"But AI can't do your job. It can help you do your job, but that doesn't mean it's going to save anyone money. Take radiology: there's some evidence that AIs can sometimes identify solid-mass tumors that some radiologists miss, and look, I've got cancer. Thankfully, it's very treatable, but I've got an interest in radiology being as reliable and accurate as possible.
If my Kaiser hospital bought some AI radiology tools and told its radiologists: "Hey folks, here's the deal. Today, you're processing about 100 x-rays per day. From now on, we're going to get an instantaneous second opinion from the AI, and if the AI thinks you've missed a tumor, we want you to go back and have another look, even if that means you're only processing 98 x-rays per day. That's fine, we just care about finding all those tumors."
If that's what they said, I'd be delighted. But no one is investing hundreds of billions in AI companies because they think AI will make radiology more expensive, not even if that also makes radiology more accurate. The market's bet on AI is that an AI salesman will visit the CEO of Kaiser and make this pitch: "Look, you fire 9/10s of your radiologists, saving $20m/year, you give us $10m/year, and you net $10m/year, and the remaining radiologists' job will be to oversee the diagnoses the AI makes at superhuman speed, and somehow remain vigilant as they do so, despite the fact that the AI is usually right, except when it's catastrophically wrong.
"And if the AI misses a tumor, this will be the human radiologist's fault, because they are the 'human in the loop.' It's their signature on the diagnosis."
This is a reverse centaur, and it's a specific kind of reverse-centaur: it's what Dan Davies calls an "accountability sink." The radiologist's job isn't really to oversee the AI's work, it's to take the blame for the AI's mistakes.
This is another key to understanding – and thus deflating – the AI bubble. The AI can't do your job, but an AI salesman can convince your boss to fire you and replace you with an AI that can't do your job. This is key because it helps us build the kinds of coalitions that will be successful in the fight against the AI bubble."
- Cory Doctorow, The Reverse Centaur’s Guide to Criticizing AI
shawn is more than the sum of his parts but damn those parts are just so delicious for me to mentally dine on…but no seriously….i absolutely adore the artist that you are 🧵😍😘😵💫🤤🥵🫠🔥🎭☝🏻👏🏻🙌🏻👌🏻🤌🏻🫶🏻
✨shawn hatosy at the meryl streep center for performing artists on august 3, 2026 in LA, california
✨sag-aftra foundation conversations presents building a character from scratch with 2026 emmy nominees
in which jack abbot had a rough shift, and accidentally takes it out on his sweet girlfriend.
warnings; mean!jack for literally 2 seconds, mentions of bad past relationships, reader has low self-esteem kinda
a/n; the 1k follower special is finally here!! i really hope u guys enjoy this!! <3<3
word count; 1.3k
masterlist
A bead of sweat dropped down your temple, as you hauled a handful of grocery bags into the kitchen, spotting Jack in the living room, pulling off his scrub top.
”Oh hi, honey!” You smiled, dropping the groceries on the table. Jack filling in for Robby this week meant that you could actually spend evenings together, sometimes.
He murmured a non-committal ’hello’ back, which you brushed off to him just being exhausted. You knew being a doctor was a physically and mentally taxing job. Quietly humming under your breath, you put the groceries away, turning the oven on so you could start prepping dinner.
By then, Jack had swapped into more comfortable clothes, his prosthesis now pulled off and stood upright against the side of the couch. You brought over a water bottle for him, pressing a quick kiss to his jaw.
”Dinner won’t take long. Maybe like thirty minutes.” You spoke softly, tidying up some discarded clothes from the living room, while Jack turned the TV on. He was quiet, but that didn’t bother you.
Sometimes after long shifts he was just tired. But you knew he was listening, and you didn’t mind filling in the silence.
You rambled on about what you did and saw during the day, twisting off to a five-minute drabble of a cute stray cat you saw. Jack loved listening to your rambles, since his job didn’t give him much time to be on his phone, he liked the daily debriefs he got from you after work.
”Oh— and honey, could you take a look at the dryer later? It’s making that weird clunking noise again. And the bathroom sink-”
”Jesus! Can you just let me be for one goddamn second?” Jack snapped out of nowhere, making your spine go rigid. His jaw was tight grit, and his hands were flying around, as if to emphasize his point.
Your eyes caught his, and you could see the angry look fade instantly. He never snapped. Hell, he never got angry. Not at you.
The laundry in your hands was forgotten now, and you had that awkward, forced smile on your face. He’s just having a bad day— he didn’t mean to take it out on you. Don’t cry.
”Yeah— sorry.” You cleared your throat awkwardly, dropping the laundry on the couch, wiping your hands on your thighs, ”Uh, I can just…I’ll call someone about the dryer. It’s fine.”
”Shit, sweetheart. I’m sorry—” Jack’s words died in his throat, as he watched you walk into the kitchen. He knew you inside out, and he knew damn well he practically just stuck a dagger into your heart.
It’s not your fault he’s having a bad day. He’s being unfair— he knows that. He’s just exhausted. With a long sigh, he buries his head in his hands. He needs to cool off for a second.
Meanwhile, you’re in the kitchen, eyes burning from the tears you’re holding back. You hadn’t meant to be an inconvenience. The dryer has just been bugging you for a while, and Jack always tells you to go to him when you have any problems.
Maybe you didn’t read the room. Maybe you ask too much? Your brain ran over every possible reasoning, but every single thing came with the conclusion that you’re asking for too much, being too needy.
Jack knew you were beating yourself up. He remembers that night, when you two laid in silence, and you unloaded some of your burdens on him. How in past relationships you were made to feel like an inconvenience. From that day onward, Jack wanted to make sure he’d never make you feel that way.
And he messed up royally. There you were, still prepping dinner for him, even when your sniffles echoed in the kitchen. God, he was just the worst boyfriend ever. You do so much for him, and he takes out his frustrations on you? If his mother was here, she’d smack him.
You were asking for so little, he knows that. It’s rare of you to even ask him for anything, but now you did, and he just snapped at you like a dick. He wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to poison him. Though, he knows you’re not like that.
After cooling off for a little, Jack grabbed his crutches and hoisted himself off the couch with a groan, slowly padding his way to the kitchen doorway, where we watched you for a while. The tight set of your shoulders as you chopped vegetables, the small sniffles escaping you. Even the way your hand would occasionally lift to swip over your cheeks.
“Sweetheart, stop that.” He spoke in a low rumble, walking up behind you. One crutch abandoned, so that he could wrap an arm around your waist, pulling you to his chest. His lips pressed onto the crown of your head, “You shouldn’t be cooking. I should be doing everything. I’m sorry I snapped.”
“It’s fine, Jack-” You started, but he shook his head, hand coming up to ease the knifee out of your grip.
Once the knife was set down, he gently covered your hand with his. “No, it’s not fine. I had a shit day at work, and I took it out on you. And that’s not fine. Not in any possible way. You did nothing wrong, it was all me.”
He could tell you were about to argue again, so he swiveled you around, his hand moving to grasp your jaw, “Don’t. I know you’re about to say ‘it’s fine’ again, but it’s not. I was a dick. I’m gonna make it up to you.”
Watching your sad eyes, he thumbed away the remains of tears off of your cheeks, eyes softening at the look on your face. God, he’s the worst.
And Jack knew you’d still forgive him immediately, but he won’t stop apologizing. He once vowed to never be the guy who makes you feel small, and he’d went and did that anyways.
“Tomorrow’s my day off. I’m fixing the dryer. The sink. Then, I’m taking my girl out.” He pressed a soft kiss to your lips, “We’ll go to the bookstore. Your favorite coffee place. Anything you want.”
“Jack, that isn’t necessary-”
His hand pressed over your mouth. “Ah-ah. There’s no talking your way out of this, sweetheart. I was a jerk, and I’m damn well going to make it up to you. I’m sorry I snapped at you. It wasn’t fair of me at all.”
The tension in your shoulders slowly eased, heart warming at the care and attention he pays to you. Not one person in your life would go this far just to apologize. But Jack would. He’d walk through fire for you. If you’re cold, he’ll gladly crank up the heating, even if he’s overheating. He’ll get up early to make breakfast, just so you can sleep a little longer.
Every single thing he does for you is a testimony of his love.
“There she is.” He whispered softly, a small smile quirking up his lips, as he watched you slowly return to your normal self. He let his hand slide down to rest on your hip, gently patting it, “How about you sit down, sweetheart? Let me finish dinner. Then we’ll cuddle on the couch and I feed you, yeah?”
And well, you knew there was no arguing with him. So you gave him a meek nod, moving to sit down at the table, not before handing Jack a stool though, so he didn’t need to cook one-handed.
Usually, you feel bad whenever you let him do stuff. His work is draining as it is, so you tend to avoid having him do stuff around the house as much as possible– if you can do it yourself.
Jack, of course, knew that you were bound to start feeling bad. So instead, he kept distracting you with his words, asking you to elaborate on your activities for the day.
Dinner went smooth. You two cuddled together on the couch, with Jack feeding you bites of food, while letting you have full control over the remote. You could watch exactly what you wanted to, tonight is all about you.
And the morning after, when you were doing laundry early in the morning, the weird sound coming from the dryer was gone.
today sucked and i’m stressed about money and i’m overwhelmed and i’m angry and i’m about to start my period so my adderall isn’t working as well and it’s almost midnight and i feel like screaming or just something to release the energy building up in my body and i know i should just go to bed but i don’t want to and just ugh
"Farmers are 3.5 times more likely to die by suicide than the general population."
Do you think when he sensed what was going on he felt like a kid again? When some financial crisis would hit his familys farm and his dad would get the same far off look in his eye with the same hallow words.
The way all the 2020s have done so far have been making me categorically against every new generation of tech that comes out is insane. Like I'm from a technological boom generation, saw the first portable phones, nokias & blackberries & flipphones etc, and the first smartphones, and the first ipods & ipads & tablets in general while still having cassettes & DVD & MP3 players around so I know how all of it work, I had computer classes in high school, I did the transition between home desktop computers to laptops and back to gaming computers. But then they started to put internet in your printer & microwave, everything has ads & AI now and every update is worst than the last. I literally loved technology and they ruined it
i'm sorry the demonization of robby (esp on pittok) is actually starting to get both decently concerning and annoying. it's literally all i'm seeing with discussions in regards to his character. saw someone refer to him on here as "the devil himself" in a post that had 20k notes. commentary like this was funny at first, when it felt silly and unserious, but a lot of you are not joking. and that is weird. because why is this how you guys treat the mentally ill representation all of tumblr is constantly complaining they want? you finally have it. too real? too unsavory? that's literally the whole point of his character. to give a nuanced and unflinching portrayal of depression, suicidal ideation, unresolved trauma, and work related burnout that many healthcare workers experience. robby might not be real, but these vitriolic and insensitive things you say about him will impact real people who see themselves in him. not to be too extra but maybe this is why male suicide rates are so high. because this is how you guys treat and speak about men who are actively struggling.
some people are purposely witholding empathy for his character and being so critical of his actions specifically because he's a man, and that shit is really weird. and can i say it? he's not a misogynist. i'm not gonna talk too much about that even though i could write a whole thinkpiece if sufficiently prompted. just know arguing with a woman and being a little mean to them does not at all translate to misogynoir. that's just him being off-kilter and in a shitty mood (you know, because he's actively suicidal? but yeah let's just all ignore that part). in fact, if i can participate in the woke olympics for a second i think people who are labeling robby as as misognyist fit that bill much more themselves. so many people i see making this argument boil down characters like al-hashimi and mohan to the fact that they are just women instead of grown ass adults who are strong and capable of bumping heads with robby (and this is coming from someone who strongly disliked his treatment of mohan in s2).
robby is not the big bad wolf. you give him too much credit. these women are not weak-willed flowers who will crumble at the slightest bit of conflict. funnily enough, that trend of thought is super contrarian because it makes gender their sole defining trait in the discussion of their character. it also paints them as weak victims. this argument does not have a single leg to stand on without benevolent sexism and gender based subjugation. did we watch the same show? because i saw 2 adults. who had an argument. there's no need to cry hatecrime. and i say this as someone who is so avidly feminist. we gotta stop throwing that term around. the way you guys talk about him makes him sound so cartoonishly evil you'd think he was running around the ER shaking kids down for candy or something. it'd be funny if it wasn't so disapointing.
you don't have to like him personally to watch the show (though i do think it's a bit odd not to, given he's the main character) but refusing to acknowledge the percieved complexities of his character in the "everybody is complex" show is weird. my opinion? robby is not a bad person. hell, he's not even morally complex. i see someone who has made mistakes, just like everyone else on planet earth. he's a good, genuine guy who has been ravaged by mental illness. he is just very, very lost. that's the point. that is what mental illness can do to you. he is not a perfect person, in fact, at many points during my viewing of s2 i sort of hated him. but i will always defend him, because he is not this malicious figure the narrative online is painting him as. the pitt fandom only has this attitude for him and quite literally nobody else.
also, i heard noah wyle is getting hate for the fictional character he plays on a fictional show and all i have to say is, you guys are so fucking weird and parasocial. please touch some grass. micheal robinavitch is not a real person. he cannot hurt you.
(edit: oh wow hi everyone. uh sorry if this was not as articulate as i wanted it to be. everyone in the tags is making such good points, i would probably end up adding 10 more paragraphs if i addressed all of them the way i want to. anyways, it's good to know there are like-minded people :P)
more perv!pope cody because u freaks seem to enjoy it (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) 18+
pope cody who would invite you to go to the gym with him because in his words 'there's freak who are going to stare at you. wouldn't want anything to happen to you.'' the only freak really being him who was obsessed with how you looked when you were sweating and tired. his teeth would clench so hard at the sight of you in your tight work out clothes, a pretty matching pink set that hugged you so well. he couldn't help but glance over at the sight of you in the passenger seat as you rode to the gym together. he swears he could see the outline of your cunt in the tight spandex. you did that on purpose.
his workout was going horrible, yours seemed to be going great though. he would catch himself staring at you as he lifted, watching the way your tits would bounce as you ran on the treadmill. god all he wanted to do was lick the sweat off of you. he had to go back to pretending to lift as you stopped your run, making your way over to him. "andrew, can you help me lift?" you would ask, slightly out of breath as you smiled down at him to where he sat on the bench. he couldn't say anything, just nodded quickly moving to let you replace his spot on the bench.
it was the perfect angle. you laying flat on your back with the bar just above your chest. your tits looked like they were about to suffocate you. he could hold them out of the way if you asked nicely enough. pope stood up by your head, staring down at you. perfect angle to fuck your throat and cum all over your chest. he watched as your shaky arms began to press, his own hands hovering lightly to make sure he was there to catch the bar if it dropped. he knew he was hard, he knew you could tell, and he didn't have a care in the world. his dick was so close to your head that if you sat up you were sure to get hit in the face.
it wasn't till you had asked him to stand behind you as you squatted that he felt like he could cum then and there. you were definitely doing this on purpose. if you wanted him to fuck, why wouldn't you just ask? he stood only inches behind you, hands hovering over your hips and eyes staring straight at your ass. everything was too much for him. the way you had a sheen of sweat covering your body, the smell of you filling his nose, and the way your ass was centimeters from brushing his dick. he'd take you right here if the gym wasn't full. not that he cared, he just didn't want anyone to see you like that. you had finally given up, racking the bar back up. you hadn't even realized he was still right behind you, stumbling back into him a little bit. that was the tip of the ice berg for him, a small groan leaving his lips as your ass pressed right to his crotch, his hands flying to grip your hips tightly.
you waited a moment, knowing exactly what had just happened. you turned slowly to look down at his now unhard dick before back up to his face. "did you just cum?" you mumbled, an eyebrow raised at him. all he could do was clear his throat, cheeks slightly red as he scratched at the back of his neck. "how pathetic," you snickered, turning to walk towards where your water bottle sat, leaving him there. you definitely only accepted his invitation to the gym to humiliate him.
“your tits looked like they were about to suffocate you. he could hold them out of the way if you asked nicely enough.” had me chuckling 🤭
but “you definitely only accepted his invitation to the gym to humiliate him.” had me SCREECHING 😩
love me some pathetic!perv!pope!!!!!!!! man is SO embarrassed and ashamed of what just happened, the additional element of you knowing immediately what happened just adds to it. but god if he isn’t even more turned on now, already half-hard after watching you walk away 👀☠️
After a fight with your roommates you need a break, instead of finding Dennis at the house he’d been house sitting, you find the man himself Dr Robby. His trip was cut short and it might have more to do with you than you’d think. [michael ‘robby’ robinavitch x intern!reader]
✧── ･ ｡ﾟ★: *.✦ .* :★. ──✧
Warnings: age-gap, probably ooc, fluffy, jealousy if you squint, my first fic for The Pitt
Word count: 2.4k
✧── ･ ｡ﾟ★: *.✦ .* :★. ──✧
It was late, and it was dark, and you were feeling stupid and emotional in the way you always seemed to after a big fight. The breakup between your roommates had lasted for weeks, and they kept dragging you into fights like a child in a divorce. You needed air.
The car crunched across the asphalt as you pulled out of the parking lot, you didn’t have a destination at first, just aimlessly driving and fighting back the frustration. You considered the hospital, just to take a breather in the ER car park for an hour, maybe head to the diner a few blocks down for some bad pancakes and an even worse milkshake.
The idea hit you like a terrible light bulb. Dennis Whitaker, your friend from work, was house-sitting for Dr Robby still. He’d said himself the house was lonely and big at night, and he wouldn’t mind the company if you had a free night. So that’s where you headed, you had the address saved in your messages somewhere and had the time to pull it up while at a red light. It was fairly close to PTMC, only a short drive from the hospital.
The house was what you’d expected from the rough attending, simple on the outside, garden a little unkempt. It needed a good weeding, and maybe for the grass to be cut. You pulled up outside, back tyre perched precariously on the curb, you should’ve probably straightened up, but didn’t. It wasn’t until you approached the door that you considered you maybe should’ve called Dennis to give him a heads-up you were stopping by, but when you tried calling, it rang out and went to voicemail.
Your hand hovered over the door before you knocked. It was just Dennis, there was no point in being nervous. For a long moment, there was complete silence, before keys jingled in the door from the other side, and you were faced with not Dennis, but Robby himself.
You blinked in confusion. He still had a month left of his sabbatical and the reckless motorcycle trip he was taking across the country. Instead of explaining your reasoning for being here, or saying anything smart at all, what came out was a slow, “You… You’re back?”
To his credit, the older man didn’t question you right away or demand to know why one of his interns was on his doorstep and had his address. He just sighed and replied, “Yeah, got back last night.” His voice was gruff and typically tired.
It was then that you realised how strange this was and cleared your throat, “I’m so sorry!” You apologised quickly, realising how strange this was. “I thought Dennis was still here, he said I could stop by… I’ll… I’m sorry.”
Robby didn’t seem annoyed; if anything, he seemed slightly amused by your rambled apology. “Are you alright?” The question from him caught you so off guard that you just stared at him.
“What?” You questioned, then promptly snapped your mouth shut and scrambled to continue, “Yes. Yeah, I’m fine, good… I was just… looking for...” You trailed off because what were you looking for? Company, maybe.
He waited patiently for you to finish the sentence, and when you didn’t, he shuffled a little on the doorstep, almost as if he wanted to ask you to leave but didn’t really know how. On a whim, and a bad decision, Robby instead asked, “Do you want a drink?”
You considered the question for a moment, “I… No, I don’t want to bother you.” You denied.
He looked slightly taken aback by the denial, as if he’d just automatically assumed you’d say yes. Which he had by the way. “It’s no bother,” he said finally, “I have some of that herbal shit you drink on shift.”
It was such a simple little observation to make that you didn’t drink coffee, only herbal tea and energy drinks, but it shifted something in you that he noticed. Maybe that's why you agreed, “sure,” you murmured.
He stepped aside to let you through the front door. The house was warm, almost uncomfortably so on your skin after the slight chill from outside. He didn’t seem to find it too hot.
You recognised his walls from being on FaceTime with Dennis as he got in from a shift, automatically calling you for a rant the moment he got in. You could’ve pointed out the toaster his phone had fallen off of countless times as he did dishes or made food. It had felt like Dennis’s space for a time, so it was strange seeing it as Robby’s again.
“How was your trip?” You asked hesitantly as he busied himself with turning on the kettle to boil some water.
His silence was long; it appeared as though he was taking a long time to consider his answer. So, it was odd when he came out with, “Yeah, good.” and that was all.
You nodded despite him not looking at you, “Okay, good.” You replied. “Where did you-”
“Do you want sugar?” he cut you off, almost sharply. Clearly, the sabbatical was not up for discussion.
“No… thank you.” You replied carefully.
It was almost awkwardly silent as he poured water over the tea bags, considering he’d described it as ‘herbal shit,’ he was still drinking it. You vaguely wondered if it would be rude to leave now he’d already poured the tea. It wasn’t until he slid you the mug that he spoke again, “How come you didn’t call ahead?”
“Call ahead?” You repeated, unsure what he meant at first.
“If you were looking for Whitaker.” He clarified.
“Oh,” That made sense now, “I just… didn’t think, he said I would be okay to stop by if he was here… I thought he’d checked it with you.” You explained.
He sighed, “Yeah, No… You’re…” He paused to sip from his mug, “You were welcome to stop by… anyone was,” he added the last part as an afterthought.
You nodded again. The green tea was bitter, clearly not of overly high quality. You tried to imagine Robby aimlessly picking up a box of herbal tea as he did his weekly shopping, but the image wouldn't quite conjure. It didn’t match the image of him. The silence was oddly comforting at first, but the longer it went on, and the more you felt him watching you, the more you felt the need to break it.
“My roommates are going through a breakup, they keep dragging me into it.” You said finally. The second you said it, you couldn’t figure out why you had. He was your boss, not your therapist.
In true Robby fashion, he looked instantly uncomfortable in the face of emotion from a colleague. He took a sip of his tea, slurping when he hadn’t before and clearing his throat before finally speaking. “I’m sorry, that must be difficult.” He replied, it was the expected answer.
“Yeah.” You said simply. “I just needed a second out of the apartment.” You explained, a reason for seeking out Dennis this late at night. Robby seemed to deflate a little; you assumed it was at your seemingly dismissive attitude towards the divorce and the lack of need to continue talking about it.
However, he next led with, “So you and Whitaker aren't…” He didn’t say it, but it was implied.
Again, he’d sent you for a complete spin, “What? No.” You denied quickly. “We… We’re friends.” The insistence was maybe a bit much; he raised an eyebrow.
“Okay.” He agreed, as if he didn’t care, but there was an edge to it.
“Trinity had a bet that we’d end up… well, something-ing… but it never happened.” You were supplying completely unnecessary information now, clearly flustered by the line of questioning.
Robby was still quiet, in that stoic way he sometimes was. “No?” he pressed.
“Not my type.” You added, to be sure.
The silence wasn’t any different now; you were both still the same distance apart, still sipping tea, but it felt different. He was looking at you with an intensity that you’d never noticed, the kind you assumed he probably studied you with in the ER during procedures.
“I got to Wyoming.” He offered after a moment, vulnerability for vulnerability. Apparently, he did want to talk about the trip.
You glanced up at him, placing your half-empty mug onto the counter, “and?” You prompted him to continue.
He sighed deeply, “I realised I was just taking my problems with me.” He admitted, it almost sounded like it pained him to say out loud.
“I’m glad you came back… I hope you found whatever you were looking for.” You said in response. There had been a time in those first few weeks, when he went radio silent, that we thought he wasn’t coming back.
He went still, and then shrugged and shook his head at the same time. “Yeah, maybe I did.” He said.
You watched him closely again for a long moment, he was looking into his empty mug. “I should probably go.” You decided quickly, feeling like you’d already intruded. You could head back to the apartment now, your roommates would likely be asleep or at least cooled down.
You reached for your mug to place in the sink without realising he’d stepped forward to also take it, his hand closing around yours. It was the first time you’d been drawn this close. You took a breath, sharp. His eyes darted down to yours before he took the mug, straightening quickly. His back was turned to the sink when he said, “Goodnight.”
You swallowed thickly, “Yeah, goodnight. Thank you for the tea.” You replied, your voice coming out a lot more stable than you’d been expecting.
You’d made it to the entryway again when he caught up, making you jump a little.
“Drive safe.” His voice was rough, but his inflection sounded like he wasn’t done talking. You paused, he opened his mouth and then shook his head. “Look, if you need a place to crash or whatever, I have a spare room.”
“Okay…” Your voice was cautious but you appreciated the offer. You knew how much it had taken for him to make it. You turned to the door and then back, “When are you back at work?” You questioned.
“Tomorrow, probably.” He said. That wasn’t surprising, it was a miracle he’d stayed away for the two months he had.
“I’ll see you then.” You replied softly. He nodded, stepping to catch the door as you stepped outside.
The whole way down the path you were waiting for him to say something else, anything else. You’d reached the gate when he called out. “Wait.” He was already halfway down the path towards you, you’d stopped as he requested.
He took a breath and then spoke again. "I realised halfway across Wyoming that I spend a lot of time running from things." He shook his head. "Then I got home yesterday and now you’re on my porch." He looked at you properly.
You searched his face, trying to read the expression you'd never seen directed at anyone in the emergency department.
“And you looked disappointed that I was here.” He spoke.
You blinked. “No.” You denied, “I just… I was expecting Dennis, you caught me off guard.” You defended. Obviously you weren’t disappointed he was back.
He was still just studying your face, waiting for something.
“I wasn’t disappointed.” You clarified. “I just needed company, and… Well, I wouldn’t usually come to you.”
He nodded, as if accepting that. It was true, your boss was probably the last person you would’ve gone to about your roommates breakup driving you to insanity.
“I’m glad I did.” You said after another long pause.
Robby hesitated and then took a step towards you, it was almost unsure. You’d never really seen him look off kilter, he moved with a certain assuredness in the ER. He stopped close enough that you could see how tired his eyes really were. "This is probably a bad idea." He murmured.
"It probably is." You agreed.
"You're an intern." He pointed out, he cursed himself internally, helpful Robby.
"I noticed." You replied simply.
He gave a dry huff that almost counted as a laugh, "I'm supposed to know better."
"You usually do."
"I usually do."
No one moved yet, you kept your eyes trained on his but he didn’t move away. You were waiting for him to tell you to go home. He shook his head again, but he stayed where he was. “Thank you for staying.” He breathed, voice rough.
“It’s fine.” You whispered, feeling the need to stay quiet and not ruin the moment.
"It isn’t." His voice was quiet but more sure. For a long moment, neither of you moved. His eyes searched yours, still tired but more clear, like he’d made up his mind about something. "I've spent all night trying not to make this complicated," he admitted.
Your breath caught. "Robby..." You said his name because you’d run out of other things to say.
He shook his head, a small, almost defeated smile crossing his face. "I know." His hand lifted slowly, hesitating just before it reached your face. "Can I kiss you?" he said softly, "and we can pretend this didn’t happen tomorrow."
Instead of answering, you closed the last bit of distance between you, pressing up just slightly on your toes to reach him. The kiss was gentle, more a question than anything else, the rough scratch of his beard almost comforting.
When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours for a moment. "I really do know better," he murmured.
You smiled, and huffed a breath that sounded like a laugh, "I know."
"I'm still glad you came." He joined in your laugh with a dry chuckle of his own, it sounded like his throat had gone dry.
"So am I." You whispered into the night before stepping back. “Goodnight.” You said for the second time that night.
He waved you down the path this time, hovering by the gate as you got back in the car, smiling as you drove off, because, yeah, he’d known in Wyoming that he needed to come back… but it wasn’t just for the hospital.
Summary: Jack came on too strong, so you broke up with him. But now you're left wondering…why did you end things with a man that you're actually totally in love with?
Warning: (MDNI 18+) ex's to lovers, angst, language, emotionally constipated reader (low key self sabotaging), love avoidance, fear of vulnerability, mentions of a miscarriage (not descriptive), descriptions of smut, alcohol, tipsy reader, feelings, mutual pining/yearning, steamy kissing, pet names, mentions of injury during car accident, teenagers causing grey hairs (driving under the influence), cool fun aunt vibes, hurt/comfort, mean girls movie references, sexual tension, more steamy kissing, smidge dirty talk, fluffy/happy ending cause its me, loverboy!jack
A/N: This story is a love letter to all the aunties out there. I hope people enjoy <3 dividers by @saradika-graphics
Thank you for reading!! if you comment/reblog i love you so much <3.
Your colleagues were discussing the renovation timeline for the Carter residence. On your screen was the shared design board for their master suite, filled with images of tufted headboards, marble tile samples, and serene grey palettes. But the elegant visuals swam before your eyes. All you could see was the stark, antiseptic white of an examination room; all you could feel was the cold, metallic touch of stirrups against your heels.
"...and we really need to confirm the plumbing fixtures before the tile guy starts work in the ensuite," said Leo, your senior project manager. He tapped the table with his pen, directing his gaze down the line, and called out your name. "…you sourced those beautiful matte black shower sets. The client loved them, but the wife is now concerned about water spots. What's your take on the maintenance versus the aesthetic? Should we pivot to a brushed nickel?"
Your name was repeated, and Leo's voice cut through the fog. Everyone was looking at you.
"Sorry," you managed, your voice strangely thin. "Could you repeat the question?"
"Are you with us?" he asked, not unkindly, but with a note of professional impatience.
"Y-yes. Sorry. Just… a lot on my mind." You offered a weak smile that felt like it might crack your face.
The meeting droned on for another ten eternal minutes before it ended. You moved on autopilot, gathering your notebook and pen, your movements slow and heavy. You walked back to your cubicle and sank into your chair, the world feeling muffled and distant.
"Hey." It was Laura from the next desk over, leaning around the partition. A look of concern replaced her usual easy-going smile. "You okay? You looked like you were on another planet in there."
You opened your mouth to give the standard easy lie.
I'm fine. Just tired.
The words were right there, polished and ready. But they didn't come out. Instead, your throat closed. You stared at your computer monitor, the sleek black surface reflecting a version of you that looked terrible.
"I don't know," you whispered.
The confession hung there, and Laura's expression softened, but she didn't press. She just gave a slow nod, a silent offer of space.
You turned back to your screen, but it wasn't a file you saw.
You were sitting on the crinkling paper of the exam table, a thin gown over your lap. Dr. Montgomery was washing her hands at the sink, her back to you. You came in for the bleeding, the cramping that felt like a fist twisting inside you. Dr. Montgomery turned, her face a careful mask of professional compassion that did nothing to soften the blow.
"I know the bleeding was more than usual, and the pain concerned you," she said, her voice gentle. She leaned against the counter, crossing her arms. "The ultrasound was very clear. What you are experiencing... it's a miscarriage. Your body is passing a pregnancy. I'd estimate you were about six weeks along."
The words landed like a physical blow. The room tilted.
A pregnancy?
The concept was so foreign, so impossible, it simply bounced off the numb wall of your shock. You hadn't been trying. You hadn't even suspected. Your period was always irregular. The fatigue, the nausea you blamed on stress...
"But I'm on the pill," you heard yourself say, the words sharp and too loud in the quiet room. You looked up at Dr. Montgomery, searching her face for an answer, for a mistake. "I take it every day.. I don't... I don't know how this happened."
The statement hung there, less a question and more a plea for the world to make sense again.
"No form of contraception is one hundred percent effective, even with perfect use. It's rare, but it happens. The body can be unpredictable. That doesn't make it your fault."
"O-okay," you stuttered.
"I know you're probably in shock," Dr. Montgomery continued, watching your face. "It's a lot to process. Miscarriages, particularly this early, are far more common than people think. I have some numbers for you—for counseling, support groups. There's no right or wrong way to feel about this."
You stared at your hands, clenched in the thin material of the gown. A strange, hollow laugh threatened to bubble up. Feel? How were you supposed to feel about losing something you never knew you had? Grief felt like a costume that didn't fit, meant for someone else, for a planned nursery and broken dreams. Your reality was confusion, a dizzying void where a secret had been and was now just... gone.
"I don't... I don't know how I feel." The admission was pathetic, but it was the only truth you had. "I'm in shock."
Dr. Montgomery nodded. "That is all perfectly normal. Shock isn't just about sadness. It's about the entire system trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. There is no timeline for this. Be gentle with yourself." She handed you a printed sheet with numbers and websites, the paper crisp and impersonal in your trembling hand. "Go home if you can. Rest. Your body needs it. And your mind will catch up, in its own time."
The memory of this morning faded, replaced by the solid, unyielding reality of your desk. You took a long, shaky breath and turned back to your computer screen, where a 3D rendering of a client's living room waited. You mechanically clicked on the sectional sofa, adjusting the fabric swatch to a calming seafoam green. You typed notes into the project file with numb fingers: Client prefers matte finishes. Source organic linen for throw pillows. The words were fucking meaningless. The afternoon passed in a blur of fabric samples, paint codes, and vendor emails, each task a tiny island of normalcy in a sea of static.
At exactly 6 o'clock, you shut down your computer. The drive home was a series of autopilot turns and stops, the city passing by your car windows like a silent film. You pulled into your driveway, the familiar sight of your front door offering no comfort. You collected the mail from the box—a utility bill, a furniture catalog, a flyer for a pizza place. Inside, your house felt immense and heavy. You dropped the mail on the kitchen counter.
You walked into the living room and sank into the cushions, the fabric feeling strangely coarse against your skin. You pulled your phone from your bag, your thumb moving on its own to your messages. You typed a name at the top: Jack.
The cursor blinked in the empty text field, a tiny, demanding heartbeat.
Your fingers hovered over the screen, the words forming and dissolving in your mind like mist. How did you even fucking begin?
You typed, your movements stiff.
Jack. It's me.
You deleted it. Too formal. You weren't formal.
You tried again, the truth coming out in a blunt, clumsy rush.
I had a doctor's appointment today. I was pregnant. I didn't know. I'm not anymore. But, I thought you should know.
Your thumb hovered over the send button. The sentences sat there, black and brutal on the bright screen. Was this a text message kind of thing? Was there an etiquette for informing your ex-boyfriend of a phantom pregnancy that had already ended?
You didn't send it, lowering the phone and the screen darkening as it rested on your thigh. Why would he want to hear from you? You had broken up with him a month ago.
Jack wasn't like any guy you had ever dated before. He was a disruption to your entire design philosophy of love—a philosophy built on safe distances, and men who communicated in vague subtext and last-minute plans.
You met him through one of your clients. Dana was an ER nurse, tough as nails with a heart of gold, and you helped her turn her dated home into a functional, calming sanctuary after her brutal shifts. She threw a small get-together once you finished the interior design on her home. Jack was there, and he was one of her colleagues from the hospital. He was handsome in an intensely unfair way, with beautiful eyes that missed nothing and a quiet steadiness that felt like an anchor in the noisy room. He found you by the window seat you designed for Dana and her husband, a cozy nook for them to decompress.
"Dana said her home finally feels like a place where the adrenaline can drain away," he'd said, his voice calm and measured, a stark contrast to the usual party chatter. "That's a rare gift to give someone."
An hour later, Jack asked for your number, and his gaze was direct and unwavering. He called the next day. He took you to a quiet, unpretentious restaurant. He was direct. No games. He listened, really listened, when you talked, and his questions were insightful. He kissed you like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth when he dropped you off at home. Jack waited a respectful but not distant couple of dates before he took you back to his place.
That night, he fucked you in a way you'd never been fucked before. It wasn't just the sex (though that was transformative). His deep, purposeful strokes seemed to reach something untouched inside you, and his gaze locked on yours with an intensity that felt like being seen for the first time. It was the way he took command of your pleasure. It was the way he worshipped your body with his mouth and hands. He knew exactly where to apply pressure, where to linger, leaving you utterly shattered and reassembled in his arms.
He asked you to be his girlfriend a week later. Was this how men in their 40's were? No slow burn, no months of "seeing where things go," just a decisive, full-throttle commitment? A month later, he bought you the exact expensive electric toothbrush model he used, in a different color, and it was already charging in his bathroom holder next to his. He didn't just give you a drawer at his house after 2 months; he cleared out an entire section of his walk-in closet, saying, "Hangers are better than a drawer. Things don't get wrinkled." After 3 months, he surprised you with a weekend at a rustic-but-luxurious cabin in the Laurel Highlands.
You were curled on the oversized leather sofa, the fire crackling, a blanket over your legs. Then he turned his head, his gaze finding yours in the flickering light.
"I love you," he said, the words leaving his lips as a simple, undeniable fact, like stating the time or the weather. Your heart didn't flutter; it seized. A cold, sharp panic shot through your veins, freezing the cozy warmth of the moment. Your smile felt stiff, plastered on.
I love you launched after a mere 12 weeks?
The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. You could see the exact moment he registered your panic—a slight tightening around his eyes, a microscopic shift in his posture.
So…you kissed him because you didn't know what to say—but you didn't say it back.
After returning to Pittsburgh, your panic made you pull away. You created distance with flimsy excuses about a crushing work deadline, about needing "headspace" to focus. You became short over text, cancelling plans at the last minute. One night, you started a fight over something trivial—and in your fear, you ended it. It somehow felt safer than confronting the terrifying, perfect weight of his love.
The words "I think we need to break up" tasted like shit in your mouth. "This is all going too fast for me. I'm… just not in the same place as you.”
He didn't yell. He just went very still, his hazel eyes analyzing you.
"Okay," he said, his voice flat.
You broke up with the most substantial man you had ever known because his love felt too real, too fast, and you weren't sure you were built to handle it. The truth was you loved him too, and that was the most terrifying part of all. Because love, in your experience, was a prelude to loss. It was a vulnerability you couldn't afford. Letting him go now, while it was still early, was a mercy. For him, and for you. Staying would only mean watching him eventually see the real, flawed, frightened you—and then, he would inevitably leave. That was the unspoken script you knew by heart. So you took the pen and wrote the ending yourself, a tragic but controlled finale.
He would have been a good father, you suddenly thought.
You didn't even know if you wanted kids. The future had always been a vague, hazy concept you preferred not to examine too closely. In an instant, ugly sobs racked your body. You cried until your throat was scraped raw and your head throbbed. But the terrible truth was you didn't know what you were grieving. Was it the ghost of a child who would have had his calm eyes and your stubborn streak?
Or… were you simply, finally, grieving Jack?
You decided not to contact him.
Of course, the responsible thing to do after a secret, soul-crushing loss was to get blindingly drunk with your girlfriends days later. You laughed too loud, you danced with a frantic energy, and you still hadn't told a soul. By last call, the world had a pleasant, fuzzy edge. You ordered an Uber, fumbling with your phone. You were going to type in your address… but your fingers (traitorous and memory-laden) didn't type that. They typed in an address your heart knew by muscle memory: Jack's. It was a silly, drunk girl idea. He was probably at work. But a small, desperate part of you whispered that maybe, just maybe, he had a rare night off. You weren't falling-down drunk, but you were floating, untethered enough for grief and cheap vodka to steer the ship. That's why you had the dumb, beautiful, catastrophic idea to tell the driver to take you to him.
It was 2:07 am when the Uber pulled up to his familiar house. You stepped out and stood on the sidewalk, the night air cool against your skin, while you stared at his house. The liquid courage was rapidly souring into pure, cold terror.
What were you going to say?
You hesitated outside his door, and then finally rang his doorbell. When you didn’t see any lights turn on after a minute, you let your knuckles fall against the wood, three soft, uncertain taps. The silence on the other side stretched, long enough for you to start backing away. Then you heard the deadbolt turn.
The door opened, not all the way, just enough to reveal him. He was in a worn gray t-shirt and sweatpants, hair slightly mussed since he had clearly been fucking sleeping. His face shifted from mild, late-night annoyance to blank shock, then to something unreadable. His eyes scanned you quickly, taking in your slightly smudged makeup, your dress that was way too short, and the way you swayed just a fraction on your feet.
You opened your mouth, but no sound came out. All the rehearsed lines, the drunken confessions, evaporated. You just stood there, exposed, waiting for him to shut the door. He didn't. He let out a long, slow breath, his shoulders dropping slightly.
"Are you drunk?"
A weak, defensive laugh escaped you. "I was," you joked, the words feeling hollow. "But I'm feeling pretty sober right now."
It was the truest thing you said all night. The sight of him, the reality of being here, had burned away the alcohol's haze. His hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist, and he pulled you inside, your body stumbling across the threshold. You automatically toed off your heels, and he guided you, his hand now a steady pressure on your lower back, to the familiar couch. You sank into the cushions, the soft fabric smelling like him, like home. You watched him move to the kitchen, his back to you and the muscles in his shoulders tense. His gait was slightly uneven, a subtle hitch in his step that you hadn't noticed earlier. You felt guilty since he had to put his prosthetic back on when he answered the door. He took a tall glass from the cabinet, filled it with water, then snatched one of those powdered electrolyte packets from a box on the counter. Jack ripped it open with his teeth, poured it in, and grabbed a butter knife to stir the powder.
He walked back over to you, holding the glass out.
"Here. It'll help with the hangover you're building."
"Thanks," you mumbled, the word slurring at the edges as you took the glass. Your fingers brushed his, and you fumbled, nearly dropping it. You took a gulp, and the flavor was aggressively artificial, a shock to your system. He finally sank into the armchair opposite you, the leather sighing under his weight. He dragged a hand slowly down his face, his fingers pressing into his closed eyes.
"Okay," he sighed, the word heavy with exhaustion. He dropped his hand and looked at you, his gaze clear and utterly drained. "Why are you here? And let's skip the part where you were just 'in the neighborhood.' or some bullshit."
You set the half-empty glass on the coffee table with a soft click, the sound too loud in the tense quiet. The words were there… so you forced them out.
"I just..." the words were thick and sticking in your dry throat. "I miss you, Jack."
He let out a short, humorless sound—a scoff that was more like a punch to the gut. He leaned back in the armchair, his expression not angry, but chillingly detached.
"You miss me," he repeated, analyzing the statement.
"Yes."
"You're drunk, and you're lonely. That's not missing me."
You flinched and stared at your hands. They twisted together in your lap, and you felt like you were unable to meet the ice in his gaze.
"I deserve that," you finally said. You wanted to tell him everything. But… the voice in your head was a familiar, cruel critic.
It hissed at you now, slick and poisonous.
Tell him about the miscarriage? It sneered. So he can do what? Console you. That's what you want, isn't it? You want to drop this bomb so he has to catch you. You walked away from him, and now that you've failed at that too, you come crawling back to make it his problem. You don't get to use this pain as a key to unlock his kindness. You forfeited that right. You deserve the cold. You deserve to choke on the words you were too afraid to say when they actually mattered.
The voice was so loud, so convincing.
It painted your desperation as manipulation, your grief as a weapon. So you sat there, trapped in the suffocating silence. You just stared at him, your eyes wide, the war inside you rendering you utterly mute. He was waiting. You could see the question in his eyes, the last frayed thread of his patience. But… the words wouldn't come. The critic had won.
"I'll get my keys," he said, his voice devoid of all inflection. He stood up, the movement sharp. "Let me drive you home."
You took a shuddering breath, the tears you'd been holding back finally spilling over.
"I know you don't want me here," you blurted out, a desperate, wet hiccup catching in your throat. You stood up and wiped your cheeks with the back of your hand. "And I know that I don't really have the right to show up here."
"You don't…" he started, then stopped, correcting himself with a brutal honesty. "It's not that I don't want you here. It's that I can't handle you being here. There's a difference."
You swayed slightly on your feet, the emotional vertigo merging with the physical. You wrapped your arms around yourself, a feeble attempt to hold the pieces together.
"I know. And I'm… God, Jack, I am so sorry. Not for tonight. For how I ended things. For the way I did it." You swallowed hard, your apology feeling pathetic and small. "I got scared. I see something real, something good, and my first instinct is to run. I push people away before they can get close enough to really see me... or before I can disappoint them."
"Why?"
"Because the higher the high, the harder the fall…" you hugged yourself tighter, the room feeling both too large and too small. The answer was a miserable, well-worn truth you'd carried for years.
He was quiet for a long moment, absorbing your words.
“I know I’m not making any sense… but I don't miss you because I'm lonely or drunk," you paused, gathering the shattered pieces of your nerve, and the truth tumbled out—inaudible. "It's because I love you."
"What?" he asked.
A hysterical, fleeting thought crossed your mind: Of course he didn't hear it. The universe wouldn't let you be that brave. You looked at his frowning face, his eyes searching yours for the answer he missed. So, you took a deep, shuddering breath that seemed to come from the very bottom of your soul.
"I said," you repeated. "It's because I love you, Jack."
You watched the shock ripple across his face, and you closed the distance between you in three quick, unsteady steps. Your hands came up slowly, framing his face, your thumbs brushing over the stubble on his jaw.
"You've been drinking. You don't know what you're saying."
"Jack," you whispered, your voice thick. "I know what I'm saying." You tilted your head up and pressed your lips to his. For a few suspended seconds, he didn't pull away. Then, with a rough, shuddering sound that was half-surrender, half-agony, he kissed you back. It wasn't gentle. It was a hungry, claiming thing, a 1 month drought breaking in an instant. His hands flew to your waist, gripping you hard, hauling you flush against him. The kiss deepened, turned messy and hot. Your mouth opened under his, and the taste of him (familiar and devastating) unraveled you. A soft, needy whimper escaped your throat as your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. His tongue swept against yours, blurring into a white-hot haze of sensation and want. You could feel the hard line of his body, the frantic beat of his heart against your own.
But just as you were losing yourself in it, just as your hips pressed instinctively against his, he tore his mouth away. The kiss broke with a sharp, wet sound. Jack’s hands, which had been gripping your hips with bruising intensity a second before, came up and pressed firmly against your shoulders, creating a space between your bodies. His breath was coming in ragged pants, his lips swollen, eyes dark with a storm of desire.
"We can't... I can't do this," he said, the words strained.
"Why not?" you pleaded, the question a raw wound.
"Because when you left… you didn't just walk out the door. You took the sun with you. Do you have any idea what that's like? To have every color... drain out of your world?"
"Jack, I—"
"It’s not your fault," he interrupted, his voice softening into a weary rasp. "I know I came on too strong. I saw a future with you, and I just charged at it. I didn't stop to see if you were running beside me or if I was just dragging you along." He let out a short, humorless breath. "I'm sorry for that. Truly."
The apology was so unexpected and so utterly…Jack. It was a fucking knife twist.
"But…" your voice broke. "I love you. I want a future with you too."
"Sweetheart," he said, the old endearment slipping out, rough and achingly familiar. "You've been drinking.”
"Ugh, stop saying that!" you snapped, the words sharper than you intended. “Don't you dare use it as an excuse to dismiss this! Dismiss me, fine. Tell me to go to hell, fine." You jabbed a finger in his direction, the movement jerky. "But don't you dare pretend that what I'm saying is bullshit!"
He rubbed a hand over his face, a slow, heavy drag from forehead to chin, as if trying to scrub away the entire night.
"I'm not saying it's bullshit necessarily." He didn't meet your fiery gaze, instead looking at a point on the floor near your feet. "But—"
"But what?" you pleaded, eyes glossy and slightly unfocused, locked onto him with a fierce, bleary intensity.
"I can't just switch the color back on with you. Not yet. Maybe not ever."
A cold, hollow ache bloomed deep in your chest, spreading outwards until your fingers felt numb.
Maybe not ever.
Maybe not ever.
Maybe not ever.
The repetition of it echoed in the fuzzy chambers of your mind.
"I'll take you home." He shoved his hands into his pockets, his posture closing off. "Seriously, you need to get some sleep. Sober up." The instruction was quiet, devoid of malice, but it was a dismissal all the same. "This... this isn't a conversation for tonight."
"Don't bother," you said, your voice surprisingly steady, though it felt weak. "I'll get an Uber. I've... I've embarrassed myself enough for one night without needing a chauffeur to underscore the point."
"Hey—"
You ignored him, your focus entirely on confirming a ride. You blinked hard, as you shoved your feet back into your heels, your movements hurried and graceless.
"Seriously, I can drive you home," Jack said, his voice closer now, edged with a frustration that wasn't anger but something more helpless. You stood up as the confirmation chime from your phone sounded at the same time.
"Car's here," you stated, opening the door, not turning around, and already walking toward the curb.
He rushed out after you, the door swinging shut behind him. "Wait—" he started, but the bright headlights of a silver sedan swung around the corner. You didn't give him another chance and just pulled the car door open. slid into the backseat, pulling the door closed with a solid, muffled thunk.
Through the window, you saw Jack standing frozen on the sidewalk. The Uber driver, a middle-aged man with a podcast playing softly, said your name to confirm the ride, and you nodded. You kept your eyes forward, refusing to look back as the car pulled smoothly away from the curb. The ache in your chest tightened into a hard, cold knot. The hum of the car, the murmur of the radio, it all felt miles away.
You let your head fall back against the seat, finally allowing the tears to fall silently, the passing streetlights painting fleeting stripes of gold across your closed, stinging eyes.
For weeks, a slow, quiet ache had taken up residence in Jack's chest, a persistent bleed he couldn't stop. That night (your confession) it replayed on a loop.
I love you.
The problem wasn't the memory; it was the question that poisoned it. Had you meant it? Or was it just the whiskey talking?
He was currently standing beside a gurney in a private bay, his focus entirely on the teenage girl before him. She had a deep, bleeding laceration on her forehead and a rapidly swelling bruise around her eye from the airbag. A cervical collar was in place as a precaution. School's out, he thought. The summer months always brought a specific, grim tempo to the OR. Teenagers with time on their hands and poor impulse control as their only guide.
"Just hold still for me," Jack said, his voice calm but firm as he examined the wound under the bright light. "This is going to need a few stitches to close properly. Dr. Ellis is going to get a CT scan to rule out a concussion."
Nearby, Ellis was reviewing the girl's chart on a tablet, nodding. "Ambulance report says she was alert and oriented at the scene. GCS 15. We'll get the scan for definitive clearance."
"Local anesthetic is drawn up, Dr. Abbot." Nazley was setting up a suture tray, laying out the sterile instruments.
"Have the parents been contacted?" Jack asked, not looking up from his work, his focus on the wound edges.
"Just got off the phone," Mateo said, hanging up the wall phone nearby. "Parents are out of town. She's staying with an aunt. The aunt is on her way in now, said she can be here in 15 minutes and gave verbal consent to proceed with whatever we need to do."
"You'll feel a little pinch and then some pressure," Jack injected the anesthetic around the edges of the laceration gently. "Your friend who was driving is getting an X-ray on his arm. We'll know more soon."
As if on cue, the curtain to the bay rustled aside. Shen and Crus walked in.
"Update on the driver. X-ray is back," Shen said with a tablet in his hand. "It's a confirmed, non-displaced fracture of the distal radius. A clean break. Ortho is with him now. He's stable and alert." Shen paused, his eyes locking onto Jack's, then flicking to the girl on the table. She was staring at the ceiling, a single tear falling through the grime on her temple. "But the tox screen came back. We found alcohol in his system."
Jack let out a soft, sharp tsk from between his teeth. He shook his head slowly, his lips pressing into a thin, grim line.
"Is he going to get in trouble?" the girl asked.
"Yes," Jack grunted. "But, if it's his first offense, he'll probably just lose his license for a year and get to pick up trash on the highway every Saturday. Community service is a real blast. Very scenic". Jack picked up the needle holder. "You'll feel the first stitch now." The first stitch went in with a precise, sharp tug. The girl's breath hissed between her teeth.
"I'm so gonna be grounded for, like, the rest of high school," she mumbled, the words thick with self-pity and the dawning reality of parental wrath.
"Being grounded implies there's a home to go back to," Jack said, as he placed another neat stitch. "It implies people give a shit about you. That's not the worst problem to have," He tied off the suture.
A faint, almost unwilling snort of watery laughter escaped the girl.
"Look at it this way," he continued, his voice taking on a darkly pragmatic, almost amused edge. "You weren't driving. So, technically, you're having a significantly better night than your friend. He gets a cast, a court date, and a lifelong lesson in poor decision-making." Jack placed another stitch. "You get a cool scar and a thrilling story you can maybe embellish later, and a very, very long lecture from your aunt—and later your parents—about picking better friends. You're looking at a few weeks without your phone. Maybe a few extra chores. It's a better deal. Trust me."
"A scar?" the patient blurted out, her voice rising an octave. Her breathing became rapid and shallow, bordering on hyperventilation. Jack let out a slow, patient breath. He finished the stitch he was working on and then deliberately set his tools down on the tray.
"Look at me. Breathe." He waited for a beat until her wild eyes focused on his. "It's not forever. I'm using the finest sutures we have. With proper care—keeping it clean and using the ointment we'll give you—this is going to fade. In a few months, it'll be a faint line. In a year, you'll have to squint to see it." He made eye contact, holding her gaze. "Now, the stiller you hold, the straighter and smaller this temporary mark will be. Deal?"
She stared at him, her panicked breaths beginning to slow, hitching on a sob that was more relief than fear. She gave a tiny, jerky nod.
"Deal," she smiled, and then squinted her eyes. "You look familiar."
"I do?" Jack blinked, his brow furrowing just a touch.
"Yeah."
"I don't think we've met. I'd remember. I'm pretty good with faces."
Suddenly a voice from the hallway outside the curtained bay was muffled but unmistakable—a nurse's firm, professional baritone trying to block someone. "Ma'am, you can't just—" Then, came a second voice. Sharper. Panicked. And it shouted the girl's full, legal name. His head snapped up, his eyes, wide and suddenly stripped of all professional detachment, locked onto the curtain. Every muscle in his body went rigid because he recognized the voice.
"What the fuck," he breathed. He was already turning, his stool scraping back violently on the floor as he stood up. The commotion outside intensified. The nurse's voice grew more insistent.
"Ma'am, I need you to wait in the family area. The doctor is with her now." But the other voice, rose above it, raw and frayed at the edges with a terror. "That's my niece! She's a minor, let me see her!"
Jack's hand shot out and yanked the faded blue privacy curtain.
And there you were.
Your gaze, locked on the arguing nurse, snapped toward the sudden movement. It swept past the opening curtain, past the medical bay, and landed directly on him.
"Jack?"
Then, from behind Jack, a small, shaky voice pierced the stillness. "Auntie?"
Both of your heads turned in unison toward the bed.
"I can explain," she whispered, the words trembling.
After Jack confirmed your niece was fine and finished her stitches… the adrenaline that had been holding you together drained away all at once. In its place, a cold, sharp fury ignited in your chest, so sudden and intense it stole your breath. The fear was gone. Now, you were just pissed the fuck off. Especially when you noticed that your niece wasn't in the oversized, comfortable sweatshirt and pajama pants she had left your house in. She was wearing a black, sheer-mesh top over a tight, silver bralette, and impossibly short denim skirt. The outfit screamed "party," not "sleepover at Hannah's house."
"You said you were going to a sleepover," you stated, each word precise and icy. "You lied to me to go to some party, get drunk, and God knows what else!"
"Her tox screen came back clean, actually," Ellis muttered.
"Shut up," Jack mouthed at Ellis.
"What are you wearing?" you gestured sharply at her, your hand slicing through the air toward her outfit.
"It's just clothes! Everyone dresses like this!" she defended.
You leaned a hip against the bed rail, crossing your arms.
"Uh-huh. Sure. It's very scholarly." You let the silence hang for a beat, your eyes not leaving hers. "Who's it for?"
Your niece's mouth opened, then closed. She looked from you to the ceiling, anywhere but at you. "What? No one. It's not for anyone."
"Honey, I know the look," you growled. "I invented the look! I wore a skirt shorter than that in 2008 for the captain of the hockey team. I froze my ass off that night. So, I know the 'I'm trying to catch a specific person's eye' outfit when I see it."
Your niece stared at you, a flicker of genuine surprise breaking through her defensive pout at the oddly specific memory. Mateo let out a low, amused chuckle from his spot by the monitors. Jack's head snapped toward him, his eyes narrowing into a sharp, warning glare.
Keep it the fuck professional
He held her gaze until Mateo gave a slight, chastised nod, the smirk vanishing from his face as he turned back to her charts with exaggerated focus.
"He's... he's not an athlete," you heard your niece say.
You raised a single eyebrow, your expression shifting to one of dramatic, knowing suspicion.
"Oh. I see." You leaned back, tapping a finger against your chin. "Not an athlete. The plot thickens. Let me guess... the brooding artist type? Smells like cigarettes?"
"He's a musician," she mumbled, looking down at her hands.
"A musician!" you declared. "He's a singer?"
"He... he plays guitar," she rolled her eyes.
"Ah! A guitarist!" you announced, throwing your hands up as if she'd just revealed a profound truth. "Of course! Slightly better than a bassist, marginally worse than a drummer."
Shen choked slightly on his coffee, a laugh muffled into his fist. Jack crossed his arms tightly over his chest, and despite his stern demeanor, Jack's lips twitched slightly at the corners.
"Okay, I get it!" your niece snapped. The tears were gone, burned away by a surge of defensive anger. She glared at you. "I messed up. You've made your point. No need to be so over the top about this. You're being so dramatic!"
Jack, sensing the nuclear family drama reaching critical mass, cleared his throat softly.
"You know, we're just gonna step out for a minute," Jack said, voice calm and diplomatic. "Let you two... do your thing." You gave Jack a single, curt nod. He gathered a chart from the counter and motioned for everyone in the room to leave. They clearly wanted to stay and watch the fight, but he wanted to give you some privacy. He was the last one out, but as Jack reached the doorway, he paused. His hand rested on the frame, and he turned back.
"You're lucky to have an aunt who loves and cares about you this much," he said, his words directed at your niece, but his eyes were already shifting— his focus landing squarely on you. You hadn't seen him since that fucking embarrassing night when you made a fool of yourself.
"She seems like a good kid," he said. Then, he let the door click softly shut behind him, leaving you both alone.
The silence that followed was thick.
"Dramatic?" you repeated, taking a deliberate step closer to the bed. Your eyes locked on hers, and you could see a flicker of uncertainty replace her anger. "You think this," you said, your voice trembling now not with suppressed laughter but with unraveling fear, "is me being dramatic?" You leaned in, your face now just inches from hers. "I got a phone call from the hospital at 2 fucking am telling me that you got into a car accident with a random guy. I drove here not knowing if you were conscious. I'm not your legal guardian, so they wouldn't tell me anything over the phone. 'Are you family?' 'I'm her aunt.' 'Are you listed as an emergency contact?' 'No, but—' 'We can only release information to parents or legal guardians.' Well, guess what? Her parents are 2 thousand miles away right now. So what can you tell me? The person who is fucking here!"
Her lower lip trembled.
"Why did you get into that car with that boy? You're smarter than that. I know you are. And why, for the love of god, didn't you call me? I have always told you, the one rule, the only rule that matters, is that if you're ever in a bind, you call me. No questions asked. No judgment. Just... call. And I'll come. I'll always come."
"I was going too," she swallowed hard. "The truth was… he seemed perfectly fine. He was laughing, he was walking straight, he was making sense. Everyone was saying I was overreacting, that he was just buzzed. And I started to feel… lame and stupid for worrying."
You sank slowly onto the edge of the hard plastic chair beside her bed, your shoulders slumping. Reaching out, you took one of her hands in both of yours, your thumbs rubbing gentle circles over her knuckles.
"Look," you began, your voice softer now, stripped of its earlier sharpness. "I know you and your friends see me as the cool, fun aunt who doesn't snitch about their secret tattoos, piercings, and relationships. And… I mean, I would be lying if I said that your Dad and I didn't do our share of monumentally stupid shit in high school. We did." You looked up, meeting her watery gaze directly, your expression deadly serious. "But we never, ever got into a car with someone if we even suspected they had a sip of alcohol. Not once. That wasn't a rule from our parents. That was a rule we made for ourselves."
She nodded.
"Come here, you little shit," you murmured.
She didn't hesitate and buried her face in your shoulder. You wrapped your arms around her, holding her tight, one hand cradling the back of her head. You could feel the dampness of her tears through your shirt, and you pressed a kiss to her temple.
"You scared the living hell out of me," you whispered into her hair.
"I know," she mumbled, her voice muffled. "I'm sorry. Really."
Finally, she pulled back, sniffling and wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand.
"So," she said, her voice still a little wobbly. "That's the guy you were dating?"
"Yeah. That's him," you busied yourself smoothing down her rumpled hospital gown. "How did you know?"
She gave a small, knowing shrug. "Saw his badge. And... I recognized him from the picture you sent me."
A slow, reluctant smile touched your lips as the memory surfaced—the empty cartons of Chinese food, the truly awful monster movie roaring on the TV, and Jack, snoring softly on your couch before the credits even rolled. You had taken a picture of him (he didn't know), and you sent it to her as a secret, a piece of your private world.
Might bring this one around soon… you had texted her.
But… that never happened.
"He's really funny and nice, Auntie," she said softly, leaning her head back against the propped-up pillow. "I like him. Do you think you'll get back together?"
"I don't know." The ache in your chest was sudden and sharp, a physical tightness that made your next breath feel shallow. You couldn't talk about Jack, so you changed the subject.
"So. This boy. The one who caused all the… excitement," you rolled your eyes. "What's this stupid boy's name, anyway?"
Her face instantly transformed, the previous softness replaced by a vibrant, eager light. She leaned forward, wincing only slightly. "Tyler," she said, the name bursting from her with giddy energy. "His name is Tyler. And he…" she bit her lip, "...he kissed me tonight," she finished in a rushed, breathless whisper.
You stared at her. The dreamy look in her eyes—it was a mirror. A perfect, agonizing reflection of your own younger 16 year old self, diving headfirst into infatuation with a charming smile and zero forethought. Falling for some boy who wasn't exactly the best influence. The kind of kid who'd drink and drive.
"Tyler, huh? Well, I'm sure when your Mom and Dad hear about this, their first thought will be, 'We must invite this fine young gentleman for dinner!'"
You watched the horror solidify on her face from your sarcastic comment. The giddy afterglow of the kiss was gone, completely incinerated by the cold blast of consequence. And, honestly, there was no way your brother would be into wanting to meet this kid. There's no way he would be fine with his daughter having a crush on the kid who caused her to get hurt.
"Which reminds me… let's give them a call." You stood up, the chair screeching back, and pulled out your phone. Your thumb found her mom's contact. You hit dial. It rang once, twice.
"Hello…?" Your sister-in-law's voice was tiny through the speaker, laced with confusion and a hint of sleep. You felt bad because they were on a long-overdue romantic getaway vacation in Belize while your niece was staying with you. "Why are you calling so late? Is everything okay?"
You closed your eyes for a second, pinching the bridge of your nose.
"Um…"
You were jabbing at the button for the salt and vinegar chips. The machine whirred, clunked, and nothing happened. You sighed, leaning your forehead against the cool glass.
"Stupid piece of…" you muttered, giving the machine a half-hearted kick with the toe of your shoe.
"Pro tip: the one on the third floor by psych only takes exact change, but it always delivers. This one's a heartless bastard. I think it enjoys the suffering," a familiar voice said from behind you.
You turned. Jack was leaning against the wall a few feet away, arms crossed, looking amused. He pushed off and walked over.
"Listen," he said, his tone shifting to doctor mode. "We got the scans back. She doesn't have a concussion."
"Oh. Good. That's… really good," you managed, the words feeling inadequate.
"It is," Jack agreed. "But we're gonna keep her overnight. Just in case. Standard protocol."
"Yeah," you said, a weak, humorless laugh escaping you. "Her parents are gonna love that medical bill. 'Happy Anniversary' to them.
"You should go home," he said gently. "You look exhausted."
"Is that your professional medical opinion, Doctor? Or your way of saying I look like shit when I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown?"
"You never look like shit," he insisted, and his voice was completely serious.
"I'm too wired to go home," you admitted, your voice dropping to a whisper. You wrapped your arms around yourself. "I'll just… crash in the waiting room once I feel tired."
Jack studied your face for a long moment.
"I can get a cot brought into her room, so that you sleep in there with her," he reassured. He knew how much your niece meant to you, and he knew how scared you must have been tonight.
"Really?" you asked, the word coming out small and hopeful, betraying how much the idea of leaving her alone terrified you. "I thought no overnight guests were allowed in the rooms?"
"Fuck that. I'll put the order in. It'll be there in twenty minutes."
Your vision was suddenly completely blurry.
"Hey," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Everything's okay. She's safe. The scary part is over."
He didn't ask. He just stepped forward and opened his arms.
And you broke. The dam holding back the night's terror and relief and sheer fucking overwhelming responsibility finally shattered. You stepped into the hug, burying your face against his scrubs, and the tears came hard. After a minute, the storm passed. You pulled back, sniffling wetly, your face a mess. A fresh wave of embarrassment washed over you.
"Sorry," you mumbled, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. "I'm getting snot all over your scrubs."
"They've seen worse than your snot, trust me." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled packet of tissues, offering it to you. "Here."
You dabbed clumsily at your eyes, then your nose. A few strands of your hair, damp with tears, were stuck to your cheek. As you sniffled, Jack's hand came up again; he gently brushed the wet hair away from your skin, his fingertips tracing a soft path from your temple to behind your ear.
The harsh fluorescent light caught the subtle flecks of emerald and moss in his irises.
You took a half-step back, breaking the gentle contact. "I'm… I'm sorry I ambushed you that night. It was fucked up." He opened his mouth, likely to offer one of his easy dismissals, but you cut him off, "No, seriously. It was. I was a mess, and I dumped it all on you." You swallowed hard, holding his beautiful, concerned gaze. "But I really did mean what I said. Every word of it."
His Adam's apple bobbed visibly.
You looked down at your hands, twisting the now-soggy tissue. The words felt like shards of glass in your throat. "And there's… there's another reason I came over that night."
"What reason?" His brow furrowed.
"I had a miscarriage," you forced yourself to meet his eyes again, the green now seeming like a deep, troubled sea. "…the week before. I didn't even know I was pregnant until the OB-GYN told me," you let out a gasp that bordered on a sob. "And I'm realizing I'm probably saying this at the worst possible fucking time, with my niece in a hospital bed down the hall, and…" you gestured vaguely at your own tear-stained face, at the whole chaotic scene.
"Why didn't you tell me the day you found out?" he swallowed hard, as if fighting down a wave of nausea. The thought of you alone, carrying that secret and that pain while he sat across from you that night (fucking oblivious) made his stomach clench violently. "I would have… God," He cupped your jaw, his thumb pressing gently against your cheekbone. "I would have… I would have been there. Properly."
"I-I don't know," you choked out. "I guess… I guess I was punishing myself."
His expression shattered." I wish you hadn't done that,” he pulled you tight against his chest, as if he could physically pull the lingering pain out of you and into himself. He couldn't stop his tears from falling and getting lost in your hair when you kept apologizing—he begged you to stop. Then, his lips pressed a firm, lingering kiss to the crown of your head. He held the contact for a long, trembling moment before he reluctantly eased back.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, the words gruff, almost desperate. His thumb stroked your cheek, a shaky, repetitive motion as if to soothe himself as much as you. "Is there anything I can help you with? Do you need anything?"
"I'm okay. Really. I'm doing better now. It was just... super hormonal at first. A real shitstorm of feelings. Questioning my fertility, you know, all the fun fucking stuff." You tried to inject a note of dark humor into your voice.
"Listen to me," his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that brooked no argument. "A miscarriage does not mean something is wrong with you. It is not a verdict on your body or your future."
"Can't you tell I'm great at catastrophizing?" you joked. "Gold medalist, right here. I’m great at taking a situation and immediately spiraling it into the worst possible, most permanent outcome. It's a real talent.”
"You can't live your life like that," he shot back. "You can't let the fear of what might happen dictate everything. It's a fucking prison."
"Logically, I know you're right. But knowing something in my head and... and feeling it in the pit of my stomach are two very completely different things."
"You're the smartest person I know, and you're telling me your stomach's outvoting your brain?" he teased.
"Apparently," you sighed dramatically. After more conversation, he couldn't seem to let go of the concern lingering in his eyes. He kept checking in on you, softly asking if you wanted to sit down or just be held. Each time, you reassured him and insisted you were fine—you promised him that you had processed it, and felt like you were finally moving forward. Despite your words, he still reached for you again and again, pulling you into another comforting hug.
Just then, Shen’s voice cut through the hallway.
"Yo, Abbot! Incoming. One critical head injury, possible spinal. They're rolling in now."
Jack's head snapped toward the sound. Shen stood a few yards away, a chart in hand, his brow furrowed in clear, blatant confusion as he took in the intimate scene of Jack's hands on you. A war flashed across Jack's features—duty versus need.
With a ragged sigh, he turned back to you to lean in and press a firm lingering kiss to your forehead.
"Fuck—I gotta go," he murmured against your skin, his breath warm.
"It's okay," you reached out to gently squeeze his arm.
"Go sleep. Please," he begged, nudging his nose against yours.
"You got it, Doc."
Jack stood on the front step of your townhouse, his finger having just left the doorbell. It had been 2 days since he'd discharged your niece, handing you a prescription and a stern look, telling you to keep him updated. The texts that followed had been brief—your updates on her pain level and him checking in. So here he was making an excuse about examining your niece's stitches that felt flimsy even to him. He shifted his weight nervously. In his hand was a modest, cheerful bouquet of sunflowers and daisies wrapped in brown paper.
Your niece looked up at him when she answered the door, her small face marked by the healing sutures on her forehead and the large bruise beneath her eye. She recognized him immediately, her eyes widening just a fraction.
"Dr. Abbot," she stated.
He crouched down, bringing himself closer to her level, the flowers rustling slightly in his grasp.
"You can call me Jack," he said, his tone warm but measured. His eyes, however, were already moving in a clinical sweep—assessing her forehead, the color and swelling of the bruise, and the alertness in her gaze. "How are you feeling?"
"Okay." She shrugged one shoulder, a gesture that looked both innocent and strangely mature. "But my parents are due back tomorrow from their vacation. They cut their trip short, so I'm preparing for a lecture that will last until I graduate college and a probable ban on anything fun."
Jack's mouth quirked into a half-smile. "Ah, the parental debrief. A tough crowd."
"Are those for my aunt?" she pointed at the bouquet in his hand.
They are actually for you," he said, offering them to her.
She took the offered bouquet carefully, bringing the bright blooms to her nose for a tentative sniff. A small, pleased smile touched her lips before she looked back up at him.
"She's taking a shower," she announced, as if revealing a minor secret. "But you can come inside. It's fine."
Your niece stepped back, holding the door open wider for him. Jack rose from his crouch and crossed the threshold, the familiar, faint scent of your townhouse—something subtly sweet, like your perfume he loved so much—washing over him. He followed your niece, watching as she went straight to the kitchen counter. She pulled a simple glass vase from a lower cabinet, filled it at the sink with a focus that made him smile, and carefully arranged the sunflowers and daisies. She placed the vase in the center of the dining table with a satisfied nod.
Turning back to him, she clasped her hands in front of her. "Would you like some water?" she offered, her tone impeccably formal.
"Sure," he chuckled. "I'd love some water. Thank you."
She nodded and turned to get a glass, her small frame moving with purpose. As she carefully filled it from the filtered pitcher in the fridge, she glanced over her shoulder at him.
"You know," she said, her voice casual but her eyes sly, "I didn't realize doctors still made house calls."
Jack leaned a hip against the counter, accepting the water she handed to him with a grateful nod. The comment was playful, but also perceptive. Had you told her about him? Or was he just 'Dr. Abbot' (who happened to have a concerningly detailed knowledge of your preferred takeout order) that signed off on those discharge papers the other day.
"They usually don't," he acknowledged, taking a sip. "But this is a special exception."
She smirked, leaning against the opposite counter.
"Right. Special exception." She drew out the words just a little.
Just then, the sound of footsteps came from the staircase. Your voice, slightly raised with exasperation, floated into the room before you did. "Are you on your god damn phone? You're in deep shit, remember? I told you, and your parents told you no phone—"
You appeared in the archway to the living room, and the words died in your throat. Jack's gaze snapped to you. You were standing there, a bath towel wrapped securely around your body from chest to mid-thigh. The towel was modest, but it outlined the shape of your breasts and hugged the dip of your waist. Beads of water trailed down your collarbone. He knew exactly where they were heading, knew the taste of your skin there. His mouth went dry despite the water in his hand.
"Jack," you said, your voice a mix of surprise and something softer. You adjusted the towel at your chest, a reflexive, self-conscious gesture that made his stomach tighten. "I—uh—didn't know you were here."
He cleared his throat, setting the water glass down on the counter.
"House call," he smiled toward your niece, who was watching the exchange with keen interest. "Checking in. She passed with flying colors."
"Good to know," you answered.
"Well, since my warden has descended," your niece said, motioning toward you, "For my last supper, we were gonna order some sushi and re-watch the OG Mean Girls. You should join us, Jack."
"Oh, I think Jack," you shifted on your feet, the towel feeling suddenly very small. "—I mean, Dr. Abbot—has better things to do," you said quickly, your voice a little too high.
Jack's eyes never left yours. He caught your nervous energy. He wanted to chase it.
"I would love to," he said. "If that's okay with your aunt."
The direct question, asked in front of her, pinned you. You swallowed, then gave a small, almost nod. "Sure. That sounds... nice. Let me just go get changed."
You turned to head back upstairs. A knowing smirk played on your niece's lips as she looked directly at Jack once she heard your bedroom door close.
"By the way. I totally love that necklace you got my aunt. Her birth month constellation necklace," she winked at him.
Jack felt a hot, sharp thrill cut through the awkwardness.
So she knew.
The sushi was spread out on the coffee table, and Mean Girls was queued up. Your niece had claimed the middle cushion of the sofa, forcing you to sit on one side and Jack on the other. She was the buffer, but she also felt more like a chaperone. As the movie played on, the initial awkwardness began to melt into something warmer, more comfortable. Jack found himself asking questions, genuinely engaged. You'd explain a nuance, and your niece would jump in with a modern example, creating a running commentary. Jack's arm was stretched along the back of the couch behind your niece. His fingers, however, were just close enough that the very tips occasionally brushed against the sleeve of your sweater where it lay over the sofa back.
When Aaron Samuels asked what day it was, your niece chimed in perfectly on cue with, "It’s October 3rd," A few scenes later, during the infamous "She doesn't even go here!" rant, Jack let out a genuine chuckle, shaking his head. During a lull in the action, Jack leaned forward slightly to look past your niece at you. He picked up a piece of salmon nigiri, then asked, his tone one of genuine, baffled curiosity.
"So," he began, "is this… is this really what high school is like for a teenage girl? The… the burn books, the war over a guy, the relentless social calculus?"
You and your niece turned your heads in perfect unison, locking eyes with him. There was a beat of silent understanding between the two of you, a shared female exasperation that spanned generations. Then, in perfect harmony, you both deadpanned:
"Yes."
The simplicity and synchronicity of your answer made Jack lean back, a look of mock defeat on his face.
"Jesus. I'm suddenly very glad I was a teenage boy."
As the credits began to roll after the final "Junior Plastics" scene (where Cady jokingly imagined them being hit by a school bus), your niece let out a contented sigh.
"That," she declared, grabbing the last piece of spicy tuna roll, "never gets old." She stood up, gathering empty plates. "I'm gonna go load the dishwasher and then go to bed. Thanks for joining us, Jack."
"My pleasure," Jack replied. He meant it. The normalcy of it, the domestic bubble of takeout and a movie, was a stark, soothing contrast to the chaos of the ER. For the first time in weeks, the constant, low-grade tension in his shoulders had eased. He was exactly where he wanted to be. With you.
"Hey, Auntie," your niece paused in the doorway to the kitchen with the plates, "I'm sorry you've had to take time off from work to look after me. Or, shall I say, be on house arrest with me."
"Dude, stop. I needed this,” you offered her a warm, reassuring smile. "Seriously. It's been kinda nice just... relaxing at home. No commute, no deadlines. I'm honestly just going to take the rest of the week off even though your parents come back tomorrow."
"Oh, so basically," she said, her tone dripping with mock insight, "if my 'accident' hadn't happened, you wouldn't be enjoying this lovely little 'time off' right now. Is that the story we're going with my parents?"
"Nice try," you let out a short, genuine laugh. "Now go load the dishwasher."
She glanced between you and Jack, her smirk returning. "Anyway, I'm beat. Don't stay up too late talking about…" with a final, knowing wiggle of her eyebrows, "….whatever."
You rolled your eyes.
"Love you, goodnight!" she sing-songed.
"Love you more. Goodnight!" you chirped back.
Both of you heard her loading the dishwasher, and then her footsteps faded up the stairs, followed by the sound of your guestroom door closing. The sudden absence of her bubbly commentary left a thick, intimate silence in the living room. You heard the low hum of the dishwasher beginning its cycle in the kitchen and the faint, rhythmic thump of your own heart in your ears. You could feel the heat of Jack's body from across the space your niece had occupied. His arm was still resting on the back of the couch.
He didn't move it. Instead, he turned his head to look at you.
"She's something else," he said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. He shifted then, just slightly, turning his body towards you. The movement brought his knee within an inch of touching yours on the cushion. His gaze dropped to your throat, to the constellation necklace he noticed that you had put on after your shower, then back up to your eyes.
You smiled, feeling a flush of pride. "I'm sort of obsessed with her.”
"You're great with her. It's obvious that you're a big part of her life. I loved seeing you two together tonight." He paused, a faint, almost imperceptible tension tightening the line of his jaw. "I guess... before, it never felt like you wanted me to meet her even though I knew how important she was to you."
Jack had always known you were close to your family—how you'd often talked about your niece with a warmth that made it clear she was a central part of your world. He remembered you explaining that you and your brother had quite the age difference, and that you'd been in high school yourself when she was born. While you could technically be her mother, your niece clearly saw you as a big sister.
"I didn't," you confessed with a pained expression, "because I knew if she met you, she'd get attached to you."
"And that's a bad thing?" he frowned, a deep crease forming between his brows.
"No," you cut in softly, shaking your head. "It's just…remember, I'm really good at catastrophizing."
You knew all too well how kids could latch onto someone they cared about, especially when it came to someone their family was involved with. You remembered how she had been so visibly upset when your last relationship ended—how her small face had crumpled with sadness at the thought of never seeing him again.
Jack exhaled slowly. "You can catastrophize all the scenarios you want. Hell, you can build a hundred endings in your head." He reached out then, his hand finding yours where it rested on your own knee. His fingers slid between yours, lacing them together with a firm, possessive grip. "But I'm not going anywhere."
The tight coil of anxiety that had lived in your chest since you met him began (hesitantly) to unwind.
"Okay," you whispered, turning your hand in his, and pressing your palm more fully against his.
His other hand went to the delicate constellation necklace at your throat. His touch was startlingly gentle as he hooked a single finger under the chain. He tugged, just enough to pull it away from your skin for a moment before letting it fall against your collarbone.
"So," he murmured, his eyes locked on the point of contact. "No work for you for the rest of the week?"
"Nope."
He dragged his finger along the chain, tracing its path across your skin, the pad of his finger brushing the sensitive hollow at the base of your throat. A shiver you couldn't suppress raced down your spine. He felt it; a faint, satisfied smirk touched the corner of his mouth.
"Well," he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky, intimate register meant only for you. "In an interesting turn of events, I happen to be off for the next couple of days, too." His gaze flicked down to your parted lips, then back up, holding you completely captive.
"Would you like to go on a date with me tomorrow?" he asked, yanking you over to straddle his lap and wrapping his arms around your waist, looking up at you with heart eyes.
You nodded deliriously and felt so lucky he was giving you a second chance.
"That is so fetch," he said with an utterly disarming perfect grin.
A snort escaped you, followed by a full-bodied, helpless laugh that shook your entire frame against his. Jack's eyes crinkled at the corners, his own laughter mingling with yours.
"Fetch, huh?" you murmured.
"Trying to make it happen," he breathed back, his gaze dropping to your lips.
And then he was kissing you. It started soft, a sweet, lingering press of his mouth against yours. But then the kiss deepened, turning hungry and consuming. One of his hands tangled in your hair, angling your head just so, while the other pressed firmly into the small of your back, arching you against him. You could feel the hard, eager length of him straining against his jeans, which was a thrilling pressure right where you needed it the most. A low, desperate sound escaped you, vibrating into his mouth. Your own hands were frantic, sliding under his shirt to feel the hot, smooth skin of his back, your nails scraping lightly down his spine. He groaned, the sound raw and needy, and his tongue sweeping against yours in a deep claiming rhythm that made your head spin. The kiss turned messy, wet, and perfectly frantic. Jack broke from your lips only to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw to your throat, sucking a mark high on your collarbone that you know would bruise.
"We can't," you breathed, the protest weak even to your own ears. The rational part of your brain screamed about the teenager upstairs, the squeaky couch springs, and the sheer insanity of this. But that part was drowned out by the roaring in your blood, by the feel of his hard cock against you, and by the desperate, primal look in his eyes.
"We're not," he countered, his voice a low, velvety rumble that vibrated through your chest. But his actions betrayed him. His hips arched up, grinding against you in a slow, torturous rhythm that drove a ragged gasp from your throat. "We're just kissing."
A breathless laugh escaped you, cut short as his mouth found the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, his teeth grazing the skin.
"This type of kissing is a felony in several states," you managed to say.
"Only the boring states," he murmured against your skin, his tongue soothing the slight sting. He shifted, one hand sliding to your thigh, hiking your leg higher over his hip. The position opened you up to him completely, the thin barriers of clothing now feeling utterly, agonizingly insufficient. A ragged gasp tore from your throat, and he captured the sound with his mouth. After a few more kisses, you pulled back just enough to see his eyes. They were closed, his long lashes dark against his skin. He looked wrecked, beautiful, and like he was holding onto his last shred of sanity by his fingernails. You could feel the frantic beat of his heart where your chest was pressed to his.
"What should I wear on our date?"
His eyes fluttered open. The want was still there, a banked fire, but it was tempered now by a dawning, rueful awareness of your niece upstairs. His thumb stroked a gentle arc over the bare skin of your thigh where his hand still rested.
"Preferably nothing," he said with a playful edge.
You snickered, shoving lightly at his shoulder, though you made no move to dislodge his hand or your leg from his hip. "Charming. I was thinking more along the lines of that little black dress you always pretend not to stare at."
"I don't pretend," he countered smoothly, his smirk deepening. "I stare openly and with great appreciation. It's the polite thing to do."
You tilted your head. "Well, my boyfriend always did have excellent taste in what I wear… and I love him very much."
His heart slammed against his ribs, a wild, dizzying rush flooding his chest. You said it the other night when you were tipsy, but this… this was different. This was real. This was you, clear-eyed and deliberate, calling him yours and saying you loved him. The happiness that swelled inside him was almost too much to contain, a bright, aching pressure behind his sternum that made his throat tight. His fingers flexed against your thigh, the heat of your skin grounding him as he fought to keep his expression from cracking wide open.
A slow, disbelieving smile curved his mouth. "Oh, you do?"
"I do," you answered.
Jack's hand slid higher on your thigh, thumb stroking lazy circles that sent sparks racing up your spine. "Careful with that kind of talk," he grunted. "A man might start getting ideas."
"What kind of ideas?"
Jack's grin turned wicked. "The kind where I peel that little black dress off you with my teeth as soon as I pick you up for our date tomorrow."
You shivered, nails digging into his shoulders. "Jack…"
"Seems you'll just have to wait until tomorrow," he teased, voice thick with promise. "When I can make good on every filthy thought running through my head right now." He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. "And when I can tell you properly that I love you, more."
robby is a tit man and jack is an ass man. it works out perfectly when you’re sandwiched between them. robby in front groping at your breasts, pushing them together and mouthing at your nipples. jack in back, palming your ass and and kneading it even giving it a few smacks here and there.
just a half sleep deprived thought I had while trying to fix my sleep schedule.
been waiting to see other posts validating my own thoughts shared the other day
like robby's eyes are almost always glued to your chest, doesn't matter whether your top is revealing or not. man's eyes will ALWAYS drift down. and GOD FORBID you wear a dress or top that accentuates your tits. if you're having a damn good cleavage day, you basically have to implement a "no lips below the jaw" rule bc that man won't hesitate to mark up any of the visible skin of your breasts peeking out of your top. summers were a different ballpark altogether, bc that man quite literally stops functioning every time, no matter how many times he's seen it before, you wear a bikini top. oh my god... and if you're menstruating or about to start and your boobs hurt, he loves to just hold them in his big hands, applying slight pressure to ease the ache in your chest. before he started doing that for you, he had noticed one night as you were folding laundry in your pjs (one of his big tshirts, sans bra) that you had grabbed your boobs with a pained groan after dropping something and moving too quickly to pick it up. he just watched your hands press hard against your chest for a few moments before you dropped them to resume your folding, letting out a deep breath. the gears started turning in his head immediately, remembering when you had told him about how bad your boob pain can get during this time of the month and how you would sometimes sleep in sports bra because the compression helps to ease the pain. he'd never thought about other methods of compression... and that night, as he watched you start to pull out a sports bra, he stopped you and convinced you to, begrudgingly, stop and lay down next to him, complaining about how uncomfortable you are bc of the pain until he gently rolls you onto your side so he can press his body against your back, hands coming up and around your torso to rest on each breast. you're confused and a little annoyed at first, thinking he's just wanting to cop a feel when you were so not in the mood, until he slowly applies more and more pressure against your chest until an involuntary small moan of relief escapes your lips. he gets to hold your tits in his hands all night long and you get to sleep without the discomfort of a sports bra and the stupid pain caused by your hormones, it's a win-win for everyone.
then jack? it is guaranteed that his eyes will be glued to your ass whenever you walk away. even if he has to cartoonishly whip his head around to check your ass out if you're walking pass him. he LOVES it when you wear heels since they automatically make you walk with more of a sway in your hips. he knows you don't wear them often because of how uncomfortable they are, but fuck, when you do wear them on the rare occasion, he feels like a kid on christmas morning. and whenever you're home, no matter what you're doing - cooking, dishes, laundry, just standing there looking at your phone for a sec - he will grab, pat, or smack your ass every time he passes behind you, without fail. he loves to come up behind you, grab your ass with both hands and give you a squeeze, often causing you to jump or let out a lil squeak of surprise, before he wraps his arms around your waist from behind and rests his chin on your shoulder with a smug and satisfied look on his face. and if you're wearing athletic leggings or cute lil shorts? your ass is NOT safe (granted, it never is, but man becomes feral when your ass is confined in that thin, spandex-nylon mixed fabric that leaves NOTHING to the imagination). safe to say, you stop accepting his invites to the gym after the few times you caught him standing behind the treadmill you were on or behind the squat rack you were using, blatantly staring at your ass, in the not-so-empty gym. the last straw was when a gym staff member had subtly pulled you aside, asking if you knew the guy that never stops staring at you and if he was making you uncomfortable because a couple of other gym-goers had noticed his ogling and brought it up to the staff. you were mortified. and after an embarrassed and rushed explanation of who he is to you, including a frantic and rambling apology for his behavior, the staff, trying not to show their growing discomfort and own embarrassment, tried to calm you down but also awkwardly asked if you could get him to stop as it was making other gym members uncomfortable. so yeah, you stopped going to the gym with jack after that. (and jack stopped going to that gym after that bc who are they to tell him he can't appreciate his girl's ass in a place where many people seemingly go to grow their own asses?) not long after that, you had conceded to his suggestion of "at-home workouts" and, just as you predicted, the two of you never finished a full workout before jack couldn't help himself anymore and a different kind of workout began.
ohhh and then from a rabbot perspective? kind of opposite of what you wrote, but jack taking you from the front, legs wrapped around his waist, his arms around you, hands firmly grasping your ass as he drives his hips into yours, and robby taking you from behind, hands wrapped around your front, going back and forth between palming each breast with his big hands and flicking and pinching each nipple with his long fingers. you have one hand on the back of jack's head, gripping at the curls along the nape of his, lightly tugging with each thrust, mouth devouring yours as you swallow each other's gasps and moans. your other hand is above and behind you, fingers twisted into robby's short hair as he bends his neck down to hungrily kiss, lick, and bite at your shoulder, collarbone, and neck, causing needy whines to crawl out of your throat whenever he nips a little too hard or removes his mouth from your skin before reattaching his lips to another patch of skin. with all of your limbs tangled together, you wouldn't know whose hand is where, if each man weren't so consistently obvious about their preferred... asset of yours.
So because every time I make a Jesse post that gets traction, someone tends to comment on the fact that Ned Brower, the actor that portrays him, is a nurse, I've decided to make this post about the real life medical professionals in the cast of the Pitt.
Partly so more people will know about them but mostly because these are six characters that are seen in a solid majority of episodes, as they are typically in the Trauma rooms, and get next to no recognition since a large part of the fandom could not name these characters if they tried. And that seems wrong since (aside from Ned), they are also part of the Medical Technical Advisors that help nail down the realism of the show.
Ned Brower, RN as Jesse Van Horne
The man, the myth, the legend himself, Ned Brower. Ned is an active nurse at Sollis Health when he's not working on the Pitt. And while most fans of his may know that he was the drummer for the band Rooney and is one half of the band, Bloodwerk (whose name was thought of by one of his medical colleagues if you can't tell), he is also a former EMT with LA County Fire Department.
And really, it's a minor miracle that he's on the Pitt since, when he first heard about it, it was through Joe Sachs, MD, who is a physician at Sollis and a consulting physician for the Pitt. A job Ned did not want, though he suggested his actress wife might be interested (he's married to Sarah Jane Morris, who played Robby's ex and Jake's mom, Janey Malloy). However, when given the chance to audition for a role on the show, Ned did. And clearly nailed it since what was meant to be a 3-4 episode role definitely expanded into a fan favorite.
Tim Van Pelt, RN (Retired) as Tim Sallinger
Tim is a working actor who has appeared in shows like The West Wing and The X-Files and has worked Off-Broadway and in commercials. But when his career slowed, he went back to school at 50 to become a nurse. And what he brings to the Pitt is logistics. He is the man who makes the spreadsheets that map the department, track the patients, their symptoms and treatments. As a former Charge Nurse of UCLA Healther's Santa Monica Hospital, he definitely knows his shit.
Over the nine days it takes to film an episode, Tim is responsible for calculation how much fluid should've drained from the IV and adjusts it accordingly. He figures out who needs crutches or a wheelchair, or if they're in a bed. But also, he advises Katherine on how Dana should respond to certain situations.
Melette Le Blanc-Cabot, PA, as Sophie
Melette is kind of like Ned in that she was an ER nurse that got in to television through a colleague. It's just she did it in 1994 and was part of making the trauma scenes of ER (1994) look more realistic by being of the many actual medical professionals on set. And by the fourth season, she found herself seriously entering the world of medical technical advisor after Noah introduced her to his friend who was producing a commercial at the time, which in time became her advising more seriously.
So it's no real shock that The Pitt EP, Joe Sachs, a former colleague, reached out to her. On The Pitt, she helped train the cast during their two-week medical boot camp by demonstrating essential medical skills like suturing, prepping medications and performing intubations to give a sense of realism, but also found her role expanded from "Medical Technical Advisor" to "actual cast member".
Ambar Martinez, RN as Kim Tate
Ambar is another case where the acting preceded her entering the medical field. Because while she has experience as a nurse, having graduated from nursing school around 2013, worked as an ER nurse and worked as one during Covid, for Ambar acting (and later Medical Advisor) is a primary focus. In fact, when it comes to the Pitt, she first auditioned for the role of a patient. However, when offered the role of a medical advisor helping run the medical boot camps, she took that teaching the cast how to use the equipment, as well as working in the background helping to move patients.
It was only as they headed into episode 4 where she was approached about portraying a new character, Nurse Kim (eventually leading to her having to do a Zoom audition for the character when bigger scenes involving her was planned out).
Jamie Lynn Watkins, RN as Jamie Watkins
While there's not much to be found about Jamie in her own words, it's known that--much like Ned, who works at the same hospital she does--she is an active nurse when not working on other projects. Because, as noted in an interview with Ambar Martinez, Jamie has a long history of working as a Medical Advisor for shows such as 9-1-1 and, of course, the Pitt when she's not playing a nurse on tv shows like St. Denis Medical and the Rookie.
Jordan Farrand, RN as Jordan Prescott
When it comes to Jordan, he's a bit newer to the world of acting despite his established role as an ER nurse. Because of that it's a bit harder to find out about him at this time. However, much like the rest of the actual nurses in the cast, he played his part in coordinating what background actors should be doing during the Pittfest scenes and is an actual on-set reference like the rest of the medical professionals working on the Pitt.
