to teach me to ride when I was six.”
“Six?”
“Dad of the year. My feet didn’t even reach anything. Obviously, it was a very professional operation.”
“Obviously.”
“My grandma chased him with a broom. Called him every name in the book.” You smiled despite yourself. “He laughed the whole time.”
The memory settled over you before you could shove it back. Hot pavement outside an open garage bay. Bikes lined up in crooked rows, chrome flashing under the sun, engines ticking as they cooled. Men in worn leather vests and oil-stained jeans stood around with paper coffee cups, cigarette smoke, and too many opinions.
Someone laughed loudly near a toolbox. Someone else was already arguing about the right way to fix a problem that had probably been solved twenty minutes ago. Your dad crouched beside a bike with grease on his hands, grinning like trouble was a language he spoke fluently. You loved that part. You didn’t always like admitting it.
There had been something satisfying about the noise and the order hidden underneath it. About listening closely enough to tell the difference between a healthy engine and one begging for attention. About watching your dad take something rough and stubborn and coax it back into smoothness with patience, profanity, and the absolute confidence of a man who believed every machine owed him an explanation.
You used to like riding too. Not the reckless parts. Not the stupid parts. Not the nights when the whole crowd rolled out together and your grandmother watched from the porch with her mouth pressed into a thin line.
But the quieter parts. The hum under your ribs. The wind pulling the world open around you. The feeling of everything narrowing to road, sound, balance.
You glanced down at your stomach and let out a small, dry laugh. “Obviously not doing that anytime soon.”
“No,” Robby said, a little too fast.
You looked over.
He exhaled. “That was a doctor answer.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I have a license. I feel obligated to use it.”
“Even off the clock?”
“Especially off the clock. Nobody can stop me.”
His mouth twitched when you laughed.
Robby picked his fork back up, but he didn’t interrupt. Just kept eating slowly, like he had nowhere else to be and nothing better to do than listen to whatever pieces of yourself you were accidentally handing over.
That made the joke fade a little.
“My dad had friends,” you said. The words came out lighter than they felt. “Bike friends.”
Robby’s gaze lifted.
“He had a very committed group of biker friends,” you said lightly.
Robby took a sip of his beer. “Biker friends?”
“They had matching jackets and everything.” Your mouth pulled into a small smile before you could stop it. “Very organized. Charity rides during the day, questionable decisions after dark.”
Robby looked over. “Questionable decisions?”
“I’m being generous.”
“That bad?”
“I said questionable, not the kind of story that starts with, ‘Allegedly.’”
His mouth twitched.
You almost smiled too, but it faded before it fully formed. “Sometimes both.”
The room quieted. Robby didn’t make you explain. He just nodded once, slow and understanding.
“Duke was part of a biker club. He’s told me a story or two,” he said.
You looked at him. “Then you get it.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I get it.”
You looked back at the television. “My grandmother actually liked most of his friends.”
Robby glanced over. “Most?”
“She said they were perfectly nice right up until they all got together.” A smile tugged at your mouth. “Then suddenly everybody started having terrible ideas.”
“Group effort.”
“Exactly.”
He took another bite of dinner. “And your dad?”
A laugh escaped before you could stop it. “Usually the one suggesting them.”
That earned a real laugh. Not a polite one. A genuine one.
“That sounds suspiciously specific.”
“Because it is.” You shook your head. “My grandmother used to swear there was a direct correlation between the number of motorcycles in the driveway and the likelihood somebody was about to make a terrible life choice.”
“Solid research.”
“Peer reviewed.”
“Naturally.”
The smile lingered a second longer this time. “She loved him, though.” The words came quieter. Easier somehow now that you weren’t looking at him. “Drove her absolutely insane. But she loved him.”
Robby nodded, not because he knew your grandmother, but because he understood loving somebody who wasn’t easy.
You looked down at the blanket gathered in your lap. “He really was a good dad. Not perfect.” A short laugh escaped you. “Obviously.”
Robby smiled faintly.
“But he never missed birthdays. Never forgot Christmas. Never made me wonder if he loved me.” Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “A lot of things in his life were a mess. His temper. His choices. The people he scared when he decided they weren’t his people.” You shrugged. “But me? That wasn’t one of them.”
The room settled around the confession. Robby nodded once, quiet and certain.
“My dad would’ve liked your bike,” you said after a moment, trying to pull the conversation back into safer territory.
Robby glanced over. “Yeah?”
“Oh, absolutely. She’s a pretty thing. He would’ve pretended not to. Walked around it twice, made some deeply insulting comment, then asked for the keys.”
“That does sound like a healthy level of respect.”
“Very traditional.”
His mouth twitched. “Would he have diagnosed it?”
“Immediately. Then he would’ve been unbearable about it.”
“Naturally.”
“That was kind of his brand.”
Robby looked down at his plate, the faintest smile still there. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You should. He’ll judge your maintenance.”
“Good to know I have supervision.”
You smiled, smaller this time, then let the blanket slide between your fingers. For a few seconds, neither of you said anything. The movie kept going. The rain kept tapping against the glass.
Then Robby said, quiet and almost casual, “I’d like to meet him someday.”
You looked over before you could stop yourself. He was still looking at his plate, like the comment hadn’t cost him anything. Like it was simple. Like meeting your father was a normal thing to want.
It should have made you nervous. Maybe it did. But underneath that, something in your chest softened. Because you had just handed him one of the messier pieces of your life, and he hadn’t stepped back from it. Hadn’t made your father smaller. Hadn’t made you explain why you still loved him. He just wanted to know him.
“You say that now,” you said.
Robby’s mouth shifted faintly. “That bad?”
“He once inspected a bike so silently the owner apologized.”
“For what?”
“Existing near him, I think.”
A small laugh slipped out before you could stop it. And somehow, after giving him a piece of your past you hadn’t meant to hand over, the next part felt a little easier. Not easy. Just possible.
You looked down at your phone again. The reminder waited there. Wednesday. Ten o’clock. Ultrasound. Your stomach tightened, but not as sharply this time.
“Michael?”
He looked over.
You kept your eyes on the phone. “I called that OB you recommended.”
His attention shifted immediately. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just completely.
“Yeah?”
“They got me in tomorrow.”
Robby’s fork stilled near his plate. “Tomorrow?”
“Ten.”
He nodded once, carefully. “Okay. That’s good.”
You turned the phone over in your hands, then back again. “She wants to do another ultrasound.”
His expression changed. Barely. But you saw it.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” you said quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah, it’s routine. Since I’m transferring care, she wants her own measurements and scans and all that. Dating. Records. Making sure everything lines up.”
“Okay.”
“It’s mostly for the new doctor,” you added. “Planned Parenthood already did one early on. You saw that one.”
“I remember.”
His voice was quiet enough that something in your chest pulled tight.
You looked down at the phone again. Your thumb rubbed nervously along the edge of the case. This was the part. Not telling him. That was information. This was asking.
“You can come,” you said quickly. “If you want. I mean, you obviously don’t have to. It’s your day off, and you said you were going to Duke’s, and it’s mostly routine anyway. It’s not some huge dramatic first ultrasound moment or anything. They just want their own scan because I’m switching doctors, and I didn’t want you to think I was making it a thing, because I’m not. I mean, it is a thing, obviously, because there’s a baby, but it’s not—”
“Hey.”
Your mouth closed.
Robby was looking at you now, careful and quiet, one hand still wrapped loosely around his fork.
“Breathe,” he said softly.
Heat rushed into your face. “Right.”
You looked back at your phone. “I just didn’t want you to feel obligated.” The words came out smaller than everything before.
Robby’s expression shifted. Not hurt. Not exactly. Something quieter than that.
“I know.”
For a second, neither of you said anything.
Then he asked, voice low, “Do you want me there?”
Your fingers tightened around the phone. That was the question, wasn’t it? Not whether he could come. Not whether he had a right to know. Whether you wanted him beside you.
You swallowed. “Yeah,” you admitted. “I think I do.”
Robby looked down for half a second, jaw shifting once like he was trying not to let too much show.
Then he nodded. “Then I’m coming.”
Simple. Immediate. Like there had never been another answer.
Something loosened in your chest so suddenly it almost hurt.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
The movie kept playing.
Neither of you watched it anymore.
—
Something had changed on the couch the night before. Not enough to name. Not enough to touch. But enough that when Robby woke up the next morning, the house felt a little less unfamiliar than it had before.
At 8:03, he knocked softly against her bedroom door.
“You awake?”
His voice came out low. Careful. Like he wasn’t entirely sure what the rules were now either.
Silence from inside.
Then her voice, still rough with sleep.
“Unfortunately.”
Robby’s mouth twitched.
“You need coffee?”
Another stretch of silence.
“Maybe.”
Robby stood on the other side of the door with one hand still raised near the frame. He had already made the coffee.
The smell of it still lingered through the house along with butter warming in the pan and the faint sweetness of cinnamon. He’d gone to the grocery store the night before after she’d gone to bed, because somewhere between ultrasound and I think I do want you there, his brain had apparently decided French toast was a reasonable response.
He stared at the door another second anyway. She was awake. She was still there. That thought had started happening before he could stop it. Not in words at first. More like instinct. A glance toward the her room—no, guest room—when he woke up. Relief when he heard cabinets opening in the kitchen. The automatic habit of checking whether her shoes were still by the door before leaving for work. Still here.
He lowered his hand from the frame.
“I made breakfast,” he said instead.
“What kind?”
“Depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“It depends on whether you’re pretending to hate French toast this morning.”
Silence. Then, through the door, “I have never pretended to hate French toast.”
“Good. Because I already committed.”
A soft laugh came from inside the room. Small. Sleep-roughened. It did something unfortunate to his chest.
Robby leaned back against the hallway wall for a second, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. The appointment wasn’t until ten. He had been awake since six anyway.
He had checked the time three times. Not because they were late. They were aggressively not late. He had just apparently become the kind of man who made French toast at eight in the morning and knew exactly how long it took to get to an OB appointment with traffic. Which was fine. Normal. Fine.
Robby went back into the kitchen mostly so he had something to do with his hands. The French toast was already done. The coffee was already done. He had run out of practical tasks twenty minutes ago. Which was unfortunate timing.
He leaned against the counter and stared into his coffee for a second. Ultrasound. The word still did something strange to his chest. Not panic. Not exactly. Just pressure.
Like his brain had not fully caught up to the fact that this was real enough now to have appointments and doctors and blurry black-and-white pictures taped to refrigerators someday.
He exhaled slowly and stared into his coffee. The first ultrasound had happened in the middle of chaos. Shock. Paperwork. Vegas hanging over both of them like a bad decision neither of them knew what to do with. He remembered looking at the photo in her hand and feeling the floor tilt beneath him.
This one felt different. Quieter. Worse, somehow. Because now there was routine wrapped around it. Coffee mugs in the sink. Her blanket on the couch. Dinner in the microwave waiting for him after shifts. Her toothbrush beside his.
Things that made it dangerously easy to picture more. Things he had no business picturing yet. Things he pictured anyway. Robby had wanted this. That was the ugly part. The dangerous part.
The part he never said out loud because wanting made people stupid, and he had spent too many years being practical to start being stupid now.
He had wanted a kitchen that smelled like coffee and breakfast. Someone half-asleep at the counter. Someone to ask if they were nervous before an appointment. A life that didn’t end at his front door every night with silence and takeout containers.
He had wanted it for years. Longer than he cared to admit. When he was younger, before life had gotten sharp around the edges, the dream had been simple enough to embarrass him now.
Two kids. A house near a pond. A woman who loved him enough to stay. That was it. Not impressive. Not complicated. Not some grand ambition. Just a life. The kind other people seemed to stumble into without realizing they had been handed something holy.
Robby had stopped saying it out loud somewhere along the way. Then he had stopped thinking about it. Or he had tried to. Because at some point, wanting started to feel less like hope and more like setting himself up for disappointment. Now the dream felt impossible and close enough to touch at the same time. That was the problem. Because he didn’t know what she wanted.
He knew what she needed right now. Safety. Insurance. A stable doctor. A room with a bed that belonged to her. Breakfast before appointments. Someone who would show up when asked. But need was not the same thing as wanting. And as far as Robby knew, she had never planned on staying.
Not after the baby came. Not after the dust settled. Not once she figured out what her life was supposed to look like without Vegas, without panic, without him as the emergency option.
Maybe she would want to go back. Back to her own life. Back to something that had existed before he had the nerve to imagine himself inside it. The thought sat under his ribs, sharp and quiet. Because he had no idea how to change her mind. Worse, he didn’t know if he had the right to try.
The bedroom door opened down the hall. Robby looked up before he could stop himself. She wandered into the kitchen slowly, still heavy with sleep, hair twisted up lazily like she had only halfway committed to getting ready for the day. One of his old T-shirts hung loose over leggings, the fabric shifting softly around the small curve of her stomach as she walked.
Not big yet. Still enough to change the shape of her.
Her hand rested there absently for a second before dropping again. Robby’s chest tightened so fast it almost annoyed him. Because she looked comfortable here. Not settled. Not permanent. He knew better than to let himself believe that. But comfortable enough to move through his kitchen half-asleep, reaching for the coffee mug he’d set out like she was starting to know where mornings lived in this house.
The kitchen smelled like cinnamon and coffee and butter warming in the pan. Morning light spilled through the windows over the sink, soft against the countertops, against her face, against the quiet way she moved through the room like she had already learned its rhythms.
Home.
The thought landed hard enough that he had to look back at the stove before his face betrayed him.
She stopped beside the island and blinked slowly at the counter.
“You actually cooked.”
Robby glanced over. “I can cook.”
“I know. I just didn’t expect…” She trailed off, smiling a little to herself.
“Didn’t expect what?”
Her fingers curled loosely around the coffee mug.
“I don’t know.” Her voice softened. “This.”
The kitchen. The breakfast. Him standing at the stove in sweatpants looking half nervous and half determined to pretend he wasn’t. Home, some dangerous part of him thought immediately.
The realization hit hard enough that he had to look back at the stove. Because this was exactly the kind of thing he had spent years convincing himself he was too old, too tired, too late for. And somehow she had walked into his house and made it feel possible again without even trying.
He picked up the plate and set it carefully in front of her. Ridiculously careful. Like French toast required precision.
She noticed.
“You’re acting weird.”
“I’m always weird.”
“No. This is… specific.”
Robby leaned against the counter and crossed his arms loosely.
“Maybe I just want today to go okay.”
Her expression softened instantly.
“Don’t worry,” she said quietly. “It will.”
The confidence in her voice sounded fragile around the edges. Like she was trying to convince herself too.
Robby swallowed once and nodded. “Okay.” It came out softer than he intended.
She smiled at him over the rim of her coffee mug. Sleepy. Nervous. Warm in the morning light. The thought surfaced again, unhelpfully. Temporary, he reminded himself.
Robby reached for the syrup before the thought could get worse.
She watched him move around the kitchen for a second before smiling faintly down at the plate. “You even made it look nice.”
“That was accidental.”
“Mm.” She didn’t sound convinced.
He set the syrup beside her and leaned back against the counter with his coffee.
“Eat,” he said gently.
Her eyes lifted to his for a second before she nodded.
“Yes, doctor.”
The quiet that settled afterward felt warm around the edges.
She took another bite, then glanced up at him carefully.
“You know you don’t have to look this stressed about it.”
“I don’t look stressed.”
“Michael.”
“Okay,” he admitted, “maybe a little stressed.”
“It’s just an ultrasound.”
“You say that like there isn’t an entire tiny human involved.”
Her expression changed at that. Softer. Quieter. Like hearing him say tiny human did something to her too.
She looked down at her plate. “Tiny human,” she repeated softly.
Robby’s mouth moved like he might take it back. He didn’t.
“Yeah,” he said. “Tiny human.”
The kitchen went quiet again. Not uncomfortable. Just careful.
She set her fork down and rested one hand lightly against her stomach, almost without meaning to.
Robby noticed. His gaze dropped for half a second, then lifted again quickly, because the last thing he wanted was to make her feel watched.
She smiled faintly. “You’re doing the doctor face again.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
He looked down into his coffee. “Different face.”
“Oh?”
The answer left his mouth before he could stop it. “Father face.”
The words landed between them. Soft. Awkward. Too honest. Robby froze like he hadn’t meant to say them out loud.
She stared at him. For a second, he thought he had ruined it. Then her expression softened.
“Okay,” she said quietly.
His chest tightened. “Okay?”
The corner of her mouth lifted. “But maybe save the father face for the appointment.”
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. Small. Relieved. Real.
The tension eased after that. Not completely. Just enough for breakfast to finish without either of them saying anything else that might change the shape of the morning.
By the time the plates were empty, the appointment had started creeping back into the room. Neither of them mentioned it. The clock did enough of that on its own.
Robby loaded the dishwasher while she rinsed mugs at the sink. A normal chore. A normal morning. The kind people did every day. The fact that it felt so normal was probably the problem. When the last dish disappeared into the dishwasher, she dried her hands on a towel and glanced toward the clock.
9:02.
Her shoulders shifted slightly. Robby noticed. His eyes flicked toward the clock too. Then away. Then back again.
“You’ve looked at that thing six times,” she said.
“I have not.”
Her mouth curved faintly. “You absolutely have.”
“Five.”
She rolled her eyes.
The corner of his mouth twitched. Neither of them moved.
Then she pushed away from the counter. “I should probably get dressed.”
Robby nodded once. “Probably.”
She took three steps toward the hallway before stopping. Turning back. “Michael?”
“Yeah?”
Her fingers twisted together briefly. Just once. “I’m glad you’re coming.”
Robby went still. Not dramatically. Just enough. His gaze lifted to hers.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. Then, because he couldn’t help himself, “Me too.”
Something crossed her face. Soft. Scared. Almost gone before he could name it.
Then she pointed at him. “Don’t make this weird.”
His laugh followed her down the hallway. Then the house went quiet again. Robby stood in the kitchen for a second longer, one hand braced against the counter, listening to the soft sounds of her moving around in the guest room.
A drawer opened. A closet door shifted. The old floorboards creaked beneath her feet. Normal sounds. Temporary sounds, he reminded himself.
He looked down at the mug she had left beside the sink. Then at the hallway. Then back at the clock.
9:06.
Plenty of time, which somehow made it worse.
Robby pushed away from the counter and headed for his own room to change, telling himself he was not the kind of man who cared what shirt he wore to an ultrasound appointment. Five minutes later, standing in front of his closet, he realized that was apparently a lie.
He had rejected one T-shirt for looking too much like sleepwear. Then a button-down for looking like he was trying too hard. Now he was holding a plain dark shirt and wondering when clothing had become complicated.
“It’s an ultrasound,” he muttered.
The shirt remained unhelpful.
Robby pulled it on anyway. By the time he stepped back into the hallway, her bedroom door had opened again. He heard her footsteps pause near the entryway mirror.
Then she came into view, smoothing the front of her sweater with one hand, her bag already hooked over her shoulder. Her hair was neater now, though a few loose strands had escaped around her face.
She looked like herself. Nervous. Still a little sleepy. Standing in his hallway before a doctor’s appointment she had asked him to come to.
Dangerous, his brain supplied. Because he was starting to like that far too much.
She caught him looking. “What?”
Robby glanced down at his keys. “Nothing.”
“That was definitely a something.”
“I changed my shirt three times for a doctor’s appointment.”
She blinked. “Three?”
“We’re not discussing it.”
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. “Oh my God.”
Her mouth twitched, but the nerves were still there. He could see them in the way she adjusted the strap of her bag twice.
“You ready?” he asked.
“Define ready.”
“Shoes on. Purse. Phone. Willingness to enter a medical building.”
“Three out of four.”
“Good enough.”
That got a small laugh out of her.
Robby opened the door, then paused. “Do you want me to drive?”
She looked at him. The question hung there, gentle and practical. Not because she couldn’t. Because he was offering one less thing for her to carry.
After a second, she nodded. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “If you don’t mind.”
He shook his head. “I don’t.”
And somehow, when she handed him the keys, it felt like more than driving.
Robby closed his fingers around them before he could examine that thought too closely.
The morning air was cool when they stepped outside. The driveway still glistened from the rain.
She started toward the truck while he locked the front door behind them. By the time he caught up, she was reaching for the passenger handle. Robby stepped around her automatically and pulled the door open first.
She stopped. So did he. For half a second, they just looked at each other.
“Sorry,” he said immediately.
Her eyebrows lifted. “For opening a door?”
“It was a reflex.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. “What a monster.”
“I know.”
“Someone should probably stop you.”
“Probably.”
She shook her head and climbed into the truck.
Robby shut the door gently behind her. Then stood there for a second longer than necessary. Because somewhere between Vegas and now, little things had started mattering. And that was becoming a problem.
The drive took twenty minutes. Twenty minutes Robby had made a thousand times before. He knew every turn. Every traffic light. Every shortcut.
Usually, he drove toward the hospital thinking about patients. Charts. Residents. Coffee. Today, he spent most of the drive trying not to think about the fact that there was a baby waiting at the end of it.
Beside him, she stared out the window. Quiet. Her fingers twisted once around the strap of her bag. Then stopped. Nervous. He recognized it immediately. Because he wasn’t exactly calm himself. The hospital came into view. And for the first time in years, walking into Pittsburgh Trauma didn’t feel routine. Usually, the hospital put him on autopilot. Badge. Waiting room. Coffee. Floor.
Today, he found himself checking whether she was keeping up. Which was ridiculous. She was walking directly beside him. Still, every few steps, his attention drifted back anyway. Not because she needed help. Just because she was here. Beside him. At his hospital. For his baby.
That familiarity usually made him comfortable. Today, it mostly made him aware of where they were going. Women’s Health. Ultrasound. Baby.
Beside him, she adjusted the strap of her bag again. Nervous. Somehow reassuring. At least one of them was behaving normally.
They rode the elevator up in silence. Not awkward silence. Elevator silence. The kind everyone fell into when trapped in a metal box with strangers. A woman carrying a toddler got off on the third floor. An older man with a cane got on. The doors opened and closed.
The hospital moved around them in its usual rhythm, which made it stranger when the Women’s Health waiting room appeared around the corner and his stomach immediately tightened.
A receptionist looked up from behind the desk.
“Good morning.”
She stepped forward before he could. Which was probably better for everyone involved. He had already caught himself reaching for her paperwork twice in the parking garage.
She handled the check-in while he stood beside her pretending not to notice that he was suddenly very interested in a framed poster about prenatal nutrition.
A few minutes later they were sitting side by side in the waiting room. Not touching. Not talking much. Just waiting. Across from them, a couple flipped through a baby name book. Somebody’s phone played a lullaby from across the room trying to soothe their baby. A nurse appeared in the doorway and called another patient’s name. The room settled again.
Robby looked over. She was staring at a spot on the floor. Thinking. Worrying. Probably both.
“Hey.”
Her eyes lifted. “Yeah?”
“You okay?”
She exhaled through her nose. “Ask me again in an hour.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Fair.”
For a while, neither of them spoke. Somehow, sitting beside her made all of it feel different. The appointment sat only a few doors away now. No longer tomorrow. No longer later. Just waiting.
The waiting room door opened. A nurse stepped out with a tablet in one hand, glanced down at the screen, then looked up.
“Robinavitch?”
Robby’s chest tightened before he could stop it. Strange. Almost nobody called him Robinavitch.
He was Robby. To patients. To nurses. To friends. Hell, half the hospital probably wasn’t entirely sure Robinavitch was his actual last name. Usually when he heard it, it meant paperwork. Administration. Somebody looking for a signature. Something official.
Beside him, she looked up too.
Robinavitch.
Her name now. Technically. Legally. Temporarily, he reminded himself. Except it didn’t sound temporary coming from someone else’s mouth. It sounded real. Like the world had decided what they were before either of them had figured it out themselves.
The nurse glanced between them.
“Robinavitch?”
She stood first. “That’s us.”
Us.
The word shouldn’t have done anything. Casual. Harmless. Meant to answer a nurse’s question and nothing more. Instead it landed somewhere behind his ribs and stayed there. Because first it had been the house. Then breakfast. Then the drive. Then walking through the hospital together. And now a waiting room full of strangers hearing a name neither of them quite knew what to do with.
Robby stood a second after her. The roller coaster had officially left the station.
The nurse smiled politely, either not noticing or choosing not to.
“This way.”
Robby stepped beside her as they followed the nurse through the door. The hallway beyond was quiet. That was the first thing that threw him. Not hospital quiet. Outpatient quiet. No alarms. No trauma pagers. No shouted orders. No wheels rattling too fast over tile.
Just muted voices behind closed doors, posters about prenatal vitamins, and the soft click of the nurse’s shoes ahead of them.
Robby knew the ER. He knew the route from ambulance bay to trauma room half-asleep. This side of the hospital was different. Not foreign exactly. Just not his. Not in the way the ER was his. And this was her first time here with this office. Her first visit with the new doctor. Her first step into the version of care he had helped point her toward. That realization made him keep his hands in his pockets.
The nurse glanced over her shoulder. “Any changes since you scheduled?”
She answered before Robby could even think about helping.
“No. Everything’s the same.”
Robby kept his hands in his pockets. Better. Because every instinct he had was already leaning too far forward. She didn’t need him to take control. She just needed him here.
The nurse pushed open the exam room door.
“You can go ahead in. The sonographer will be with you in a few minutes.”
She stepped inside first. Robby followed. The room was smaller than he expected. Not cramped. Just close. The exam table sat against one wall, covered in fresh white paper. Cabinets lined the other. A large monitor screen hung opposite the bed, dark and waiting.
Robby’s eyes immediately landed on it and stayed there.
“Well.”
She glanced over. “What?”
He pointed at the screen.
“I see where the hospital budget went.”
Her eyes followed his. The corner of her mouth twitched. “The monitor?”
“That thing is bigger than the TV at the house.”
“That seems like a very specific complaint.”
“It is.”
She shook her head.
Robby nodded toward the screen.
“Meanwhile, there’s a supply cart downstairs that only turns left.”
A small laugh escaped her. It wasn’t much. But he’d take it.
The paper crinkled softly as she sat on the edge of the table. Robby looked away before his brain could do anything stupid like offer a hand she didn’t need.
Instead he dropped into the chair beside the wall. Not too close. Not too far. Close enough that if she wanted him there, he was there.
The room settled around them. Quiet. The kind of quiet that made every thought louder.
His gaze drifted back to the screen. Still dark. Still waiting. Because the second that screen turned on, this stopped being an appointment. It became a baby. Her baby. His baby. Their baby. The thought hit harder than he expected.
He cleared his throat.
“So,” he said, because apparently silence was no longer an option, “what are we hoping for today?”
She looked over. “A healthy baby?”
“Good answer.”
“I feel like there was a right answer and I missed it.”
“There wasn’t.”
Her smile softened. “Then healthy baby.”
Robby nodded once. Healthy baby. Simple enough. The problem was that his chest had already moved several steps beyond simple. And judging by the way his eyes kept drifting back to the dark screen, it wasn’t slowing down anytime soon.
The room settled into silence again. Not awkward. Just waiting. Somewhere down the hall, a door opened and closed. Voices drifted briefly through the wall before fading again. The hospital carried on around them. Appointments. Lab work. Routine. Ordinary.
Robby had spent years watching people walk into rooms like this. Nervous. Excited. Terrified. Sometimes all three at once. Then they came back out carrying grainy black-and-white photos like they had been handed proof of magic. He understood it in theory. He wasn’t sure he understood it in practice.
Beside him, she adjusted the hem of her sweater. A small movement. Restless. His eyes dropped automatically. Seventeen weeks. Still early enough that most people probably wouldn’t notice. Early enough that she could still hide it beneath loose clothes if she wanted. Not that she had been trying lately.
His throat tightened unexpectedly. Because there was a baby in there. An actual baby. Not paperwork. Not a Vegas mistake. Not an abstract future problem for Responsible Future Robby to figure out. A baby. Their baby.
The exam room door opened before his brain could make the situation worse. A woman in navy scrubs stepped inside carrying a tablet. Smiling.
“Good morning.”
Robby immediately sat up straighter. The sonographer looked between them and smiled.
“I’m Melissa. How are we doing today?”
Robby opened his mouth. Then immediately closed it. Because the question wasn’t for him.
Beside him, she let out a breath. “Nervous.”
Melissa laughed softly. “Good. That means you’re normal.”
Robby glanced toward the giant screen. Melissa followed his gaze, amusement softening her face.
“First ultrasound together?” Melissa asked.
Robby cleared his throat. “You can tell?”
“Little bit.”
Beside him, a quiet laugh escaped her too. “We’re being subtle.”
“Extremely,” Melissa agreed.
“Good,” Robby said. “That was the goal.”
The smile stayed on Melissa’s face. “Trust me. You wouldn’t be the first nervous parents I’ve seen.”
Parents. There it was again. Another word that should have felt simple. Another word that somehow didn’t. Beside him, the mother of his child shifted slightly on the table.
Melissa picked up the ultrasound wand. “Alright,” she said gently. “Let’s meet this little person.”
And just like that, every thought in Robby’s head disappeared. The room got very quiet.
Melissa dimmed the lights. The screen glowed softly against the wall. The sonographer rolled the stool closer and pulled the machine beside the table. Routine. Efficient. Movements they probably performed thousands of times.
Robby watched every single one.
“Alright,” Melissa said gently. “This gel is going to be a little cold.”
“I’ve been warned.”
Melissa laughed. “Good.”
The bottle clicked softly against the counter.
A second later, a sharp breath escaped from the table.
Melissa smiled. “Cold?”
“I feel like that question answers itself.”
Melissa picked up the probe and turned toward the monitor.
Robby’s gaze followed automatically. Nothing. Gray static. Shadows. Shapes he couldn’t make sense of. His heart started pounding anyway.
Beside him, the tension coming from the exam table matched his own. The room seemed to shrink. Melissa moved the probe slightly. The image shifted. Then shifted again. Melissa’s smile softened.
“There we go.”
Robby leaned forward before he realized he’d moved. On the screen, something appeared. Not a blob. Not this time. A baby. Small. Curled. Unmistakably a baby.
Robby’s breath caught. Seventeen weeks. He knew what seventeen weeks looked like. He knew the developmental milestones. He knew the anatomy. He knew all the medical facts. None of them prepared him for seeing it.
Seeing them. Tiny arms. Tiny legs. A head. A spine. A whole person where his brain had apparently still been expecting an idea.
“Wow,” came the soft whisper from the table.
The word barely made it out.
Melissa smiled at the screen. “Baby’s moving all over the place today.”
As if on cue, one little arm jerked upward.
Robby stared. Then stared harder. Because the baby had moved. Actually moved. Not in theory. Not in a textbook. Not on someone else’s ultrasound.
Hers.
His.
Their.
The realization hit so hard it left him momentarily speechless. Which, judging by the way she immediately looked over from the table, was unusual enough to be concerning.
“You okay?” came the soft question from the table.
Robby didn’t answer right away. His eyes never left the screen.
“That’s a baby.”
Melissa laughed. “That is generally what we’re hoping for.”
He heard the joke. He even understood the joke. But he couldn’t stop staring.
Because somehow, somewhere between Vegas and this room, a future he’d spent months trying not to imagine had just waved at him from a television screen.
Melissa clicked another measurement, then another. “Growth looks right on track.”
From the table beside him, a breath slipped out like it had been held too long. Robby looked toward her, but her eyes stayed fixed on the screen. So did his.
“Everything looks good so far,” Melissa said gently.
Good. The word should have helped. It did. It also made something in him worse. Because now there was room for the feelings he had been keeping behind locked doors.
Melissa adjusted the angle again. “Have you heard the heartbeat yet?”
Robby’s eyes lifted.
Beside him, the question seemed to freezed the room for a second.
“No,” came the quiet answer.
Melissa smiled. “Want to?”
The answer was obvious.
Still, Robby couldn’t seem to find his voice.
Beside him, she nodded first. “Yeah.”
Melissa adjusted something on the machine. For a second, there was only static. A rushing sound filled the room.
Then—
Fast. Steady. Unmistakable. The heartbeat filled the small room.
Robby froze. Completely. His eyes stayed on the screen, but the sound moved through him before he could do anything to stop it.
That wasn’t a possibility. That wasn’t paperwork. That wasn’t Vegas. That wasn’t a mistake he could organize into something manageable. That was a heartbeat. His child had a heartbeat. The sound kept going. Rapid and strong and real.
And Robby felt something inside him give way. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just enough that the breath left his chest and did not come back right. He blinked once. Then again. It didn’t help. From the table, a small sound slipped out, barely more than a breath. He still couldn’t look at her. If he looked at her, he was done. So he stared at the screen. At the tiny shape. At the flicker of movement. At proof.
Melissa kept talking softly, explaining the rate, explaining that everything sounded good, but Robby barely heard the sonographer.
The heartbeat was too loud.
Not in the room.
In him.
It filled every place he had tried to keep empty. Every careful corner he had used for logic. Insurance. Appointments. Schedules. The guest room. The car seat he had not let himself think about yet. The crib he had refused to picture. The future he had kept folded up small enough to pretend he wasn’t holding it.
There was no folding this.
No making it manageable.
No pretending this was still an abstract problem two adults could calmly solve if they just stayed reasonable enough.
That sound was not reasonable. It was alive. Fast and steady and stubborn.
His child. His child was real.
Not someday. Not later. Not after they figured out what they were, where she would live, whether she would stay, what name would go on the forms, how much of this life he was allowed to want.
Now. Right now.
On a screen in front of him. Inside her. Beside him.
Every thought Robby had been using to hold himself together split clean down the middle.
He blinked once. Then again. It didn’t help. The heartbeat kept going. Rapid. Relentless. Beautiful. And somewhere between one beat and the next, he realized he was crying.
Quietly. Completely. Without any ability to stop it.
He tried to look away. Couldn’t. Tried to breathe through it. Couldn’t do that right either. The tears slipped down before he could stop them, hot and quiet against his face.
Robby lifted one hand, like maybe he could wipe them away quickly enough that no one would notice. Too late. From the table, movement shifted. Then her hand found his. Not careful. Not pitying. Just there. Warm fingers sliding into his like she had decided, in the middle of all that sound, that he didn’t have to stand outside it alone.
Robby looked down at their hands. At first, he didn’t move. Then his fingers closed around hers. The heartbeat kept going. Fast. Steady. Alive.
Melissa said something about the rate being strong, but Robby barely heard it.
Robby looked back at the screen, heart cracked wide open, and thought helplessly that if this was what temporary felt like, he was in serious trouble.
He still didn’t fully trust his voice. On the monitor, the baby shifted again, one tiny leg kicking out before disappearing into gray.
A breathless laugh slipped from the table. “That’s so weird.”
Robby looked down. Her bright eyes stayed fixed on the screen.
“Yeah,” he said roughly. “A little.”
Melissa smiled. “I can print some pictures for you.”
Robby’s chest tightened all over again. Pictures. Something real. Something to take home. He glanced over before he could stop himself. This time, he wasn’t the only one looking.
Neither of them spoke. Then the hand in his squeezed once.
“Yeah,” came the soft answer. “We’d like that.”
We.
Robby looked back at the screen before his face could do anything else stupid.
Melissa printed the pictures before they left.
Robby accepted them like he knew how to hold trauma shears, scalpels, a whole human life in his hands, but not this. Not paper. Not proof.
—
The drive home was quieter than the drive there.
She rested her head against the window, one hand curled loosely over the folded strip of ultrasound photos in her lap. Robby kept both hands on the wheel and did not look at the pictures again.
Not because he didn’t want to. Because he wanted to too much.
Back at the house, she made it halfway through lunch before the exhaustion caught up to her. He noticed the yawn. Then the second one.
By the third, he said, “Go lie down.”
She argued on principle. Badly. Ten minutes later, her bedroom door clicked shut. Her room. Robby stopped with one hand on the counter. No—guest room—Temporary. The correction sat badly in his chest. Then the house went quiet.
Robby stood in the kitchen. The ultrasound pictures sat on the counter. Her mug sat beside the sink. Her shoes were by the door. The house looked exactly the same as it had that morning. It felt completely different.
He looked at the pictures. Then away. Then back again. One small strip of glossy paper, and somehow it made the whole house feel rearranged. He picked one up carefully, thumb resting against the white edge so he wouldn’t smudge the image. Tiny profile. Tiny spine. A shape he could recognize now.
His throat tightened. “Jesus,” he muttered.
The picture did not answer. Probably for the best. He set it down. Then immediately picked it back up. Worse. Definitely worse. The baby was real.
Not that the baby hadn’t been real before. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew how biology worked. He had known since she came to Pittsburgh, since the first ultrasound photo she’d shown him, and every insurance form and practical conversation after.
But there was knowing. And then there was hearing. There was seeing movement on a screen. Hearing a heartbeat fill a room. Bringing home proof in glossy black and white and setting it on his counter beside her half-finished glass of water.
That was different. Worse. His gaze drifted toward the hallway. Nothing moved. She was asleep. As she should be. She needed it. He told himself he was checking. Not lingering. There was a difference. Probably.
The house pressed in around him. Not unpleasantly. That was the problem. It was warm. Lived in. Quiet in a way that had started meaning something else now. Her mug. Her shoes. Her room. No. Guest room.
Robby exhaled sharply and set the ultrasound picture back on the counter like it had personally complicated his life. He grabbed his keys before his brain could start another argument. He needed air before the house started feeling any more like something he could lose.
Twenty minutes later, he was on the bike. The city moved around him in familiar pieces. Wet pavement. Traffic lights. A delivery truck double-parked in a lane it had no business occupying. Construction cones that had apparently become permanent residents of the street.
Usually, riding helped. Usually, the engine gave his brain something simple to hold onto. Throttle. Brake. Lean. Balance. Road. Today, all it did was make the quiet inside his helmet louder. He stopped at a red light and looked straight ahead. A woman crossed the street pushing a stroller with one hand and holding a toddler’s raincoat hood with the other.
Robby stared. The light turned green. Someone honked behind him. He rolled forward.
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered.
That was the problem, apparently. Three weeks ago, he would not have noticed the stroller. Or maybe he would have noticed it, because he noticed everything, but it wouldn’t have landed. It would have been a detail. A scene. Somebody else’s life happening at the edge of his.
Now everything had hooks. A car seat in the back of a minivan. A man carrying a diaper bag over one shoulder with the stunned expression of someone who had not slept since 2005. A kid in yellow boots stomping deliberately through a puddle while his father pretended not to see it.
The bike turned onto Duke’s street almost by habit. Robby didn’t remember deciding to go there. Which was probably telling. He pulled into the lot and cut the engine. The silence after the engine died felt too sudden.
For a moment, he stayed there, helmet still on, both hands wrapped around the handlebars, staring at the shop doors. Temporary. The word surfaced again. He hated it more every time. Finally, he climbed off the bike and headed inside.
Duke was bent under the hood of an old truck when Robby walked in, one arm buried elbow-deep in an engine bay, a rag hanging out of his back pocket. The radio played low from somewhere near the workbench.
He didn’t look up right away.
“You’re late,” Duke said. “I was starting to think the bike fixed itself.”
“It didn’t.”
“Good.”
Robby frowned. “Good?”
“If it fixed itself, I’d be out of a job. What took so long?”
“Got distracted.”
“By what?”
“Life.”
Duke stared at him. “That’s usually a bad sign.”
“Hasn’t killed me yet.”
“Give it time.”
Robby snorted.
Duke tossed the rag onto the workbench.
“So,” he said, turning toward the bike. “You gonna tell me what it’s doing, or am I supposed to commune with it spiritually?”
“It’s got a rattle.”
“Beautiful. Very descriptive.”
“Cold start mostly.”
Duke’s expression shifted slightly. Not much. Just enough to show the mechanic in him had taken over.
“Idle?”
“Yeah.”
“Settles once she warms up?”
“Usually.”
Duke crouched beside the bike and tilted his head like he was listening to something that wasn’t there yet.
“Mileage?”
Robby told him.
Duke made a face.
“That your professional opinion?”
“My professional opinion is that you should’ve brought her in sooner.”
“Helpful.”
“I try.”
Duke reached for a flashlight from the rolling cart and angled it toward the engine. “Could be a couple things.”
“Such as?”
“Cam chain tensioner’s high on the list.”
Robby looked down at the bike. “That’s what she thought.”
Duke paused just long enough for Robby to notice.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“She heard it?”
“No.”
Duke blinked. “No?”
“I described it.”
Duke stared at him for another second, then slowly looked back at the bike. “You described a noise.”
“Yes.”
“And she landed on cam chain tensioner?”
“Apparently.”
Duke was quiet and crouched again, flashlight sweeping along the bike. “She ride?”
“Not really. Her dad does.”
“Worked on his own bikes?”
“Yeah, taught her how to fix them and everything.”
Duke nodded slowly. “Sounds like it.”
Robby watched him work a little longer.
The shop smelled like oil, metal, rubber, and old coffee. Familiar. Easier than the house had been. Easier than the hospital room. Easier than the strip of ultrasound pictures still sitting on his kitchen counter.
Duke stood and stretched his back.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s right.”
Robby looked away too fast.
Duke saw it. “Well.”
Robby immediately frowned. “What?”
“Now I’m curious.”
“About what?”
Duke looked at him like the answer should have been obvious. “The woman you’ve got hiding in your house.”
“She’s not hiding.”
“Living in your house.”
“Temporarily.”
Duke’s eyebrows lifted. “Sure.”
Robby sighed. “Don’t.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“You’re about to.”
“Probably.” Duke grinned. “I’m just saying, most people describe a motorcycle noise with words like weird.”
“Fair.”
“They don’t usually jump straight to possible causes.”
“Like I said, her dad taught her.”
“Apparently he knew what he was doing.”
Robby shrugged, but it came out too small to mean much. “Apparently.”
Duke looked at him for half a second longer, then seemed to decide something. He reached for a wrench and tossed it toward him.
Robby caught it automatically.
“You helping or standing there looking tragic?”
“I don’t look tragic.”
“You look like a man who lost a fight with his own face.” Duke pointed toward the side panel. “Take that off.”
Robby crouched beside the bike without arguing. That was easier. Tools were easier. Metal was easier. Engines made sense. A rattle meant something was loose, worn, tired, misaligned. There was always a reason. Always a source. Always something to tighten, replace, adjust, or take apart until the problem finally admitted what it was. People were worse.
He loosened the first bolt. Duke worked on the other side of the bike, quiet now. Not ignoring him. Just waiting. That was the thing about Duke. He acted like a pain in the ass, and usually was, but he knew when to shut up better than most people Robby knew.
The ratchet clicked between them. Once. Twice. Three times.
Then Duke said, not looking up, “Ultrasound today?”
Robby’s hand stopped. Only for a second. Then he kept working.
“Yeah.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah.”
Duke nodded once. “Good.”
Robby loosened another bolt. The word sat there. Good. Simple. Too simple.
He stared down at the bike. “We heard the heartbeat.”
Duke didn’t look up right away. Just handed him another tool.
“That’s a hell of a thing,” he said.
Robby swallowed. “Yeah,” he said, voice rougher than he wanted. “It is.”
Duke kept the flashlight steady.
Robby stared at the bike. “I’ve heard thousands of heartbeats.”
Duke glanced over.
Robby kept his eyes on the engine. “Probably tens of thousands at this point.” His fingers tightened around the wrench. “Trauma bays. Exam rooms. ICU monitors. Ultrasounds.” He shrugged. “It’s just physiology.”
Duke’s mouth twitched. “Just physiology.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
Robby looked down. “Heart’s supposed to be beating at seventeen weeks.”
“That’s generally the goal.”
“Everything looked normal.”
“Good.”
“Yeah.”
Duke adjusted the flashlight.
“And that’s not what’s bothering you.”
Robby stared at the bike.
“No.”
Duke nodded like he’d expected that answer.
“Didn’t think so.”
Normal didn’t settle. Because normal wasn’t the problem. That’s what he’d been trying to explain to himself all day. Nothing was wrong. Nothing. Healthy pregnancy. Healthy baby. Appropriate development. Appropriate heart rate. Every box checked. Every milestone exactly where it was supposed to be. And somehow that had made it worse.
Robby stared at the bike for a long moment. “I spent weeks thinking about this like it was a problem to solve.”
Duke stayed quiet.
“Insurance. Housing. Appointments. Logistics.” Another turn of the wrench. “Action items.”
“You like action items.”
Robby exhaled. “Then today happened.”
The words hung there.
“And?”
Robby laughed once. Short. Disbelieving.
“And apparently that’s not an action item.”
Duke’s eyebrows lifted. “Hearing your kid’s heartbeat isn’t a problem you can solve.”
Robby’s jaw tightened. “No.”
Because that was the thing. He couldn’t organize it. Couldn’t schedule it. Couldn’t chart it. Couldn’t put it in a folder and come back to it later. It had simply happened. One second there was a monitor. The next there was a person. And Robby had not been prepared for the difference.
Duke didn’t answer right away. He just shifted the flashlight slightly and let Robby sit with it. That was worse, somehow.
The shop sounds filled in around them. The low radio. A socket rolling somewhere on the workbench. Traffic hissing past outside on wet pavement.
Robby turned the wrench again. Too tight. He stopped before he stripped the bolt.
Duke noticed.
“Careful,” Duke said.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Robby shot him a look.
Duke only lifted his brows and held the flashlight steady.
For a while, neither of them said anything.
Then Robby looked back at the engine and said, quieter, “I thought the baby was what scared me.”
Duke stayed still. “Isn’t it?”
Robby’s jaw shifted once. “No,” he said. “Not anymore.”
The admission sat between them, small and ugly and too honest for the middle of a mechanic’s shop.
Duke waited. Robby hated that too. He loosened another bolt. Set it carefully on the floor beside him.
“I can handle being a father,” he said, like he was trying the words out for size. “I mean, I’ll screw things up. Everybody does. But I can show up. I can learn. I can be there.”
Duke nodded once. “Yeah.”
Robby stared down at the bike. The next part got caught somewhere behind his ribs. He almost swallowed it. Almost.
“She’s probably going back to Nevada.”
Duke’s hand stilled around the flashlight. Not much. Just enough.
“There it is,” he said quietly.
Robby’s mouth tightened. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You said ‘there it is.’ That’s something.”
“Barely.”
Robby exhaled through his nose and looked toward the open garage door. “She has a life there.”
“Does she?”
“I don’t know.” The answer came too fast. Too sharp. He forced his voice flatter. “Friends. Work. History. A place that isn’t here.”
Duke was quiet.
Robby kept going, because apparently the damage had already started.
“This was never supposed to be permanent. The house. The room. Any of it.” He glanced down at the wrench in his hand. “She needed somewhere safe. I had somewhere safe. That’s all it was.”
“Was?”
Robby closed his eyes for half a second. Damn it. Duke didn’t even sound smug. That made it worse.
Robby opened his eyes and looked back at the bike. “I don’t know what it is now.”
Duke nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “That sounds about right.” Duke shifted the flashlight again. “Sounds like you’re waiting for her to decide what your life looks like.”
Robby’s head snapped up. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“No?”
“No.”
Duke gave him a look.
Robby hated the look.
“I’m trying not to decide it for her,” he said.
Robby looked back at the bike. “She didn’t ask for this. Any of it. Vegas happened. The baby happened. Then Pittsburgh happened because it was the practical choice.”
“Practical,” Duke repeated.
“Yes.”
“You hate that word right now.”
Robby tightened his grip on the wrench.
Duke leaned back against the workbench. “You want her to stay.”
Robby didn’t answer. The silence did it for him.
Duke nodded once, like that was all the confirmation he needed.
Robby stared at the engine. “I want the baby to have both of us.”
“Sure.”
His jaw flexed. “That’s a good reason.”
“It is.”
“And the house has room.”
“Also true.”
“And it would make appointments easier. Schedules. Work. Childcare.”
Duke’s mouth twitched faintly. “Lot of action items.”
Robby looked at him.
Duke lifted both hands. “Just saying.”
Robby exhaled hard and looked away. Because Duke was right. Those were reasons. Real ones. Good ones. They just weren’t the whole truth. The whole truth was quieter. More selfish. More dangerous.
The whole truth was that Robby had come home too many times to her dinner in the microwave. Her blanket on the couch. Her voice from the kitchen asking if he wanted coffee. Her shoes by the door. And now he knew what the house sounded like with her in it. Which meant he knew exactly what it would sound like without her.
“I don’t know how to ask,” he said finally.
Duke’s expression softened, but only barely. He wasn’t cruel enough to joke there.
“Then don’t ask yet.”
Robby frowned. “That your advice?”
“That’s my advice.”
“That’s terrible advice.”
“No,” Duke said. “Terrible advice would be telling a pregnant woman who just moved her whole life across the country that you’ve decided she should stay because your house feels less depressing with her in it.”
Robby winced.
“Yeah,” Duke said. “See? Bad pitch.”
“Glad you’re enjoying this.”
“I’m enjoying you finally having a problem you can’t organize into a spreadsheet.”
“I don’t use spreadsheets.”
“You know what I mean.”
Robby rolled his eyes.
Duke leaned back against the workbench.
“Besides, you’re looking at this wrong.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah.”
“How?”
Duke shrugged. “You’re acting like she’s already got one foot out the door.”
“She does.”
“Does she?”
“Nevada’s home.”
“Nevada’s where she used to live.”
Robby frowned.
Duke pointed a wrench at him. “Not the same thing.”
“That’s a stretch.”
“Is it?”
Duke walked back toward the bike. “Let me ask you something.”
“You’re talking about Nevada like she’s sitting around homesick all day.”
“Maybe she is.”
“Maybe.”
Duke set a socket on the workbench. “Or maybe she’s bored.”
Robby looked at him. “What?”
“She’s a nurse, right?”
“Was. Then a bartender.”
“Still has the brain.”
“Fair.”
Duke pointed toward the shop. “Girl diagnoses a motorcycle from your description and you’re telling me she’s happy sitting around a house waiting for the next appointment?”
Robby opened his mouth. Closed it.
Duke's mouth twitched. “Thought so.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is she sounds like she’s got a brain that doesn’t do well sitting still.” Duke folded his arms. “Half the reason this place still exists is because people smarter than me occasionally stop me from doing something stupid.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“What I’m saying,” Duke continued, ignoring him completely, “is maybe she needs something that’s hers.”
Robby’s eyebrows pulled together.
Duke gestured around the garage. “I’m not talking about a job.”
“Then what?”
“Somewhere to go. Something to do. A reason to leave your house that isn’t an appointment.”
Robby didn’t answer.
Duke shrugged. “I hate answering phones.”
Despite himself, Robby laughed. “You do.”
“I hate ordering parts.”
“You definitely do.”
“I hate customers describing noises.”
“Nobody likes that.”
Duke pointed at him. “Exactly. And apparently she’s better at it than half the people who walk in here.”
“So your solution is to put a pregnant woman in a garage?”
“My solution is giving a smart woman somewhere she can be useful without feeling trapped.”
Robby looked away.
Duke’s voice softened just a little. “There’s a difference.”
And the worst part was, Robby could actually picture it.
Her sitting behind the counter. Arguing with Duke. Rolling her eyes at customers. Calling him an idiot when he ignored obvious advice. Laughing. Comfortable. Like she belonged there. The image settled somewhere dangerous in his chest.
Duke caught the look on his face. “See?”
“Don’t.”
Duke grinned. “Didn’t even have to say anything.”
Robby looked down at the wrench in his hand. “You’re making it sound simple.”
“It’s simple.”
“It’s not.”
“No,” Duke agreed. “But it’s less complicated than whatever you’re doing in your head.”
Robby huffed a humorless laugh.
Duke picked up the flashlight again and angled it toward the engine. “You don’t have to ask her to stay forever tomorrow.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
Robby shot him a look.
Duke ignored it. “You know, this isn’t really about her.”
“Here we go.”
“No, hear me out.”
Robby immediately regretted staying.
Duke pointed between them. “You need other people involved.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means right now her entire Pittsburgh social circle is you.”
Robby stopped.
Duke shrugged. “That’s a lot of pressure for two people who are still figuring out what the hell this is.”
“That’s annoyingly reasonable.”
“I know.”
“I hate it.”
“Also know that.”
Duke pointed toward the office. “Bring her by sometime.”
“Terrible plan.”
“Best I’ve got.”
Robby looked toward the open garage door. The idea sat there. Small. Practical. Dangerous. Not asking her to stay. Not asking her to choose Pittsburgh. Just giving her one more place where she could breathe. One more person who might know her as something other than pregnant, displaced, temporarily living in his house. One more root. The word made his chest tighten.
Something in Duke’s face softened.
“You want her to stay?” he asked.
Robby didn’t answer.
Duke nodded once, like the silence had done the work for him.
“Then don’t build a cage,” he said. “Build a place she might actually want to come back to.”
Robby looked at him then.
Duke shrugged and turned back to the bike. “And maybe start with the shop. Low stakes. Worst case, she hates me.”
“She probably will.”
“Perfect. Common ground.” Duke snorted and ducked back toward the bike.
After that, they worked in silence. Real silence this time. Not empty. Just easier.
Robby loosened bolts. Duke muttered insults at the engine. Somewhere outside, tires hissed over wet pavement. The radio kept playing low, some old rock song neither of them commented on.
The conversation didn’t fix anything. That was the annoying part. The baby was still real. The house still felt different. Nevada still sat somewhere in the back of Robby’s mind like a door he couldn’t lock. But the panic had shifted shape. Not gone. Just smaller. Something he could hold without bleeding all over it.
Duke tapped the side of the bike with the wrench. “Yeah. I’m gonna need to get in there properly.”
“Expensive?”
“Emotionally or financially?”
“Duke.”
“Probably both.”
Robby sighed.
Duke grinned. “Tell the motorcycle whisperer she may have been right.”
Robby looked down despite himself, mouth twitching. “I’ll mention it.”
By the time Robby left the shop, the sky had started clearing. The streets were still damp, but the clouds had thinned enough for late afternoon light to catch in the puddles along the curb. He pulled his helmet on and stood beside the bike for a second longer than necessary.
The shop. Low stakes. A place that wasn’t his house. A person who wasn’t him. One small root. Robby swung onto the bike and started the engine. This time, when the rattle caught beneath the idle, he heard her voice in his head before Duke’s.
Summary: You're the closest thing that J has as a friend, and after a fight with your parents, Smurf lets you stay at the house. The last thing that you expect from that is ending up in a deep conversation with J’s only uncle that you've heard say at least two words since you've been in the house. And Pope doesn't expect that you, of all people, would lead him into an existential crisis.
Disclaimer: English is not my first language, so I apologize if there are any spelling or grammatical errors.
You always fight with your parents, it wasn't something rare, you could spend more days mad and giving them the silent treatment than talking to them. You don't even remember how the fight started, just that you were too stubborn to give up your posture, and they were too. So it all ended with you being kicked out of the house. As usual, you would go to J’s apartment, he’ll give you a space on his bed because it wasn't a big place and the couch was shit. But now he lives with his grandma in a nice house that was frequented by his hot as hell uncles.
You didn't want to step into a place you didn't know, even if you had already met his grandma. You wandered all over Oceanside before the night hit, leaving you without an option, so you knocked on the door of the Cody's house and Smurf —J’s grandma— welcomed you with her arms open. She assured you that there was enough space for you to crash in until your parents welcomed you again. You thanked her, and it didn't take you too much time to know that it was better to stay on Smurf's good side than her bad side. You didn't really want to know what happened to the people that were on her bad side, but you knew it wasn't something good.
You shared a room with J, like old times, you denied Smurf’s offer to take one of her oldest son's rooms. You were used to sharing with J, hell, you would spend more time in J’s apartment than in your own house, and you didn't want to be a burden on everybody, and also J’s bed was much bigger than the one in his old apartment so you two were good.
But sharing a room means respecting the other person's sleep schedule, that's why you were on the couch with your laptop on your legs and a lot of textbooks and notebooks from school. You didn't want to wake up J so when he went to sleep you took all your things and moved to the living room. It is also where you were being watched by one of his uncles, the eldest one you believe, and also the one that you have heard say a total of two words since you have stayed at the place. You know he also watches J, but the way he watched you was different, not in the creepy way he does with your friend, it doesn't make you feel uncomfortable, all the contrary, it makes you feel safe.
That's why you didn't mind it, but it started to annoy you, he watches you but never approaches you.
“You know I don't bite, right?” you speak up towards him but still very focused on your homework.
He didn't say a thing, so you finally looked at him, standing too straight, too tense, and too deep in thought.
“You could sit down,” you offer, pointing at the largest couch, you just take a little corner, the rest of it —which was a lot— was free for him to sit. “If you want to stare it doesn't have to be from that far,” you add playfully.
When he didn't make a move you shrugged your shoulders and came back to your studies and you didn't catch his eye even though you heard him slump to the other end of the sofa. But a little smile grew on your face.
After some time and deep silence you speak again, without looking at him.
“So… should I call you Pope or Andrew?”
Silence… until.
“I don't care,” it was a low mumble combined with his deep voice, you could have barely heard him if it wasn't because the house was in complete silence.
“You don't care if I call you Andrew?” you ask again and when he doesn't reply you take it like a no.
Silence grows back, you focus on those chemistry problems that you can barely think of something to say, and he was too comfortable to say something and ruin it.
Until a loud growl comes from your stomach, you ignore it, but Andrew didn't.
“Are you hungry?” That was the first time he began a conversation with you.
“Yes, but before I go and eat something I have to finish this stupid chemistry problem that has been kicking my ass,” you muttered back with a frown looking between your textbooks and your notebook.
He just stood up and left, that kind of disappointed you, because you liked his company even if it was all silence and that deep stare that would have scared anyone but not you.
You didn't notice when he came back and stood awkwardly in the middle of the living room looking at you.
“Do you prefer it cut horizontally or vertically?”
You look at him confused.
“What?”
He didn't look at you, like suddenly your eyes on him made him shy.
“Your sandwich. Do you prefer it cut horizontally or vertically?” he clarifies, clearing his throat.
That makes you want to hug him, and say aww, but you control yourself and tell him how you prefer it. He nods and goes back to the kitchen. When he comes back it is with a plate with a sandwich on it and a glass of orange juice. He leaves it on the coffee table and sits down closer to you.
“Thank you, I really appreciate it, Andrew,” you said, taking the sandwich and starting to eat it.
He just nodded and watched you and he wandered his eyes into your textbooks realizing that they were not just chemistry, but also math and biology. You eat the whole sandwich and drink the juice before continuing with your studies.
But now that little gesture from him makes you feel too confident with him, so you start talking.
Too much.
“You know, I don't go that much to school, not because I don't like it, but because I can't wake up in the morning. I'll just go back to sleep and wake up too late for me to dress and go. It's kinda like a curse. That's why I repeated the same school year twice. A long time ago though.”
You get more comfortable in your place moving the pages of your textbooks while you talk and move your hand by force of habit.
“I want to leave Oceanside, I want to go to a cold place, I mean I like the beach but not the heat or the sand, it just sticks everywhere, but I like the sea. I just wish it would be just the sea and no sand.” You start to ramble about how you hate sand and hot days until you remember the point of your conversation. “Anyway, I just want to go to another place, but for that I have to graduate and for that I have to get good grades. That's why I pay for being so lazy, not going to school means studying double at home. And here I am.”
You start to ramble about wanting a big house one day, but not one of those big houses with modern architecture, you want something rural, in your words “something that you look at and say that's home, or that it's a cozy house” you also say that you want to go and live in a place that snows on Christmas so you could make snowmen or angels, get a big tree and decorate the whole house —something you apparently never had—. Andrew listens to everything you say, memorizing all of it, and the more he listens to you the more he realizes that all you want are clichés from typical movies, romantic movies.
“I want to be a mom one day, but I don't know if I'd be a good one.”
By that time your studies have been forgotten, your laptop set on the coffee table and your textbooks and notebooks set aside for you to be free and look at Andrew, that you could tell was really interested in all you were saying. Even if he hasn't said a word.
“Anyway, my final decision is that if one day I get married, and decide that my future husband would be a good father, I'll have children, but if not I won't. Because there are people that are good couples but won't be good fathers, and that's okay… I think so.”
After that it all gets quiet, he's not looking at you anymore, he's looking at his hands like he's thinking about your words, considering them. You don't know if you hit a sensitive nerve or if he just got bored of your yapping.
“You… you'll be a good mom, you should get somebody that'll be a good dad,” he mumbled, finding your eyes and you can see how sincere they are.
You give him a big smile that hits him hard because nobody has ever given him a smile like that with such a shine in your eyes that is not terror or something similar, like you're scared of him. You actually like when he speaks to you and he likes listening to your rambling, and he doesn't even know why.
“Thanks Andrew, I think you'll be a good father in the future. Would you like to be a father?” you asked, curious about it.
He didn't answer, he just looked at the floor as if your question had never been something to consider to him. And that makes another question pop up in your mind.
“Have you ever had dreams like mine? Leave? Have your own house? I don't know, something like that.”
Complete silence is what you get, but you can see on his face how his mood changes, he thinks about it and seems really confused when he doesn't find something to answer your question. And you understand that because you're no fool, you have seen how Smurf treats him, how Baz does. He can't answer because he doesn't have one, he hasn't let himself dream of being independent because that's the last thing Smurf wants for him, she has occupied his life and mind for him to never even think about leaving her, without dreams to pursue, the only thing he'll do is follow Smurf.
And realizing that makes your heart ache.
“Would you ever want to do something more? Finish school? Go to college?” you insist, approaching him without even noticing.
He still looks at the floor like a kid that has been caught stealing something.
He sighs. “I’m too old for that,” he mumbled.
By that time you are already side by side and you're looking directly at his profile. You liked Andrew and now you want to help him, there is something in you that tells you not to let him go, to help him realize.
“I don't think anyone is too old for something; finish school, get a degree. But no one is too old to have dreams.” you're sincere, placing your hand delicately on his back, you make him tense up under your touch, but after a few minutes you feel him relax and let go.
“Have you ever thought about leaving? Leave everything behind, have a new life, start from zero” you don't say leave Smurf, but you imply it. “You are an adult, a grown man, you get to decide what you want for your life, what you don't. Nobody should do that for you, never, no matter who that is. It's your choice.”
He doesn't answer, because you know he doesn't think like that, he has been raised to be how he is, loyal to the end to Smurf. And maybe you are the first person in his life to bring the possibility to him about leaving, to do what he wants. And you know it won't be easy to make him understand but you are willing to be the person to open his eyes and show him the world and choices that he has been losing all his life because of his mom, because of his family.
You lie down, letting your head fall on his lap and again you feel how tense he is before relaxing, you take both his hands and place them delicately on your hair. He tries to move his hands “massaging” your hair but they are just robotic moves, he doesn't know what to do but you don't tell him how to do it, you let him discover it by himself and after a few minutes he starts to play with your hair actually relaxing you and him, he's being so delicate towards you like if he touched you the wrong way he'll hurt you.
Sleep starts to hit you, you can barely keep your eyes open, but you don't want to sleep because you know that tomorrow all that moment would be in the past and you don't know how much time will pass before you are able to talk to him like this again. So you dig in your mind to find something more to say, anything.
“You know,” you mumble and he mumbles a small “what?” to let you know he's listening. “I know how to play the guitar, and I love it. I had a really old one but I dunno how my dad sold it. I thought of buying one and I found one from a really good brand, it was pink, like Barbie pink. It was expensive but I was saving to buy it. But my dad found my savings and used them to buy drugs.” You end the story like it has been just a bad joke.
It only makes Andrew hate your parents, especially your dad.
“Maybe one day I could buy one,” you mumbled before letting yourself fall asleep.
“Maybe,” he whispered, gently stroking your hair.
He stays awake too much in his mind to even think about sleep. Every word that you said has stuck in his mind, he rewinds them, sometimes thinking you're right, sometimes you're not, he tries to get to the conclusion that you don't know anything about life, you're just a naive young woman, a dreamer.
But is that bad, being a dreamer?
He doesn't know.
He is still wondering. Leave, where would he leave to? What would he do without his family? Without Smurf? He can't think, he doesn't have an answer and it starts to make him feel nauseated. Because maybe you're right. His head spins hearing the words coming from your mouth even if you're passed out on his lap for a solid four hours. But he can hear them clearly like you're repeating them right then and there.
He tries to clear his mind, takes you in his arms and lays you down in what was once his bed, now his nephew's, and which he shares with you even if it makes him feel a burning in his chest and stomach every time he sees you go to bed together, even though he knows you're not into him and he's not into you. It doesn't feel right.
Andrew leaves you behind even if his whole body screams at him to hold you until you wake up. But he feels so confused and it is so overwhelming to him that he has to go, he goes to his jeep and starts driving to his motel room that Smurf is paying for him and the words and possibilities that you have opened in his mind never leave him.
He eventually would go back to you. Because he wants more, he just has to realize that before.
This is the first time I've written about Pope, and I've actually had this idea saved in drafts since I finished the first season of Animal Kingdom.
Btw, I haven't finished the show, I'm just in season three and I don't know if I want to watch the last season. 😭
Tags: ex!reader, injuries (reader has a fractured rib), unresolved tension, probable medical inaccuracies (i tried my best), v brief non sexual nudity, mild angst, softness (it’s there, trust), they're still in love your honor!
Summary: You end up in the ED with none other than your ex-wife as your physician. It goes about as well as you'd expect.
Word count: 2.9k
It seemed inevitable. Not because you're particularly accident-prone, but because you're not usually in the universe's good graces, and if your ex-wife happened to be working at the closest emergency department to your home—well, then, you'll just so happen to be delivered right to her doorstep. That's the way of things. Distance tries to separate you—it puts up a mighty fight—but eventually, one way or another, you'll chase Baran. Baran will chase you.
It's a loop you've come to rely on.
You sit yourself in the seventh circle of hell, get your vitals checked, get sent back to the waiting room, follow a young nurse into a fluorescent-lighted maze, behind a curtain, and onto a bed—all without seeing her. But you know you will, sure as the sharp throb that echoes in your chest. Some delusional part of you thinks you can feel her, distantly, moving from room to room, skirting the space around you without her feeling it.
"A doctor will be with you in a minute." The nurse tells you. She props up the gurney so you can sit upright.
You nod as you lean back into it, managing a smile through the pain. It's already hard enough to breathe without the uncomfortably sharp smell of disinfectant, just barely blanketing the rusty scent of blood underneath.
You've always hated that smell. Hated how it clung to her curls, how you'd find it burrowed deep under her skin long after she'd leave the wretched place.
Really, you hated all of it. But mostly how it called to her. How she couldn't stop herself from answering.
The curtains swish open, stirring air. You lift your head, unable to stop the twitch in your mouth when your eyes find hers.
Bingo.
Baran's eyes widen, just the smallest bit, then dip down to comb over you. You feel every inch of her assessment as if her hands were prodding here and there, searching for wrongness she could fix.
"This is Y/N L/N." The nurse announces. "Came in for pain at the ribs, some trouble breathing."
Baran's gaze snaps back to yours. She blinks. You blink back.
The doctor beside her gives her a sideways glance before she steps up to your bedside. "Hi, Miss L/N." She smiles. "This is my attending, Doctor Al-Hashimi. I'm Student Doctor Javadi. We'll need to take a look at your lungs, if that's okay."
You nod, pulling yourself straighter as she unwinds the stethoscope from around her neck. Discomfort prickles your skin, the kind that follows a heavy, prolonged stare. Your eyes dart to the figure still looming at the foot of your bed.
Baran clears her throat. You just barely catch the short breath she takes in, steadying herself. "Have you suffered a blow to the chest? A fall, maybe, or an—"
"I fell." You say shortly. Her head tilts, eyes sharpening.
The silence grows. You reluctantly go on.
"I was going down the stairs, my son's toys were everywhere. I slipped. Landed on my chest."
"Take a deep breath for me, please."
You take one and wince, the inhale cutting off midway through. Pain flares in your side, a sharp throb that lingers even after you breathe out. It beats white-hot. The med student apologizes, but she prods for another one, the metal of her stethoscope cold as she shifts its position on your chest. Your fingers curl into a fist.
"Anything to break the fall?"
You shake your head, your voice coming out wheezy. "It happened fast."
"No absent breath sounds." She says, leaning back. Baran's nod is stiff.
"You'll need to check the area."
The med student turns to you. "Can I lift up your shirt?"
You do it yourself. The cold air of the ED is a small relief against your skin.
"Where does it hurt?"
You don't know if it's the roaring in your ears, but Baran's voice is dulled. Softened. You don't look at her as you gesture to your side, careful not to touch the sore area. It doesn't matter anyway. The girl does it for you, feeling gently along your abdomen until her fingers find the spot.
Your breath hitches. "Faint swelling," she murmurs, "…around the seventh rib… Let me know if you feel any tenderness." She hardly presses, but the pain responds anyway, too loud, too hot.
You inhale sharply.
"Stop." Baran's voice rings out. The girl snaps back on her heels, her hands raised. You sag back onto the gurney, letting your shirt down as Baran clears her throat and nods at the med student. "That's enough for us to know it's at least fractured." Her gaze shifts to you, not unkind. "We'll need to take you for an X-ray."
"Fun," you rasp. "Lead the way."
"I'll get you a gown." The nurse pipes up. The med student follows her out, saying something about coming back when the scan is done.
The curtain swishes closed around them, leaving you alone with your ex-wife. She hasn't moved from her spot—still rooted to the foot of your bed with her arms crossed, like she's standing guard. There's tension along her shoulders. The familiar glaze of concern in her eyes.
Silence crowds, but you don't have the stomach for it.
"Hello." You say tiredly, a headache starting to pulse at your temples. This is not how you wanted today to go.
She seems to unfreeze with that one word. Arms dropping, she clasps them behind her back and takes two steps closer to your bedside. Her voice loses its edge. "How bad is the pain?"
"It's fine." You mumble.
She gives you a look.
"A seven," you relent. "…and a half."
A small fissure blooms on her face, faint cracks rippling through her composure. She sucks in a deep breath—quite mean to do in front of you, if you're honest—and swallows, her mouth set.
"Usually, for rib fractures, there's nothing we can do except prescribe medication. Your scan will tell us more, however the fracture will likely heal on its own. Extreme cases require surgery, but otherwise it's ice packs and rest—no heavy lifting, no lying down."
"Okay." You say blankly. "Good to know."
She continues as if you haven't spoken. "I can have them give you a shot of—"
"No." You shake your head. "No shots."
You have too much shit to do already. You'd planned on making use of your son's absence by getting the house in order, running the errands you've been putting off for weeks—but of course, of course, you had to end up here. The last thing you need is to have some medication messing with your head, slowing you down further.
Baran lets out a breath, her hands curling around the rails of the gurney. "The effect won't last long. Clearly, you're uncomfortable. You might as well take something while you're here." You stay silent, and she pushes, knuckles poking sharp through her skin. "Karim is with my parents, there's no reason why you should be refusing—"
The sigh is out of your mouth before you can stop it. "I have shit to do, Baran." You snap.
"How exactly do you suppose you're going to do anything if you can't even take a full breath on your own? What's so important, anyway?" Her eyes blaze. "Laundry?"
The curtain swishes open.
"Oh—" The nurse shrinks back. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—"
Baran lets go of your bed as if she'd been burned. Her eyes are still blazing as she turns and forces a smile, stiffer than the hand she lays on the nurse's shoulder. "Thank you, Emma." She says, deliberately even. "Please let me know when you get the result back."
She leaves without sparing you a glance.
-
You know the Pitt is notorious for its horrendous waiting times, but you still hadn't expected to wait an entire hour for the result of a simple X-ray. Hell, the actual scan itself had taken mere minutes.
You perk up when the curtain swishes open again, but Baran doesn't make for the laptop screen against the wall. Instead she approaches your bedside, a glass jar in one hand and a cup of tea in another.
"I don't suppose you've eaten." It's not phrased as a question. You hate that it's not, because she knows, and she's right. "The cafeteria food is terrible." She continues without waiting for your answer, her tone peevish. "Here."
You're not above accepting her offerings. The tea smells like the kind she used to make at home, minted and sweet. Its steam works up a lump in your throat.
It hurts, seeing her. It always does. Whether you've fought or not, whether you're civil or not. Just her presence is hard to swallow down. You still haven't gotten used to the distance, miles of oceans between you, no matter how physically close you are.
It's ridiculous. You've lived most of your life without her, and yet a decade and some have ruined you for the unforeseeable future.
The tea scalds your tongue. Baran is notably gentler as she sets the jar down on the bed along with a tissue-wrapped spoon. Overnight oats, if you had to guess.
"Thanks," you mutter.
She inclines her head in a nod and perches on the arm of the chair next to your bed. "I'm sorry you've had to wait so long. There's a holdup with the X-rays."
"I didn't expect to get special treatment." You give her a tight-lipped smile. She doesn't return it until you say, "This place seriously sucks, though."
"Yes, well." Her laugh is more of a huffed breath. "We're unfortunately not the most punctual." She frowns down at her hands for just a second before she looks back up at you. Her eyes dip to your gown.
"Do you need help getting that off?"
"I'm good."
Not.
She stands. "Baran."
"Button downs will be easier to wear," she says, reaching for your folded clothes. You'd managed your pants on your own, but you couldn't untie the gown without your vision flashing white. "Anything you don't have to pull over your head. At least for the first two weeks."
"Noted," you say, "but I can—"
"Can you stop," she breathes, fingers bunched in your shirt, "being so goddamn stubborn?"
Her eyes are always mesmerizing when she's angry. They darken several impossible shades, turn into shards of glassy obsidian.
You drain the last of your tea, hand her the cup, and silently lean forward. Her exhaled breath hits the shell of your ear, low and desperately trying to stay controlled. You feel her finger hook into the messy bow at your back. Feel her tug it loose.
You peel the gown away. It's a scratchy, awful thing; you toss it further down the bed, quietly grateful as you turn back to Baran and take your bra from her.
"This could count as harassment, you know." You meet her eyes, hold the cups to your chest.
She only raises a brow.
It's enough to make you flush, your teeth grazing your bottom lip. Her hands are warm as they fasten your bra. The brush of her fingers nearly makes you shiver, but you hold it, force your shoulders back to keep the tingle from running down your spine.
And if goosebumps rise up on your flesh—well, the ED is cold. Your skin is sensitive. Baran's hands smell like sanitizer, harsh and clinical as she stretches out the collar of your shirt, helps you fit your head in. There's a brief flash of pain when you have to guide your arm through a sleeve, but it dissipates as you fully shrug the shirt on. You don't care to attribute it to the way her fingers linger on your abdomen, gently splayed over your side. They stay there even after you settle, fully clothed.
"Baran." You murmur, your heart kicking faster. Her head is ducked, eyes on your torso where her thumb draws circles.
"It will be…difficult to get around," she says, still looking down, "for a few days. The meds will only get you so far. You shouldn't overexert yourself."
"I won't."
"You could stay." The words are soft from her mouth, nearly mumbled. Baran doesn't mumble. "With me. Until it gets better."
She's looking at you now. You almost wish she isn't.
"Because that won't fuck with Karim's head."
Her lips thin.
"You're hurt."
"I can manage."
"Karim can stay with my parents. They won't mind, they never do—"
"And when do you get home, Baran?" You wonder.
She doesn't shy away from your eyes. "At least you'd have someone."
"I don't need someone." Your throat is unbearably scratchy. Your attempt at a laugh doesn't ease the ache—worsens it, actually, right where your pulse beats. "Jesus, you make it seem like I'm dying. I'll be fine."
Your conviction weakens with that last word, crumbling beneath Baran's gaze. Even years down the line, you could never quite get used to the intensity of it. She has warm, kind eyes—bottomless, all-consuming eyes; you've drowned in their depths, been warmed by their heat and burned from their fire.
Baran is unsmiling as she reaches for your face. She cradles your jaw in her hand—that rough, soft hand, antiseptic and long-washed lotion, cuticle oil rubbed around her short, clean nails, a freckle at the base of her wrist. Your breath hitches, comes out shaky through your nose.
You may be stubborn, but you're also unbearably weak. She's like a big, tender bruise imprinted onto your flesh. Just the press of a thumb—and you give, mouth open, gasping. It's been years, and the bruise hasn't healed. It hasn't shrunk. Sometimes you think it's only gotten bigger.
"Please." She says quietly.
Somewhere, beyond the curtains, you hear someone yell, "I need an attending!"
Relief and dread spread through you in equal measure.
You lean away from your ex-wife, tilt your head to the source of the sound. "That's you."
-
The med student comes back alone. You feel bad for not remembering her name.
"It's just a simple hairline fracture, so you won't be needing surgery or anything. Just ice it a few times a day for twenty minutes or so and make sure to rest, definitely don't lift anything heavy or do hardcore exercises."
You smile. "Got it."
She says a bunch of other things, only a few of which filter through. You thank her, pocket your prescription, and speed-walk out of the emergency room. You really almost make it, only three steps from the door when she calls your name.
And you, stupid you—you turn.
"Oh. Good," you blurt out before she can say anything. You take out her jar from your purse—emptied, the spoon rattling inside—and shove it into her hands. "Thanks for this, by the way. It was good. Didn't expect the chocolate."
"It balances out the acidity of the yogurt," she says, almost automatically as she takes the jar from you. It registers on her too late; she gives her head a small shake, a move that's, unfortunately, never stopped being endearing. "You have your prescription?"
"Yep," you answer, trying not to prickle. "We've got aspirin at home, so." You shrug, making room for a frazzled looking woman to pass through.
Baran nods. "Can I…" She pushes her shoulders back, the slightest bit. "Is it okay if I escort you out?"
You blink. "Sure," you say, too drained to argue.
She nods again. Holds the door open for you. You walk through, and despite your shallower breaths, you still smell the traces of coconut from her curl cream—the same one you'd lathered on your hands, raked through her hair when she'd be too tired to do it herself.
You rub a rough hand into your eyes, pressing hard enough to hurt, and make for the parking lot.
"Wait a minute—" Baran's shoes crunch on the gravel. "Did you drive?" She demands.
You let your hand fall. "Calling an ambulance seemed overkill." You say dryly.
Her face grows disbelieving. God, you wish she wouldn't do that, wish she'd stop caring, just stop it Baran, stop it, stop it, stop—
"I'll—"
"You'll what?" You murmur, pulling out your keys. "Take me home?"
She can't step out. You both know she can't.
"Call someone." She pleads. You can hear the underlying shake in her voice, you can feel it rattling your bones. She takes your hand, traps the car keys in your palm. "As your physician, I can't—Y/N, you shouldn't. You'll hurt yourself."
You let out a throbbing breath. Jesus, you just want it all to end. This day, this stupid distance between you that never seems to lessen, never seems to widen, never does anything but hurt. "There's no one to call, Baran," you say quietly. "I made it here, I can make it back."
She shakes her head. The sun catches in her curls, threads along her highlights and sets them on fire. You want them around your fingers. You want everything to go back to the way it was, but the closest you can do is say okay when she says she'll order you a car, because can you even say no? She's pulling the keys from your grip, her pleas warm against your face; she's saying azizam, azizam, come inside, I'll wait with you, and you feel your bones crumble and your resolve die and you do what you could never stop yourself from doing.
You follow her where she goes.
Hi, thank you so much for your support on my first Baran fic! If you liked this one, please consider leaving a comment or reblogging to lmk!! I'd love to know what you thought <3
summary: one night you listen to jazz, the next you save a life. Somewhere in between, Jack Abbot keeps watching you with quiet tenderness.
tags/warnings: female reader, no use of y/n, no physical description of reader, slow burn, subtle romance, hurt/comfort, medical trauma, pediatric patient, workplace tension, emotional intimacy, post-shift exhaustion, not proofread, let me know if I missed something.
authors note: based on this request. I may have taken the prompt in a slightly more melancholic direction. English isn’t my first language – hope you enjoy reading ♡
word count: 1.6k
Your best friend’s birthday celebration was starting in less than an hour.
A small jazz club downtown. Wine, dim lights, familiar laughter. Exactly what you needed after a shift like this.
Rushing wasn’t exactly typical of you, but you had to stay late for your shift. That meant doing your makeup and changing in the hospital bathroom. And now you were walking quickly toward the park benches near the hospital to tell your colleagues they would be drinking beer without you.
Light makeup accentuating your eyes, and a long pale blue coat wrapped around your figure.
It wasn’t clear who noticed you first. Only that, in the middle of noise and movement, Jack Abbot’s gaze found you – and stayed there, as if it had always known where to go.
Jack couldn’t even explain it himself. After twelve hours in scrubs, seeing you like this felt almost unreal. As if the night had returned something to you that the day kept taking away. You looked so human, so alive.
“And who is this beauty?” Princess exclaimed as you got closer.
You smiled, shaking your head. Feeling everyone’s eyes on you all at once made heat creep up your neck. Especially because one particular person seemed to be staring at you without blinking.
“Oh, come on, pretty girl," Princess said, pointing at the coat, "reveal your secrets.”
“Princess…” But she interrupted you.
“Come on! I know you've been in the bathroom for at least half an hour. I want to see the result.”
“Alright, alright.”
You hesitated only for a second. Then your fingers found the buttons. For a moment, it felt like everyone was holding their breath as they watched you. And when you finally opened the coat, it slipped slightly from your shoulders.
The mustard-colored fabric glowed warmly under the evening lights, elegant without trying too hard. Gray high boots reached the middle of your calves.
It shouldn’t have looked that good after a shift like yours. And yet it did.
For a moment Jack thought he had forgotten how to breathe.
“And you were hiding all this from us?” Princess said, staring at you in delight while someone nearby let out a whistle.
You laughed softly, a little embarrassed, before putting one foot forward and resting your hands on your hips like a model.
“Only the elite get access.”
Dr. Abbott couldn’t stop himself:
“And how exactly do I get into this elite club?”
You just shrugged, smiling meaningfully.
As you put your coat back on, your face suddenly became serious again. That’s how you always got when it came to important things.
"I'm working the night shift tomorrow. I hope you don't mind, Dr. Abbot?"
“You know I’ve been wanting you to join the Night Crawlers for a long time.” Jack smiled warmly. "Of course, I don't mind."
You gave him the same sincere smile. Then, as if waking from a pleasant dream, you hurried to say goodbye to everyone. Just a little more and you would have started running late.
Time, as it often did in this hospital, refused to behave properly. The night shift came without warning, as if it had been waiting in the hallway.
“Good evening. And what’s this lovely outfit we’re being graced with after your shift?”
Oh, you recognized that voice immediately. You turned around, a small smile already tugging at your lips.
“Good evening, Dr. Abbott. Today it’s just jeans and a hoodie. Nothing interesting.”
He gave you a theatrically disappointed look.
“What a shame,” he sighed softly. “I was hoping to admire you in a beautiful dress again.”
You laughed quietly.
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“It’s alright.” His gaze lingered on you for just a second longer before a faint smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. “I suppose twelve hours with you will make up for it, sweetheart.”
Then he winked.
God, what a flirt.
But before you could answer, a sharp voice cut through the corridor.
“Trauma incoming. Pediatric patient. ETA three minutes.”
The moment felt like it cracked in half. You rushed into the operating room side by side, the earlier warmth of your conversation dissolving instantly beneath fluorescent lights and sterile air. Nurses moved around you with practiced urgency. Someone tied the back of your surgical gown while you pulled gloves over trembling fingers.
Pediatric trauma. Eight years old. Internal bleeding after a car accident.
You tried not to think about the tiny sneakers abandoned near the operating table, about the terrified mother crying somewhere outside the OR.
“Focus,” Jack said quietly beside you. Not harsh. Grounding.
Your eyes darted toward the monitor – heart rate unstable, blood pressure dropping.
“Suction.”
Someone placed the instrument into your waiting hand. Then Jack held the scalpel out toward you. And your breath caught. There was no time to think, but you still allowed yourself a moment of doubt.
“You can handle it,” Jack said firmly.
For a second, your eyes widened behind your mask. Every instinct screamed at you not to hesitate. So, you took the scalpel. A deep breath. Your hands trembled only once before steadying under his guidance. Not because the surgery was simple – but because his voice made it feel survivable.
“Good,” Jack murmured quietly beside you. “That’s it.”
The monitor kept beeping. Nurses moved around you in a blur. Sweat gathered at the back of your neck beneath the surgical cap, but you kept going.
Minute after minute.
Stitch after stitch.
Until finally–
“He’s stable.”
Two words. That was all you needed to hear.
The breath left your lungs shakily, much louder than you intended, as the crushing weight on your shoulders finally loosened.
“My God,” Jack murmured beside you, voice rough with exhaustion and something dangerously close to awe. “Sweetheart… you were incredible.”
Before you could answer, he reached for your hands almost absent mindedly – still gloved, still trembling slightly from adrenaline – and pressed a kiss against each knuckle.
The gesture barely registered at first. Not after everything that had just happened. Not after saving a child’s life.
And yet warmth still rushed into your face beneath your surgical mask.
“Thank you,” you whispered softly, eyes still fixed on the child lying stable beneath bright surgical lights. “But we all did.”
The hospital eventually returned to its normal rhythm – but neither of you did.
You didn’t remember going up to the roof. Only the need for air, for something quieter than fluorescent light. He found you there, leaning against the railing and staring out at the city lights below. You were trying to breathe normally again, but your hands still trembled slightly from the adrenaline.
Jack leaned beside you, close enough that your arms almost brushing against the exhaustion you were both still carrying. He reached out without asking and pressed two fingers gently to the spot between your brows – right where tension always seemed to settle.
“You look wrecked,” he said quietly. As if stating a fact that didn’t require fixing.
A tired chuckle slipped from your lips as your eyes fluttered shut at the gesture.
“Not surprising,” you murmured. “I don’t even want to think about tonight yet.”
Silence settled between you for a moment, heavy but not uncomfortable. Somewhere below, ambulances still wailed through the city.
“You did well in there,” Jack said eventually. "Incredible actually."
You shook your head faintly.
“I was terrified.”
“Good,” he replied softly. “The ones who stop being scared are the ones I worry about.”
You stood there in silence for a while, looking out over the city lights. Somewhere below, sirens still echoed through the streets.
Deep down, both of you hoped this would be the worst case of the night. But there were still eleven hours left in the shift. And experience had taught you both not to trust quiet moments too much.
Jack stayed beside you, shoulder nearly brushing yours. Then, after a pause:
“How was last night?”
The sudden question caught you off guard. A small smile appeared on your face despite everything.
“Good,” you admitted softly. “Really good.”
Your fingers curled slightly around the cold railing.
“We listened to jazz all evening. I even danced with one of the musicians.”
Jack glanced at you.
“Took his number?”
You let out a quiet laugh and shook your head.
“No. It was just a dance.”
“Hm.”
The sound was low and thoughtful enough that you almost smiled wider. Almost.
It probably wasn’t quite right or professional. And yet you still found yourself thinking about it – about music, about warmth, about evenings that didn’t end in fluorescent lights.
“Do you want to go sometime?” you asked before you could overthink it. “I mean… listen to jazz.”
For a moment Jack looked genuinely surprised.
Then something softer settled in his expression. Not an answer yet – something quieter, like the idea of it had to arrive before the words did.
“Yeah,” he said finally, almost carefully. “I’d like that.”
The wind moved between you across the rooftop, brushing against the edges of exhaustion you were both still carrying.
Jack didn’t move at first. Then, as if it wasn’t a decision but something his body already knew how to do, he rested a hand on your shoulder.
Not firm. Not possessive. Just steady. A quiet weight, grounding you back into the moment.
He drew you a little closer without even noticing it himself – as if the space between you had simply become unnecessary. And you let it happen.
For a moment, with the city glowing below and the long night finally loosening its grip, even time seemed to forget its urgency.
Thanks for reading. I’d love to hear your feedback ♡
Credits of line dividers chrisssiren and omi-resources.
Do not copy this work.
summary : The PTMC hosts a charity auction, poker night. plus ones are invited, so dr. jack abbot takes his chances to bring you as his. (Inspired by the ep All In from house md)
warnings : fluff, tension, workplace dynamics, age-gap implied, no use of y/n, not really proofread, YEARNING!!, praise, gambling w poker, drinking, medical trauma mention, subtle angst, maybe a kiss oo
words: 5k
“Great. Just when I thought my day was ruined by a patient puking on me, it gets worse.”
Santos strolls over to your side where you’re busy typing up some charts.
You hit the spacebar once and look up at her. “What is it?”
She quirks an eyebrow. Not an unusual sight from her. “Did you not hear? The charity auction? Langdon said he’s going now.”
“The auction” you trail off, mind reaching back to try to remember if you heard anything. “What auction exactly?"
Your fellow resident plops down on a chair that emits an annoying squeak. “You know, the fundraising event. We all got invited. I heard there will be poker too, so that’s the only reason why I’m going.”
Whitaker passes by, in his own little world.
Santos snickers. “I’m gonna get him to bet everything.” She jabs a thumb in Whitaker’s direction.
Javadi chimes in, sounding as tired as she always does at the end of the day shift. “You’re evil.”
“I’m fun.”
You don’t recall seeing anything about this event, however. But you seldom checked your email, and you’re sure it’s somewhere buried in your overflowing digital inbox.
Sure enough, it is. You glance over the flyer that was emailed to you a few hours ago.
PTMC Charity Night
Auction
Poker
Dinner and Cocktail Bar
Formal Dress
Plus ones invited.
It’s tomorrow evening.
“Do I have to go?”
Santos shrugs. “Probably. Hopefully we’ll get more funding for this hellhole. We need more staff.”
Her phrase couldn’t be more perfectly timed.
“Santos! We need you in here,” Dr. Robby barks from across the Pitt.
“Duty calls,” you drawl.
She pops out of her chair with a groan, leaving you to analyze the flyer some more.
Formal dress? You don’t even own any dresses these days. And what would you do at an auction?
Maybe you’ll just join Santos and Whitaker at the poker tables. The thought of Whitaker taking home more than Santos makes you giggle to yourself.
“Are you going?” You turn to Joy. She rolls her eyes.
“Hell no. Those things are all politics. I have better things to do.”
You shrug. Maybe she’s right.
Out of the corner of your eye, Dr. Jack Abbot exits a trauma room and scans around.
You straighten your back instinctively, slipping your phone in your pocket, hands flying back to your keyboard. You were on a mission to prove yourself as a hardworking resident, and you needed to finish these charts before the night shift loads more on you.
The last thing you needed was to be pulled back in with another patient. You were tired, and your bed was calling your name.
Joy continues, ignorant to the fact that you’re furiously typing away on the computer.
“And who knows what they’re auctioning. Makes you wonder who’s gonna show up to buy that crap.”
“I’d like to find out.”
You turn at the sound of Dr. Abbot’s voice, closer than you expected. He looks to Joy, then to you. “Talking about the charity event?”
“I’m not going,” Joy mutters.
“I’m pretty sure it’s mandatory.” Abbot smirks. “You afraid of losing in a round of poker?”
Joy’s face contorts in disgust. “Whatever. My shift is over. Going home. Bye.”
Almost in unison, Abbot and you give each other that look. You stifle a laugh and he grimaces as Joy dramatically storms away.
Once she’s out of earshot, Dr Abbot takes a step closer to you. “She’s allergic to fun.”
You almost snort.
“I assume you’re going?”
Then you get the truth from him. “I’m pretty sure I have to be there. I don’t have a choice. Robby’d kill me if I didn’t show up.”
You nod in agreement. “Probably, he’s always looking for excuses for that.”
This gets a low chuckle out of Dr. Abbot.
Someone calls out an incoming patient, severe blood loss, missing foot.
Abbot takes a quick breath. “Sayonara.” And with that, he’s gone, leaving you to finish charts.
‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗
After another twenty minutes, you finally get to perform the glorious miracle of clicking the log out button.
You gather your items from your locker, and make your way towards the exit. You always liked leaving through the ambulance bay, thankfully only on rare occasions you had to go through the waiting area.
To your surprise, Dr. Abbot stands by the curb, both hands relaxed in his pockets. He’s not facing the doors, just looking out into the distant night sky, back turned against you.
You attempt to move past him quietly, but he hears the rustle of your coat against your backpack, and lowers his head and turns in your direction.
“Hey,” he says softly, seeing it’s you, facing you as you step away from the exit doors.
He’s glad you’re finally heading out. You always spend too long after your shift, but he never says anything. Never tells you to leave when it’s time. Part of him knows you’re trying to prove yourself, and part of him, well, though he’d never say it out loud, just likes your presence.
You’re sparkly, bubbly, smooth, everything he isn’t. You bring in just a little bit of the daytime into his night shift.
“Your patient okay?” You ask, legitimately concerned, because the last you remember, there was a commotion in triage, led by the attending himself.
He runs a weathered hand through his silver curls. “Yeah. He’s okay. Stable now and going up for surgery. I just needed some fresh air.”
“Ah, good to hear.” You grip the strap of your bag tighter.
He clears his throat, looking off to the distance, trying to find the right words. “So, uh, tomorrow night.”
“Mhmm?”
Abbot takes a step closer and his gaze lands back on you, his eyes glimmering from a streetlamp close by. “The invite says plus ones are invited. You can say no, but-”
He pauses. This could cross a line. Not a big one, not technically, but he doesn’t want to have to make things complicated. You’re a resident. He knows how it could look.
He almost drops it. Almost lets you walk past like nothing happened. But it’s too late and you’re giving him an inquisitive look, the same one he sees you do when you’re waiting for instructions on call.
“Will you come with me?”
You stammer before your brain catches up with your mouth. And your response even surprises yourself.
“Yeah! I mean, sure.” You look down at your feet before glancing up at him with a puzzled expression. “I’m already… invited though. You could find someone else to be your plus one…”
He shrugs his broad shoulders. “I know. I’m asking anyway.”
There’s confidence in his tone now. No deflection. Like he’s already made up his mind.
“Oh, okay, yeah, I can be your plus one,” you say back with a timid smile.
Abbot tilts his head, analyzing you for any doubts. “I’ll pick you up around six, that good?”
He wouldn’t push if you didn’t want this. That much is clear in the way he asks.
“Yeah, I’ll be ready then.” You fight the flush creeping up your face.
“Good.” He turns, already heading back inside. “Have a good night.”
‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗
You’ve never been more anxious about shopping. You stopped at maybe four, no, five stores before finding something that wasn’t too revealing. You didn’t mind showing a little extra skin, and the thought of standing close to Dr. Jack Abbot in an open back dress, leaving less to his imagination, did in fact tempt you.
That thought lingered more than you wanted it to.
Show some dignity, geez. He was maybe just being polite, helping you feel included.
No, that wasn’t it. He doesn’t do things just to be polite. Not like that. Not with you. You didn’t just bypass the social norms of an event for someone you felt casual about.
Your fingers wrap around the smooth, silky fabric of a long, black dress. You unhook it from the rack and hold it up against your figure. It’s in your size. The price tag flashes and you bite your lip. It was definitely more expensive than your budget in mind, but it was the first dress where the neckline didn’t drop below your sternum.
And more importantly, it feels like you. Or at least… a version of you, one you don’t let people see often.
You twirl around in the dressing room, admiring how well it fits every curve, every inch of your body. It had a tight bodice that held in your midsection, making your waist appear much smaller than it actually was, and fabric draped over one shoulder, purposely falling off the other shoulder, giving it a more sultry edge that even you couldn’t resist.
You shouldn’t like it this much. You shouldn’t be thinking about how the night shift’s attending physician’s eyes might sweep over you.
The employee helping customers agreed. “You look smokin’.” She had said when you stood in front of the mirror.
Damn it, this was the one.
You have to look away when the cashier rings you up.
Anything to give you a milligram of courage would be necessary. It was worth the sacrifice.
‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗
As you pull on your heels, there’s a loud three knocks at your door.
“Coming!” You yell, but you’re in the furthest room of your apartment. They probably couldn’t hear your voice.
One, no, two sprays of perfume. For good luck.
For him.
You take one last glance into the mirror, and blink when you almost don’t recognize yourself. You can’t remember the last time you looked this put together. You touch your necklace, a dainty chain with a small charm rests on your exposed collarbone. Your pulse thrums faster than normal where it sits against your skin.
The knocks come again. You nearly trip down the stairs rushing to get the door. With one ruffle of your hand, your hair falls neatly into place. It’s usually in some tight style, pulled away from your face, but tonight you let it free. Leaving in its natural state as much as possible.
You tug open the handle, and your heart immediately skips when you see him standing there.
Dr. Jack Abbot has nearly the same reaction that you do, and both of you stand there in silence, taking in each other’s new appearance.
He doesn’t hide it. Not even a little.
His hazel eyes drop and travel from your legs, slowly, deliberately, tracing every line, every curve, until they meet your face again. He takes you in like he’s memorizing every feature.
“You look amazing.”
It’s hard to stay calm under his darkened gaze. There’s something behind his usual demeanor that feels heavier, intentional. Hot.
Focused entirely on you. He can’t help it.
“You- look amazing too,” you stutter to return the compliment, a little dizzy under the weight of his attention.
He’s in a well pressed suit. He didn’t shave, thank goodness. You loved his scruff. His hair is more in place tonight. You catch the faint auburn still lingering beneath the silver. A sleek black tie sits at his neck.
It’s a bit crooked.
“Here, let me-” you say, stepping closer.
Reaching out your hands, you close the distance between, air filled with the scent of his woodsy cologne and of your cozy, vanilla perfume.
It’s warmer here. Close to his body.
He stills as you fix the tie into a straight line, letting you, too transfixed on your long lashes that frame your beautiful face. He cannot take his eyes off you.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare.
Wow.
Jack Abbot always knew you were pretty. Stunning even.
But now he was struggling to find air, especially when you let one hand smooth out the tie before you take a step back, toeing the line of intimacy and professionality.
“Dr. Abbot,” you say, waiting for him to take the lead.
“Shall we?”
He holds out his arm, allowing you to slip your arm in the crook of his elbow. As your arm slides in, he lowers down to your ear, his gravely voice nearly sending chills down your exposed spine.
“It’s Jack, for tonight.” He murmurs, closer than needed.
Then, he pulls back, a small, knowing look in his eyes, and guides you down the stairs to his car, supporting you in your delicate heels.
‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗
The hospital floor just above the emergency room has been transformed into a moody party venue. They host it here, since technically all the doctors and nurses are still on call downstairs, allowing anyone to hurry away to a patient if needed.
Abbot helps you out of the car, holding out his large hand, taking yours in it, guiding you out of the door.
“Thank you,” you say quietly, unaccustomed to this level of chivalry.
His head ducks. “Of course.” As you both take a step forward, you feel the warmth of his palm against your lower back, a gentle guide as you make your way to the entrance.
It’s noisy, but not overwhelming inside. Soft jazz music drifts out of speakers. There’s the clacking of chips at a few tables. Everyone else is dressed up as much as you were. Dana’s wrapped in a light blue dress. Santos sports slacks and a button down shirt. Whitaker’s tie is already discarded as he’s hunched over the poker tables.
“Let’s grab some drinks, shall we?” Jack says, pointing to the cocktail bar.
Admittedly, you’ve already had a tall glass of wine at home while you were getting ready for tonight. You’re not ready to admit why you were so on edge, but any extra drinks would be welcome.
“Sure, let’s do it.” You grin at him, giving him permission to lead the way.
Mckay walks by in a green gown, and stops, jaw going slack.
“Are you guys…” she trails off, unsure of what to even say, “together?”
Jack’s hand is still pressed to the small of your back and he sidesteps into the space between you. “She’s my plus one tonight.”
Mckay’s eyes go wide. “Oh- okay… didn’t know this was happening,” she says, then hurries off.
You glance up at Jack, biting your lip out of embarrassment. But all he gives back is a confident smirk.
He’s just happy you’re here.
Dr. Robby is hovering by the cocktail bar, making light conversation with unfamiliar hospital staff. He does a near double take when he spots the two of you, catching him mid-sentence.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” He raises a whiskey glass in your direction.
“Nice tie,” you interject, already feeling warmer than what’s a comfortable level for you.
Robby reflexes and touches his bright purple tie. It tells you that maybe it’s the only one he owns now. “Why thank you, but you didn’t answer my question.”
Jack interrupts to your rescue. “The invite said plus ones were welcome. Thought I would bring one,” he says casually.
“Ah.” There’s a mischievous glint in Robby’s crinkled expression, but he doesn’t push anymore. Figures it's about time that Jack gets some action.
It’s been ages since he’s actually entertained the thought of a date. If that’s what one could call this interaction. It’s a date, right? He asked you out.
Between exhausting night shifts and fun extracurriculars like being on call for SWAT, there just isn’t a lot of time to go out there and pursue anything romantic. Sure, he might have participated in flirty conversation at the bar, but work was his new responsibility. It never went anywhere.
The relationships around him sustained him plenty. And perhaps a newcomer on the day shift a few months ago motivated him even more to stay “off the market”. He didn’t see her much, but always tried to find opportunities to slip her into procedures when the night shift came in to take over.
And a charity night, plus ones invited… it was an easy excuse. To finally ask out someone he’s had his fancy on for far too long.
As you near the bar, the woman behind perks up. “Hiya! What can I get for ya?”
“I’ll take an aperol spritz.” You’re hoping it might cool you down slightly.
She nods and turns to Jack. “And for you, sir?”
“A Manhattan, please.”
You watch as she begins to mix the drinks behind the counter before your hair is being swept off your shoulder. You glance over, and watch as Jack’s hand lowers.
He gives that all-too-familiar half-smile. “Sorry, just wanted to see the necklace you have on.”
Your chest tightens. For a split second, you expect eyes on you, questions, and unwanted attention. But there’s nothing. Just background chatter and laughter, like the rest of the room exists in a completely different world.
“Oh. It’s from my mom. She gave it to me before I started med school. It’s just been my good luck charm since.”
He’s not looking at the necklace. Instead his quiet attention rests on your lips, listening to you as you explain the significance of the pendant.
“Here you go!” The bartender places the drinks on the counter, and you eagerly take a sip.
“How is it?” Jack says after taking a sip of his own.
“It's good, wanna try?” You hold the glass up to him.
His finger tips brush your hand for a half second while you pass him the spritz, taking a sip directly in the spot where your lipstick stains the rim.
You wonder what he would look like with lipstick stains on his freckled cheeks, against his greying temple, down his rosy neck.
“Um, how about we go play some poker?” You breathe, trying to wipe your mind of wherever it was deciding to go just now.
He hums. “Sure, let's do it, you feeling lucky, sweetheart?”
It shouldn’t affect you… “sweatheart”... but your chest tightens at the sound.
You loop your arm into his again, your hand resting gently on top of his bicep with a newfound excitement. “I’m feeling extra lucky tonight.”
‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗
The table is already half full when you get there. Santos’s eyes dart around suspiciously, cards snapping between her fingers. Whitaker leans back in his chair like he owns the place, chips stacked high in front of him. Javadi sits quieter, observant, eyes flicking between players like she’s cataloging tells. Al-Hashimi barely looks up, only to take a sip of her nearby drink.
Santos glances up first. “Well, look who finally decided to join us.”
Whitaker sports a tight smile. “Abbot brought backup? That’s dangerous.”
Jack pulls out a chair for you. “Try not to scare her off in the first round.”
You sit, smoothing your dress slightly. “I can handle myself,” you hum.
“Good,” Perlah quips, sliding a stack of chips toward you. “Buy-in’s the same.”
The first few hands move around quickly. You play it safe… at first, watching. Santos likes to push early. Whitaker overcommits when he’s ahead. Javadi folds more than she should, she’s probably never played poker before in her life. Perlah is definitely too experienced.
Jack sits close by, his presence looming over the table. He seems relaxed in a way you haven’t seen in a while… ever, actually. You only ever see him as an attending, nothing else.
“Fold,” Whitaker mutters, tossing cards down.
Santos smirks. “You’ve been folding all night.”
He groans. “It’s a strategy.”
“Maybe he’s just afraid,” Al-Hashimi whispers loudly. The table joins in laugher.
You hide your own smile, glancing at your own cards. Not the best hand, but something you could work with.
Jack leans slightly, hushed voice only you can hear. “Don’t chase the hand. Let them make mistakes first.”
Your eyes flick to him. “You always this helpful?”
“Only when it benefits me.”
You peer at him with squinted lids, and the round continues. You follow Jack’s advice and low and behold, you take a small pot off Santos, then Whitaker. This gets everyone’s attention.
Santos sucks in a breath. “Beginner’s luck.”
You shrug. “Or maybe you’re predictable.”
Whitaker lets out a short laugh. “Oh, this is good.”
Jack doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to, he’s content with you getting the glory.
Another round. Stakes climb and the chips stack higher. A few players drop out in frustrated huffs and signs and the table narrows down.
Now it’s you, Jack, and Perlah across the table, her expression unreadable as always but her fingers tapping lightly against her stack.
“You’re awfully quiet,” she says, eyes flicking between you and Jack.
Jack leans back slightly letting his arms stretch out. “Just enjoying the game.” As he shifts back into the chair, his knee brushes yours under the table, toe of his shoe connecting with yours.
You go still, not sure if you should move. He doesn’t. Maybe he doesn’t realize.
Your heart races as his leg pushes closer into yours.
Okay. It was intentional.
You glance at your cards, wanting to shift your focus away from the slightly distracting connection happening under the table. Strong hand this time. You keep your expression neutral, pushing a few chips forward.
Perlah watches both of you carefully. “Interesting.”
The pot grows. One more round and you’re ready to push it.
You’re just about to go all in, when there’s a page on the overhead speakers.
“Code trauma to the ER. Incoming in two. All available hands, respond”
Jack’s gaze darts to yours. You meet his hazel stare, a knowing look.
“I should go,” he says, rising from the poker table.
Without thinking twice, you pop up to your feet too. “I’ll come.”
He waves a hand. “No need, I can grab someone else.”
But he doesn’t protest when your heels click right behind you, downstairs to the chaos of the ER.
“You probably just saved me from losing everything,” you mumble.
He chuckles. “I think you had it. Perlah was totally bluffing.”
The second the stairwell door swings open, you’re snapped back into work-mode. The beeping machines and humming devices replace the low music upstairs. It’s colder, and the permanent scent of blood and alcohol hangs in the air.
By the time your heels hit the floor, you’re already rushing to a gurney at the other end.
Voices overlap and you tune in quickly, every fiber of your body tensing for the incoming action.
“Blunt force trauma, possible internal bleed- BP dropping- ”
“Let’s move, let’s move.”
Jack, now Dr. Abbot disappears from your side to take his place at the head of the bed.
A nurse taps your shoulders, holding out loose paper scrubs for you to slip on over your dress. It’s somewhat hard to move around, but you manage to stay nimble.
“Do we have a FAST yet?” you ask the nurse, sharper than you expect.
She hesitates. “Not yet-”
“We should. If that pressure keeps dropping, we’re missing something.”
Jack’s eyes flick up at you, appreciative that you can switch into Pitt-mode at the drop of a dime.
As if the lines of passion and professionalism couldn’t blur even more, somehow you’re even more attractive to him as you put on the blue gloves.
“Get ultrasound,” he says immediately. “Now.”
You’re already reaching for the device that’s nearby. More voices call out.
“Pressure’s tanking!”
“Hang another unit!”
But before you use the ultrasound, you lean in, scanning the patient with your bare eyes noticing the subtle asymmetry in the abdomen, just barely noticeable to the trained physician.
“Left side’s distended,” you cut in. “That’s not right.”
The room shifts in unison and different orders are called out. People are moving faster around, but with more intention.
Between motions and commands, Jack’s eyes find you, assessing, checking in.
Making sure you’re good.
Of course you are. His plus one isn’t just anyone. You’re just as capable as the other residents.
This is different. Seeing you in this light, it feels familiar yet so foreign. You’ve clipped your hair back but loose strands still fall in front of your face. Softened. Almost careless. And the dress that exposes just enough to catch a glimpse of your shoulder blades, even with the paper scrubs slung over.
He fights hard to stay focused. Thank goodness for all his SWAT days. Bullets ringing out and your formal outfit are totally like the same thing.
The ultrasound is in place within seconds. Someone calls out findings, and it aligns with what you saw. A nurse pivots immediately, adjusting the line of treatment. Another starts prepping blood.
Dr. Abbot nods once. “Good work.”
There’s a brief lull as the patient is stabilized enough to move once the IV drip hits their veins.
“Prep for OR,” he says confidently.
You take a step back as a team wheels the patient out of the room, leaving just you and the night attending there. Although your hands remain steady by your side, hands stained with the faintest of the patient’s blood, your adrenaline is far from tapering down.
It’s just like another day in the Pitt. Only it’s quieter because of the event upstairs, and you’re in an open back dress, heels that you’re now dying to peel off, and Dr. Abbot, chest heaving slowly as he works his own nerves down.
He drags off the paper scrubs he was wearing and tosses them into the trash, revealing a creasing black suit underneath.
Jack grins.
“Wanna go back?”
You blink as he circles the room, watching you with a new intensity. He places his hand on your exposed shoulder.
You lift your chin slightly, taking in his always-calm features. Despite chaos, he was always anchored. The adrenaline in your veins switches into a warmth that pools below your gut.
“Maybe…”
He chuckles, his thumb brushing slow and absentmindedly over your arm. “...how about the roof?”
You shrug. “Let’s do it, as long as we can grab another drink on the way without anyone catching us sneaking off.”
Jack moves his hand and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger there a beat too long.
“I like the way you think,” he says quieter with an intimate grittiness
Your breath stutters, and you’re not quite sure what you’re feeling anymore as he leads you out of the ER.
‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗
You nurse the drink in your hands, closing your eyes as a breeze pushes past the roof.
“This is so much better.”
The evening sky glitters with city lights, cars buzzing quietly below.
It’s quiet, just you and Jack, perched against the railing on the top of the PTMC.
He stands to your left, unmoving, enjoying the silence away from the drama of the event and the chaos of the ER.
There’s only a few inches of space between your arms, and you’re much too afraid to close that distance.
What it would mean for you and him.
You’re confused at what this all means. To Jack Abbot.
“Um,” you say, opening your eyes, but keeping them focused on the horizon. “Why did you ask me to be your plus one?”
Jack’s body shifts as he stands a little taller, pushing himself up with his hands against the rail.
“You didn’t have to invite me, I was probably going to come anyways-”
“-I know,” he cuts you off.
You shake your head. “So then, why?”
Jack’s head dips down. “Would you let me answer?”
“Sorry.”
You hear the rustling of fabric as Jack slides his blazer off, then wraps it around your shoulders.
His leftover warmth settles around your back. You didn’t even realize you were cold till it chases away the goosebumps on your arms and neck.
He doesn’t move away now. And you try to ignore the fact that he’s left one arm around you.
“Look at me,” he says.
You do.
His smile is warm.
“Because I wanted to.”
You just nod.
Like you can’t even accept this. That your attending would ask you out, make a grand appearance with you at his side, even pick you up at your door and escort you like a true gentleman.
No words come out of your mouth, you just open, and close it once.
“Is that not enough?” He asks, still locked onto you.
“It’s just, well, I didn’t expect it. I feel like I hardly know you, outside of work,” the words tumble before you can stop them, tripping over each other. “I mean- you’re my attending, well an attending, and what will people think, it’s like-”
His brows raise quickly. “Hey. It’s just a date. I’m not asking you to marry me…”
You breathe, and relax a little. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”
Jack can’t help but love this side of you. Flustered, but here. Not shutting it away. Just… trying to make sense of it all.
He knows you’re thinking too far ahead. You always do. You’re always two steps ahead at work, how could he expect your personal life to be any different.
His thumb shifts slightly against your arm.
“You think a lot,” he grumbles quietly.
You let out a small shaky laugh. “Yeah. Occupational hazard.”
“Not right now.”
Your brows knit just slightly. “What does that mean?”
He moves closer. The space between you disappears almost imperceptibly. The noise in your head begins to iron out.
“It means,” he says, “you don’t need to figure this out tonight.”
It feels impossible to do that. “Then what do I do?” you ask, voice hushed, almost like you’re asking yourself and not him.
His hazel gaze doesn’t leave.
“Just be here. With me.”
The smile that creeps into his cheeks is quick and small but very real.
Your breath catches slightly, but you don’t look away.
And Jack, he notices.
The way you haven’t stepped back. The way your hand, almost unconsciously, tightens in the fabric of his blazer around your shoulders.
“You’re not as hard to read as you think.”
“Oh?”
“No.” His voice softens, but it doesn’t lose that edge. “You like me.”
Your breath stutters, and this time you don’t even try to hide it.
“Jack-”
“It’s okay,” he cuts in gently, noticing your face falling as his lights up. “I like you too.”
You swallow, your voice quieter now. “You barely know me.”
“I know you enough.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying you like a patient being diagnosed. “I know you don’t hesitate under pressure. I know you don’t try to impress people, which is rare in this place. You’re more stable than most of the ER.”
His hand moves, brushing lightly against your jaw, slow, like he’s giving you time to pull away if you want to.
You don’t.
“And I know I want to know more.”
“Is that a good idea?” you whisper.
A quiet exhale. He blinks. Actually considers your question.
“Probably not.”
Surely he’s drunk. Surely you’ve had too much to drink, but you count the cocktails in your head and there’s not enough combined between you two to make either of you unaware of what’s happening right now.
“But I don’t really care.”
And that’s when he leans in. He hovers , close enough that you feel his breath, whiskey tickling your lips, giving you one last chance to decide.
Without thinking, you move in. His lips meet yours, just holding there for a moment as he takes in the surprise that you kissed him first. Your hand finds the shirt fabric against his chest and you tighten it into a fist, pulling him closer to you.
Jack chooses this moment to deepen it, moving slowly against your mouth, tongue rolling along the edge of your lips. His hand is firm at your jaw now, keeping you there as if you might pull away.
You can’t. He’s kissing you too slowly, too passionately for you to even think about stopping anytime soon.
Just as your arms move up and around his shoulders, he pulls back, darkened eyes looking at yours once before he straightens.
No, come back.
“I meant what I said,” his voice smokey from the kiss, bumping his forehead gently against yours affectionately. “I want to see you more.”
Your heart is racing. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” The left corner of his mouth lifts in his crooked smile. “If that’s okay with you.”
“Yeah,” you say. “That’s… definitely okay with me.”
“Good.”
His hand snakes around your waist before he leans in again, the kiss feeling more real this time.
Jack Abbot is finally done holding back.
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