The Baby Gift That Gave Him Away
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader Reader: She/her, no given name
Summary: Santos and Whittaker are forced by Dana to shop for a baby shower gift for one of the nurses on the floor. What should have been a simple errand turns into an existential crisis when two tiny, chaotic twins help them choose a gift and accidentally reveal that their father is none other than Dr. Jack Abbot.
Warnings: fluff, humor, domestic Jack, married Jack, dad Jack, hospital family chaos, Santos and Whittaker being deeply unprepared for baby shopping
Santos had handled chest compressions with less stress than this.
She had worked through screaming trauma bays, overcrowded hallways, intoxicated patients with impressive lung capacity, and attendings who looked at interns like they were personally responsible for the collapse of modern medicine. She had stood under fluorescent hospital lights for hours with her feet aching, her hair pulled back too tightly, and her hands smelling like antiseptic no matter how many times she scrubbed them. She had listened to monitors shriek, phones ring without mercy, families panic, nurses call out vitals, patients yell from behind half-drawn curtains, and doctors demand answers that sometimes did not exist yet.
But standing beneath a pastel department store sign that read Newborn Essentials, holding a packet of newborn socks in one hand and a teething giraffe in the other, she had never felt less qualified for anything in her life.
The department store was too warm after the cold outside, the kind of artificial heat that made her coat feel too heavy across her shoulders and her skin feel prickly beneath the collar of her sweater. The air smelled like new cotton, plastic packaging, faint perfume drifting in from the beauty counters, and something sweet and buttery from the pretzel stand near the mall entrance. Soft pop music floated from the ceiling speakers with an insulting amount of cheer. Overhead lights made everything in the baby section look clean, expensive, and suspiciously judgmental.
Beside her, Whittaker studied the contents of the cart with quiet, almost clinical concern.
“This feels like too much,” he said.
Santos looked down at the cart.
Inside were three baby blankets, two different kinds of pacifiers, a stuffed lamb, a box of diapers, burp cloths, one yellow gift bag, one white gift bag, a pack of tiny socks, and something Dana had written down as a “lovey,” which neither Santos nor Whittaker had been brave enough to question.
“It’s a baby shower,” Santos said. “Babies need stuff.”
“Yeah, but how much stuff?”
“I don’t know, Whittaker. I don’t have a baby.”
“I don’t either.”
“I know that.”
“I’m just saying, if the baby isn’t born yet, how does anyone know its preferences?”
Santos slowly turned her head and narrowed her eyes at him.
Whittaker held up both hands. “I mean color-wise.”
“She’s a newborn. Her preference is probably milk and sleeping.”
“Then why are we buying her a lamb?”
“Because Dana told us to get something cute.”
Whittaker looked personally wounded by the concept of cuteness as a medical necessity.
Dana Evans had given them one job.
One simple job.
A nurse on their floor was having a baby shower. Dana had decided that, as a unit, they were going to give her something thoughtful. Not cash. Not a hospital gift card. Not something one of them panic-bought from the cafeteria fifteen minutes before the party and tried to pass off as heartfelt.
Something thoughtful.
Unfortunately, Dana had also decided that Santos and Whittaker were the ones available enough to do it.
Available was a generous word.
Santos had been awake since five in the morning. Whittaker looked like he had dissociated somewhere between the parking lot and the baby aisle. They were both still in their work shoes, their coats thrown over tired shoulders, their hospital badges tucked beneath their collars but not fully hidden. Santos could still feel the ghost of the ER clinging to her: the beeping monitors, the ringing phones, the impatient voices, the families asking questions she could not always answer, the constant need to stay alert because one wrong second could turn into a disaster.
Even the smell of disinfectant still seemed lodged somewhere in the back of her throat. To anyone else, it probably smelled clean. Professional. Sterile. Safe. To Santos, it had started to mean twelve-hour shifts, too much fluorescent lighting, and a sharp, pinching ache in her nose that she refused to admit was getting to her. She was too proud to be defeated by cleaning chemicals. She had survived worse.
Probably.
This was supposed to be easy.
Instead, everything in the baby section looked soft, expensive, and weirdly threatening.
Santos picked up a cream-colored onesie with tiny ducks embroidered across the chest.
“Is this cute?”
Whittaker looked at it. “It has ducks.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Do babies like ducks?”
“How would I know?”
“You’re holding it like you know.”
“I’m holding it because it was on the rack.”
Whittaker frowned harder. “The ducks look smug.”
Santos looked down at the onesie.
The ducks did, unfortunately, look a little smug. Like they knew Santos and Whittaker were wildly, humiliatingly out of their depth. Like they were judging them from their tiny embroidered pond. Santos had the sudden, unreasonable urge to chuck the onesie across the store.
She put it back.
From somewhere beside them, a tiny voice said, very seriously, “The yellow bag is better.”
Santos froze.
Whittaker froze too, but with far less dignity.
A little girl stood beside their cart.
She could not have been older than four or five. She wore a pale pink wool coat with fuzzy cuffs, white tights, sparkly silver boots, and a silver headband that had clearly started the day centered and had slowly migrated toward the left side of her head. A tiny glitter purse hung from her shoulder, almost comically large against her small body. Her curls had been brushed neatly at some point, though they were already escaping around her face, and a small gold bracelet circled her wrist like something far too expensive for someone who had almost definitely touched a public clothing rack.
She looked up at them with enormous, curious eyes, completely unafraid of two exhausted hospital employees having a quiet crisis in the baby aisle.
Santos blinked.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” the little girl said back.
Whittaker immediately looked around, shoulders tightening. “Where did you come from?”
The girl pointed vaguely behind herself. “Over dere.”
Santos glanced in the direction of her finger.
There were three aisles, a display of baby pajamas, a perfume counter, a row of strollers, and approximately fifty places a child could disappear.
“That is not specific,” Santos said.
Whittaker’s eyes had gone wide in genuine disbelief. He looked down at the little girl, who barely reached his hip but somehow carried herself with the confidence of someone who had never once doubted that she was loved, listened to, and dressed correctly for every occasion.
“Are you by yourself?” he asked, his voice pitching slightly higher. “Are you lost?”
His hands twitched at his sides as his eyes darted around the department store, searching for any adult who looked like they were missing a small, sparkly child with strong opinions about gift bags.
The little girl ignored him completely and pointed into their cart.
“The yellow bag is better.”
Whittaker looked down at the yellow gift bag. “Why?”
“Because it’s happy.”
Santos glanced at the white gift bag. “What’s wrong with the white one?”
The little girl wrinkled her nose.
“It looks sad.”
“It has gold dots,” Whittaker argued.
“It looks sad and rich.”
Santos pressed her lips together.
Whittaker looked offended. “It’s elegant.”
“It looks like a napkin.”
From beneath a nearby clothing rack, another small voice called, “She’s right. It does look like a napkin.”
Whittaker’s entire body went still.
Santos slowly looked toward the rack.
A pair of little brown leather boots stuck out from beneath a row of tiny cream-colored dresses. Then two hands appeared. Then a small boy crawled out, hair mussed, cheeks flushed, navy coat half-zipped like he had been engaged in serious physical labor. His outfit was nicer than Santos expected any child’s outfit to be. He wore a collared shirt beneath a soft gray sweater, dark trousers, and boots that looked like they belonged to a very small person with a very large trust fund.
He stood, shoved a hanger out of his face, and looked at Santos and Whittaker with immediate suspicion.
“No, sir,” he said firmly. “She’s not by herself. I’m wif her.”
Santos stared at him.
Whittaker whispered, “There are two.”
The little girl nodded proudly. “Dat’s my brudder.”
“We’re twins,” the boy added, dusting off his knees.
Santos inhaled through her nose.
Okay.
Great.
Two tiny children in the baby aisle. No obvious parent in sight. One had apparently emerged from the floor like a department-store goblin dressed for a private school brochure.
This was fine.
This was exactly the kind of thing Dana would somehow blame her for if it went wrong.
“Okay,” Santos said carefully, crouching slightly so she would not tower over them. “Where is your grown-up?”
The little girl smiled.
“Daddy.”
Santos looked around.
“Daddy is here?”
The little girl nodded.
Whittaker glanced behind the clothing rack as if a full-grown man might also crawl out from under it.
“Where?”
The little girl pointed again with the same vague confidence as before. “Over dere.”
What the twins did not explain was that their parents had only looked away for a minute.
Their mum and dad were somewhere near the stroller display, distracted by a sales associate and a very serious discussion about car seats for the baby coming in October. According to their father, October was only a month away. According to the twins, October was too late, because they wanted their sibling now. Their mum had already explained that the baby was still growing in her tummy and needed more time, but this had not impressed either of them.
While their parents were comparing safety features and fabric options, the twins had decided that it was the perfect time to play hide-and-seek.
Then the little girl had spotted Santos and Whittaker.
And since she was, according to her father, exactly like her mother when it came to shopping, she had decided helping two confused adults choose a baby shower gift was a far more important mission.
Santos gave Whittaker a look.
Whittaker gave her one back.
The little boy stepped closer to the cart and looked inside with the grave seriousness of a miniature quality inspector.
“You need the lamb.”
Santos looked down. “The lamb?”
“For da baby.”
Whittaker picked up the stuffed lamb. “This one?”
The little girl gasped softly, like he had lifted a sacred object.
“Yes. He has a nice face.”
Whittaker looked at the lamb.
The lamb looked back with black plastic eyes and floppy ears.
“It has a face,” Whittaker said.
“A nice face,” she corrected.
The little boy nodded with deep seriousness. “Some toys have secret faces.”
Santos slowly straightened.
“Secret faces?”
“Like they know fings,” the boy said.
The little girl leaned toward Santos and whispered loudly, “Grandma got him a bear one time and he cried.”
“I did not cry,” the boy said immediately.
“You said he was watching you sleep.”
“He was.”
“You cried.”
“I was warning everybody.”
Whittaker looked at Santos.
Santos looked back at him.
She had no idea what to do with any of this.
The twins, apparently, were finished discussing haunted bears because the little girl had now reached for the yellow gift bag.
“Get dis one,” she said.
Whittaker said, “I still think the white one is more elegant.”
The little girl looked at him like he had disappointed her in a way that would take years to recover from.
In her defense, almost no one had ever said no to her suggestions. Not really. Usually, adults explained things to her gently, or redirected her, or found some careful way to soften the blow. Her father especially rarely said no without a very serious reason, and both twins adored him enough to treat his words like law. Well, his words and their mum’s, of course. According to Daddy, Mommy was the “man of the house,” whatever that meant.
So the little girl lifted her chin.
“Babies don’t need elegant.”
Whittaker blinked. “What do they need?”
“Happy.”
The little boy nodded. “And no secret bears.”
Santos sighed and took the yellow bag from the cart.
“Yellow it is.”
The little girl beamed. “Good.”
Whittaker looked at the white bag one last time before placing it back on the shelf with the gentle grief of a man abandoning his principles.
The little boy watched Whittaker closely, his small face pinched with the kind of suspicion only a child could make feel serious.
“You work at da hospital?”
Santos stilled.
Whittaker blinked, caught off guard by the question. “How did you know that?”
The boy pointed at Santos’s sleeve like the answer was obvious. His nose scrunched into a visible little pout, as if he could not believe an adult would question such a clear and reasonable conclusion.
“You smell like hospital.”
Santos looked down at herself, suddenly aware of the invisible layer of antiseptic, stale coffee, and exhaustion that always seemed to cling to her after a shift. Beside her, Whittaker sniffed his own jacket.
Santos immediately slapped his arm.
“Don’t do that.”
The little girl nodded, completely confident in her brother’s assessment. “Daddy smells like hospital too.”
Santos smiled politely, trying to keep her expression easy even as something about that sentence caught in the back of her mind.
“Your dad works at the hospital?”
The little girl nodded proudly, her little chin lifting. “He is a doctor.”
Whittaker’s face softened. “Oh. That’s cool.”
“He fixes people,” the little girl said, as if this was the most important job in the world.
The boy added, “But only when dey do silly stuff.”
Santos laughed despite herself. “That sounds about right.”
The little girl then looked at Whittaker with the confidence of a child explaining something painfully obvious to an adult who should really know better.
“Silly. He is Daddy and doctor. So he’s Doctor Daddy.”
Whittaker looked at her.
Santos’s mouth twitched. “Doctor Daddy?”
The little girl nodded. “Yes. Sometimes Mommy says Jack when she’s talking to him, but he’s Daddy. And doctor. So Doctor Daddy.”
The boy made a face. “I don’t call him dat.”
“You did one time,” the girl said immediately.
“I was little.”
“You were little yesterday.”
“I was not.”
“You cried because the banana on your sundae fell down.”
“That was different.”
“It was still banana.”
Santos had to look away, because if she kept watching the twins argue with their tiny serious faces and expensive little coats, she was going to laugh in a way that would not be professional or helpful. Whittaker pressed his lips together so hard his whole face changed shape.
The little girl looked back into the cart like she had suddenly remembered her original mission.
“You need soft blankets too. Daddy says babies get cold because dey are bad at temperature.”
Whittaker’s brows lifted. “He says that?”
The boy nodded. “He says babies are bad at lots of fings.”
Santos felt something strange tickle at the back of her brain.
A doctor.
Dry.
Blunt.
Had opinions about babies being bad at temperature.
That could have been almost any doctor.
Almost.
Whittaker, bless him, did not hear the alarm bells.
“What’s your dad’s name?” he asked.
The little girl opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her brows pinched together as if Whittaker had asked for classified information.
“Umm…”
She knew her father’s name. Of course she did. Her parents had drilled it into both of them for safety reasons. It was written on their school forms, their daycare labels, the little medical information cards tucked into their backpacks, and, in her case, the small card inside the glitter purse weighing down her shoulder. She knew it. She just did not particularly understand why this man needed to know when the answer was already obvious.
The boy looked offended on her behalf.
“Daddy.”
Whittaker smiled, patient and sweet in the way he always was right before accidentally walking directly into disaster.
“Right, but what do other people call him?”
The little girl looked up at the ceiling, thinking hard.
“Mommy calls him Jack when he is not listening.”
Santos went still.
Whittaker’s smile faltered.
The little boy stepped forward, shoulders back, chest puffed out with pride.
“Dr. Abbot,” he announced.
Then he held out his small hands like he was presenting the name to them properly.
“But when you say it, it sounds like a-boot.”
He giggled immediately, absolutely delighted by his own joke.
The world narrowed.
For one second, Santos heard nothing.
Not the department store music playing softly through the ceiling speakers. Not the hum of the lights. Not the distant squeak of cart wheels. Not the rustle of tissue paper from the next aisle over.
Just the words.
Dr. Abbot.
Whittaker blinked.
Santos blinked.
Then Whittaker gave a weak little laugh.
“Huh,” he said. “That’s funny.”
Santos slowly turned her head toward him.
Whittaker looked at the twins. “We know a Dr. Abbot.”
The little girl smiled brightly. “Us too.”
The boy nodded. “He’s our daddy.”
Silence.
Real silence this time.
Santos stared at the children.
The pink coat. The sparkly boots. The serious little boy with Jack Abbot’s exact unimpressed squint. The little girl with the fearless mouth and absolute certainty that the yellow bag was morally superior.
No.
No way.
There was no way.
Jack Abbot did not have children.
Jack Abbot barely tolerated residents.
Jack Abbot drank coffee like it was a punishment he had accepted from the universe. Jack Abbot walked through the ER with a limp, a dry mouth, and the exhausted patience of a man who had already seen the worst thing that could happen three times before breakfast.
Jack Abbot had never once mentioned a wife, or children, or twins.
He had never once looked like someone who went home to glitter purses, haunted bear discourse, and broken-banana emergencies. And he definitely had never looked like someone who dressed his children like they belonged in the holiday window display of an expensive department store.
Santos looked at Whittaker.
Whittaker looked like his entire understanding of the world had cracked in half.
The little girl tugged on the lamb’s ear.
“Daddy likes lambs.”
Santos’s voice came out faint. “He does?”
The boy shrugged. “He says he doesn’t.”
The little girl smiled. “But he does.”
Whittaker whispered, “That sounds like him.”
Santos elbowed him.
The boy narrowed his eyes at Santos. “Do you really know him?”
Santos swallowed. “I think so.”
The little girl brightened. “Is he grumpy at work too?”
Whittaker made a strangled sound, and Santos covered her mouth with one hand.
The boy nodded seriously. “He’s not grumpy at home all da time. Only when the smoke alarm does da beep.”
“Or when Mommy moves his mug,” the little girl added.
“Or when Uncle Robby says stuff.”
Santos choked.
Whittaker’s eyes widened. “Robby knows?”
The twins looked at him like this was a stupid question.
“Uncle Robby knows everything,” the girl said.
The boy leaned closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “But he’s loud.”
Santos had so many questions.
Too many questions.
None of them were appropriate to ask two preschoolers in a department store baby aisle.
Then a familiar voice came from the end of the aisle.
“Why do I hear my children giving a press conference?”
Santos turned.
Whittaker turned too fast and nearly knocked into the stroller display.
Jack Abbot stood at the end of the aisle, and for one horrifying second, Santos did not recognize him.
Not because he looked different in any impossible way. He was still Jack. Same tired eyes. Same guarded posture. Same dry, unimpressed face. Same way of standing like he was already bracing himself for bad news.
But he was not in scrubs.
He was not in rumpled hospital clothes, old camo, or the kind of practical jacket Santos had always imagined him owning in multiples. He was wearing a dark wool coat that fit him too well to be accidental, charcoal trousers, a black sweater, and polished leather shoes that looked expensive without trying to announce themselves. His hair was slightly mussed from the cold outside, but even that somehow looked less exhausted and more deliberate. A watch sat against his wrist, simple and dark, the kind of watch that did not need to be flashy because anyone who knew watches would know.
Santos gawked.
Whittaker gawked harder.
Because apparently Dr. Jack Abbot, the man who drank hospital coffee like it was part of a sentence he was serving, owned clothes that had tailoring.
Jack’s gaze landed on them, then the cart, then the yellow gift bag, then the two small children standing near Santos and Whittaker like they had personally brokered a peace treaty.
Something in his face flattened.
“Oh no,” Jack said.
Santos slowly raised one hand. “Hi.”
Whittaker said nothing. He looked like he had witnessed something medically impossible.
The twins, on the other hand, lit up like Jack had entered the aisle accompanied by theme music.
“Daddy!”
The little girl ran first. The boy followed, trying very hard to seem less excited and failing completely. Jack bent down just enough for both of them to crash into him. He absorbed it with a quiet grunt, one hand settling on his daughter’s back, the other catching his son by the hood before he could bounce off.
“Easy,” Jack said. “I’m not furniture.”
“You are big like furniture,” the girl said into his coat.
“That’s not how that works.”
The boy pointed toward Santos and Whittaker. “We helped your friends.”
Jack looked over their heads. “Why are you two in the baby aisle?”
Santos opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
Whittaker lifted the lamb.
“Baby shower.”
Jack looked at the lamb, then at the yellow bag, then at the twins. His daughter smiled proudly.
“We picked da happy one.”
Jack closed his eyes for one second. “Of course you did.”
Then you appeared beside him, and somehow, the whole thing got worse.
Not worse in a bad way. Worse in the way Santos immediately understood that Jack Abbot’s life outside the hospital was not only real, but beautiful enough to make the inside of her chest feel strange.
You came around the corner with a shopping bag hooked over one arm and your wedding ring catching the department store lights. You looked warm and polished in a cream coat that fell beautifully over your frame, a fitted sweater dress underneath, sheer tights, and tall boots that clicked softly against the shiny floor. Your hair was styled but loosened slightly from the cold outside, your cheeks were flushed, and your makeup was soft and pretty in a way that made the department store lighting suddenly seem flattering.
Your baby bump was impossible to miss now, round and high beneath your coat, close enough to eight months that even Santos, with all her medical training and all her exhaustion, immediately clocked it. You rested one hand there absently, like it had become second nature.
You looked done up.
Not overdone.
Just effortlessly expensive.
Gold jewelry glinted at your ears and throat. Your purse looked structured, soft, and Italian in a way Santos could not prove but could absolutely sense. She was willing to bet it cost more than her entire residency salary allowed her to emotionally process. Your nails were neat. Your perfume drifted faintly into the aisle, something sweet and floral that did not belong in the same world as trauma bays, vending machine dinners, and Jack Abbot’s permanent expression of clinical irritation.
Santos’s brain supplied one clear, horrifying thought.
Was Jack Abbot wealthy?
Or had he married rich?
Or both?
Whittaker, from the stunned look on his face, was clearly having some version of the same thought.
You stopped when you saw Santos and Whittaker. Then your eyes moved to the twins attached to Jack, then to the cart, then back to Jack.
A smile tugged at your mouth.
“Please tell me they didn’t bother your coworkers.”
Jack looked down at the twins.
His daughter looked innocent.
His son looked proud.
“They absolutely bothered my coworkers,” Jack said.
“We helped,” the girl corrected.
The boy nodded. “Dey were gonna buy da sad rich bag.”
You looked into the cart and immediately laughed.
Santos, who had seen Jack Abbot reduce grown medical students to silence with a single look, watched him turn his head toward the sound of your laugh like it had pulled him by a string.
It was small. Barely anything.
But it was there.
His face did not transform. He did not become some different man. He did not suddenly smile like a romantic lead in a bad movie. But his eyes softened. Just enough. Enough to blow every circuit in Santos’s brain as she tried to process the violent amount of information being thrown at her all at once.
Jack Abbot had children.
Jack Abbot had a pregnant wife.
Jack Abbot owned tailored clothing.
Jack Abbot apparently smelled like hospital at home.
You stepped closer and held out your hand.
“You must be Santos and Whittaker,” you said warmly. “Jack’s mentioned you.”
Santos’s brain stopped.
Jack’s mentioned you.
Jack had mentioned them.
At home.
To his wife.
His very beautiful, very polished, very expensive-looking wife.
Santos shook your hand automatically. “He has?”
Jack said, “Don’t sound so shocked.”
Whittaker blurted, “You’re married?”
Santos turned on him. “Whittaker.”
But it was too late.
The words were out.
A beat of silence passed. Your lips parted, and then you laughed again, soft and surprised, like you were not offended at all.
Jack studied Whittaker.
Whittaker looked physically pained. “I mean, sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant Dr. Abbot is very private. At work. About life. And people. And feelings. And apparently children. And formalwear.”
Jack looked down at himself.
“This isn’t formalwear.”
Whittaker swallowed. “It’s not scrubs.”
Santos slowly closed her eyes.
Jack said, dryly, “Good recovery.”
Whittaker looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.
You glanced at Jack, amused. “You didn’t tell them you had kids?”
Jack’s jaw shifted. “It didn’t come up.”
Santos gaped at him. “Didn’t come up?”
Jack looked at her. “We work in an emergency department.”
“You have twins.”
“I’m aware.”
“And a wife.”
Jack glanced at you.
This time, the softening was less subtle.
“Also aware.”
Your smile changed, and Santos almost looked away because the look between the two of you felt private, even in the middle of a department store.
Your daughter tugged on Jack’s sleeve.
“Daddy, I told them you’re Doctor Daddy.”
Jack’s expression went completely still.
Santos bit the inside of her cheek so hard it hurt. Whittaker coughed. You immediately pressed your lips together, clearly fighting for your life.
Jack slowly looked down at his daughter.
“You what?”
The little girl beamed. “Because you are Daddy and doctor.”
“That does not make me Doctor Daddy.”
“It does,” she said.
The boy shook his head. “I told her dat’s weird.”
“Thank you,” Jack said.
“But then I told them you’re Dr. Abbot.”
Jack looked at his son.
His son stood taller, visibly proud.
“Because dat’s your doctor name.”
Jack peered down at him for a second.
Then he sighed.
“Yeah,” he said, quieter. “That’s my doctor name.”
Santos did not know why that tiny exchange made her chest hurt.
Maybe because Jack sounded tired and fond at the same time. Maybe because his son looked at him like being Dr. Abbot was something heroic. Maybe because at work, Jack was gruff, exacting, guarded, and sometimes impossible.
But here, in a baby aisle, wearing a coat Santos was almost certain cost more than her rent, he was just someone’s husband.
Someone’s dad.
Someone’s whole world.
You moved beside him and reached up without thinking, fixing the collar of his coat where one of the twins had pulled it crooked.
Jack let you.
He even dipped his chin slightly to make it easier.
Santos watched the movement happen with the stunned fascination of someone seeing a rare animal in the wild.
Jack Abbot allowed domestic adjustment.
Jack Abbot accepted affection in public.
Jack Abbot had a wife who touched him like she knew every tired inch of him and had decided, years ago, to keep him anyway.
You glanced back at the cart.
“So,” you said, brightening, “baby shower?”
Santos nodded quickly, grateful for something normal to say. “Yeah. For one of the nurses on the floor. Dana sent us.”
Jack muttered, “Of course she did.”
You smiled knowingly. “Dana didn’t trust you to buy it?”
“She didn’t ask me.”
“Because she knows you would give cash.”
Jack looked mildly offended. “Cash is useful.”
“You cannot give cash at a baby shower and call it a thoughtful group gift.”
“I could if people were practical.”
You gave him a look.
Jack held it for one second, then looked away.
Whittaker whispered, “Wow.”
Santos elbowed him again.
The twins were now digging through the cart like tiny inspectors. The little girl picked up the stuffed lamb and hugged it to her chest.
“Dis one stays.”
The boy grabbed the yellow bag. “And dis.”
You looked at the blankets. “These are good.”
Santos straightened. “Really?”
“Yes. Burp cloths too. Always useful.”
Whittaker looked relieved. “What about the socks?”
You smiled sympathetically. “Cute, but they’ll disappear almost immediately.”
The boy nodded. “Socks are prisoners and feet are jail.”
Everyone paused.
Jack looked down at him. “What?”
His son shrugged. “I don’t like socks.”
Jack glowered for a moment, but there was no real bite behind it, before he looked at you.
“That one’s yours.”
You laughed. “He has your dramatic timing.”
“He has your refusal to wear appropriate clothing.”
“He is four.”
“So are you, especially when I ask you to bring a jacket.”
Santos’s eyebrows shot up.
Whittaker looked delighted.
You turned to Santos like nothing had happened. “Skip scented bath products unless you know the baby’s skin can handle them.”
Santos immediately removed the box from the cart.
Jack looked at her. “That fast?”
Santos pointed at you. “She sounds like she knows things.”
“She does,” Jack said.
There was no hesitation in it. No dryness, no sarcasm, no little defensive edge. Just simple agreement.
He nodded once, like it was obvious, and tucked you closer to him by the waist.
You glanced at him, and your expression softened again.
The little girl leaned against Jack’s leg, hugging the lamb to her chest. “Mommy knows baby stuff because she had us.”
The boy nodded. “Two at once.”
You sighed. “Yes, thank you. Mommy remembers.”
Jack looked down at them. “Mommy had a rough time.”
The girl looked up at him. “You cried.”
Jack’s face changed.
Barely.
But Santos saw it.
So did Whittaker.
You went still for half a second.
The little boy nodded proudly, like he was confirming an important family legend. “Grandma said Daddy cried when we came out.”
Jack said, “Grandma talks too much.”
Your daughter gasped. “You did cry?”
Jack looked deeply betrayed by everyone involved.
You reached for his hand.
Just your fingers sliding around his for one second, your thumb brushing over the back of it. Enough to steady him. Enough to say, it’s okay.
Jack let out a rough breath through his nose.
“I was tired.”
You smiled. “You were happy.”
“I was tired and happy.”
“You cried.”
“I had something in my eye.”
“Both eyes?”
“Hospital air is dry.”
Santos had to turn away.
Whittaker stared at Jack like he had just discovered a new organ.
The little girl looked at Santos. “Daddy says crying is normal, but he does not like when people see.”
Santos’s throat tightened.
Jack looked down at his daughter.
“Okay, press conference is over.”
She smiled brightly. “What’s press conference?”
“Something you’re banned from.”
The boy pointed to the teething giraffe. “This is weird.”
Whittaker perked up. “I picked that.”
The boy looked at him with immediate regret.
“Oh.”
You laughed and gently took the giraffe from the cart. “It’s not bad.”
Jack examined it.
“It looks… unique.”
Santos pointed at him. “Thank you.”
Whittaker looked betrayed. “It’s practical.”
“For what?” Jack asked.
“For teething.”
Jack looked at the giraffe again. “The baby has no teeth.”
“That’s why it’s called teething.”
Jack gave him a look.
Whittaker looked at you for support, and the expression on his face was so openly hopeful that even Jack, exhausted and dry-mouthed and morally opposed to half the products currently being sold in the baby section, seemed to hesitate.
Maybe it was the puppy-dog eyes.
Maybe it was the long shift still sitting heavy in Whittaker’s shoulders.
Maybe it was the fact that he looked genuinely worried he had chosen wrong, like failing at a baby shower gift was somehow going to be the thing that finally broke him.
Either way, Jack did not say anything worse.
You tilted your hand back and forth. “It can stay.”
Whittaker smiled triumphantly.
Jack muttered, “Enabler.”
You leaned into him just slightly. “Sweetheart.”
Santos stopped breathing.
Jack looked at you.
You smiled up at him, sweet and calm and completely unbothered by the fact that Santos and Whittaker were witnessing the most shocking domestic event of their lives.
Jack’s mouth twitched.
“Wife,” he said back.
Whittaker whispered, “This is insane.”
Santos whispered, “Shut up.”
The twins did not care. They had already moved on to the tissue paper. The girl wanted yellow. The boy wanted white. Santos could feel the argument coming before it even started.
“Yellow is happy,” the girl insisted.
“White is fancy,” the boy argued.
“Babies don’t care about fancy.”
“They might.”
“They don’t even have jobs.”
Whittaker nodded slowly. “That is a strong point.”
The boy turned on him. “You picked da sad rich bag.”
Whittaker looked wounded.
Jack picked up the yellow tissue paper and dropped it into the cart.
“There. Done.”
His daughter beamed.
His son frowned. “You always take her side.”
“I take the side that ends the conversation faster.”
You hummed. “Liar.”
Jack looked at you. You smiled. He sighed and added one packet of white tissue paper too. His son lit up.
“Thank you, Daddy.”
Jack pointed at him. “Do not make this a thing.”
“It’s a thing,” you said softly.
“It is not.”
“It’s a tiny thing.”
Jack shook his head, but his hand drifted to your lower back as you leaned over the cart, checking the rest of the gifts.
Santos noticed that too. She hated that she noticed everything now. The wedding ring. The hand on your back. The way Jack angled his body around you and the twins without thinking, like he was used to placing himself between his family and the world. The way you did not even seem to notice because this was normal.
This was just Jack.
Your Jack.
Not the hospital’s Jack. Not the trauma bay’s Jack. Not the man who stalked through the ER with bad coffee and worse patience.
Yours.
Santos suddenly felt like she had opened a door she had not known existed. Behind that door was a life with wool coats and polished shoes, car seats and broken bananas, fancy department stores and tiny gold bracelets. A wife who teased him. Children who called him Daddy in the middle of a baby aisle. A man who apparently cried when his twins were born and then lied badly about it.
Santos looked at Jack’s coat again. Then at your boots. Then at the kids. Then at the structured leather purse on your arm. Then at Jack’s watch.
She tried very hard not to make a face.
Whittaker failed.
Jack looked between them, eyes narrowing.
“What?”
Santos straightened. “Nothing.”
“That’s not a nothing face.”
“I don’t have a nothing face.”
“You absolutely have a nothing face.”
Whittaker nodded. “She does.”
Santos glared at him.
Whittaker looked at Jack again, then at the kids’ clothes, then at you, then back to Jack. Jack’s stare sharpened.
Whittaker swallowed. “Are you, like… secretly rich?”
The aisle went quiet.
Santos closed her eyes.
You made a small sound like you were trying not to laugh.
Jack looked at Whittaker for a long, painful second.
“What?”
Whittaker’s face flushed. “I mean, not secretly. Obviously not secretly if you’re standing here wearing that coat. I just mean, at work, you dress like you hate laundry and sometimes society.”
Santos put a hand over her mouth.
Jack slid you a mildly annoyed look.
You lost the battle and laughed.
The twins looked confused. The little girl tugged on Jack’s sleeve.
“Daddy, are we rich?”
Jack closed his eyes.
The boy answered before anyone else could.
“Mommy says rich is not manners.”
You pressed your lips together.
Jack looked at his son. “Mommy is right.”
The girl frowned. “But Grandma says Daddy has expensive sad shoes.”
Santos made a strangled noise.
Jack opened his eyes and looked at you.
You held up one hand. “Mum said that, not me. It was the leather pair. The ones that gave you blisters before you wore them in.”
Whittaker whispered, “Expensive sad shoes.”
Santos whispered back, “I’m going to die.”
Jack looked back into the cart.
“You have enough.”
You nodded. “More than enough. Leah will love it.”
Santos paused. “How did you know it was Leah?”
You smiled. “Jack told me.”
Santos slowly turned toward Jack.
At least he had the decency to look mildly caught. Jack glanced away like the display of pacifiers had suddenly become fascinating.
Whittaker’s voice rose slightly. “You talk about us at home?”
Jack said, “Unfortunately.”
You laughed. “He does.”
Jack gave you a warning look. You ignored it with the ease of someone who had long ago become immune.
“He talks about Dana mostly. And Robby. Sometimes Mel. Sometimes Santos if something chaotic happened.” Your smile widened. “And when new residents come in, he pretends he does not enjoy seeing new faces.”
Santos gasped. “I knew it.”
Jack said, “You are frequently involved in chaos.”
“That is unfair.”
“It is documented.”
Whittaker pointed to himself. “What about me?”
Jack looked at him.
A long pause followed.
“You’re there.”
Whittaker nodded, accepting this as praise.
You smiled at him kindly. “He says you’re sweet.”
Jack immediately looked pained.
Whittaker’s entire face changed.
Santos slapped a hand over her mouth.
Jack said, “I did not say sweet.”
You blinked innocently. “Gentle?”
“No.”
“Kind?”
“No.”
“Earnest?”
Jack exhaled.
Whittaker whispered, “He said earnest?”
Jack pointed at you. “This is why I don’t bring work home.”
You squeezed his arm.
“You bring work home every day. I just make you eat dinner anyway.”
That landed differently.
Santos saw it in the way Jack’s expression quieted. The humor did not leave, exactly. It settled. Became something deeper. He looked at you for a second too long, and you looked back like you understood all the things he would never say in front of other people.
Then your daughter tugged on your coat.
“Mommy, can we go get pretzels?”
Your son perked up. “I need pretzel.”
Jack looked down. “You had lunch.”
“Dat was old.”
“It was forty minutes ago.”
“Exactly.”
You laughed and bent to fix your daughter’s slipping headband.
“We can get pretzels after Daddy pays for his things.”
Jack frowned. “My things?”
You gestured to the cart. “You’re clearly part of this now.”
Santos looked between you and Jack.
“Wait, no. Dana gave us money.”
Jack reached for the cart handle.
“Dana can reimburse me.”
Santos shook her head. “She will kill us.”
“No, she won’t.”
“She might.”
“She won’t kill you in front of Leah’s baby shower gift.”
Whittaker considered this. “That actually sounds true.”
Santos looked at Jack. “You don’t have to pay.”
Jack started pushing the cart.
“I know.”
You walked beside him, the twins immediately falling into place between you like practiced little satellites. Santos and Whittaker followed because there was nothing else to do.
Also because, realistically, neither of them was walking away from this.
Not now.
Not when Jack Abbot was pushing a cart full of baby shower gifts through a department store while his well-dressed wife discussed burp cloth quality and his very tiny, very expensive-looking children debated whether babies knew what colors were.
At the checkout, the cashier smiled at the twins.
“Well, aren’t you two adorable?”
The little girl smiled sweetly. “We helped Daddy’s friends.”
The boy added, “Dey don’t know babies.”
Santos closed her eyes.
Whittaker nodded. “That’s fair.”
The cashier scanned the lamb, the blankets, the burp cloths, the yellow bag, the white tissue paper, the yellow tissue paper, and the practical teething giraffe. Each soft beep of the scanner felt louder than it should have. Santos stood there holding Dana’s envelope of cash, fully prepared to pay, but Jack already had his wallet out.
His wallet was leather, of course.
Not just normal leather either. Expensive leather. The kind with a small, discreet brand stamped into the corner, probably from some niche company that manufactured men’s accessories no resident’s paycheck could touch until they were eight to ten years into their career and emotionally recovered from medical training.
Of course Jack Abbot had a wallet like that.
Santos did not want to notice.
She noticed anyway.
Jack paid before Santos could physically stop him.
You watched him with an amused little smile. “Dana is absolutely going to have something to say about this.”
Jack took the receipt. “Dana always has something to say.”
The cashier handed over the bags. Whittaker reached for them automatically, and Jack passed one to him before looking at Santos.
“Tell Dana I contributed.”
Santos narrowed her eyes. “Is that what we’re calling hijacking?”
“Yes.”
Your daughter tugged on Jack’s sleeve. “Daddy, pretzel.”
Jack looked down at her. “You’re relentless.”
She smiled. “You love me.”
Jack’s face changed again.
Barely.
But enough.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”
The little girl beamed like she had known the answer before asking.
Santos looked away first this time.
Outside the store, the cold air hit hard. The parking lot was gray and busy, cars sliding carefully through slushy lanes, shopping carts rattling in the wind, and people rushing toward warm interiors with their shoulders hunched. The sky hung low and pale over the rows of parked cars, and the automatic doors sighed open and shut behind them, spilling little bursts of mall warmth into the winter afternoon.
You pulled your coat tighter around yourself, and Jack noticed immediately.
Without missing a beat, he shifted closer, blocking some of the wind as you adjusted your scarf.
It was such a small thing.
So automatic.
So intimate.
Santos wondered how many times he had done it. How many tiny gestures lived inside this marriage that no one at the hospital knew about. How many versions of Jack Abbot existed outside the emergency department, away from trauma bays, bad coffee, clipped orders, and the heavy silence that followed terrible news.
The twins skipped ahead two steps, then immediately came back when Jack said their names in that low dad voice that apparently worked better than any alarm.
“Hands,” he said.
Both children reached back without argument.
Your daughter took yours.
Your son took Jack’s.
Whittaker whispered to Santos, “He has a dad voice.”
Santos whispered back, “I know.”
“I didn’t know he could sound like that.”
“I know.”
Whittaker’s gaze dropped to Jack’s coat again. “And he has… nice clothes.”
Santos whispered, “I know.”
“Do you think he’s rich?”
“I am begging you not to ask him that again.”
“He didn’t answer.”
“That was the answer.”
Whittaker considered this, then nodded solemnly.
Ahead of them, Jack looked over his shoulder.
“I can hear you.”
Santos smiled. “No, you can’t.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed.
You laughed under your breath. “That is absolutely not a nothing face.”
Santos pointed at you. “Thank you.”
Jack looked betrayed. “Do not encourage her.”
You smiled up at him. “Husband.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Wife.”
The twins groaned.
“You always say dat,” the boy complained.
The little girl nodded. “It’s mushy.”
Jack looked down at them. “You begged me to cut your pancakes into hearts last week.”
“That was different,” she said. “That was breakfast.”
You laughed, bright and warm, and Jack looked at you again like the sound had found some place in him the hospital never touched.
By the time they reached the cars, Santos felt oddly quiet.
Whittaker did too.
Jack opened the back door of your car while you helped your daughter climb into her seat. The car was dark, clean, and expensive in that understated way Santos had no desire to think too hard about. Unfortunately, Whittaker clearly did. His eyes kept drifting over the sleek body, the polished trim, the badge on the front, and the kind of interior that looked like it had been designed by someone who used the word performance without irony.
It was not just a family car. It was a limited-edition Porsche Cayenne, the kind marketed as both very safe and very luxurious, which felt deeply unfair as a combination. Much later, Santos and Whittaker would learn it was your family’s third car and mostly used for family drives.
At the moment, Santos was too busy trying not to openly stare.
Your son scrambled in from the other side, still talking about pretzels, giraffes, and how the white tissue paper had also deserved to come home.
Jack buckled him in with the tired competence of someone who had done it a thousand times. He checked the strap once, then again, then tugged lightly at the buckle. His son endured it with the patience of a child used to being loved by someone cautious.
The boy looked up at him. “Daddy?”
“What?”
“Your friends are funny.”
Jack glanced back at Santos and Whittaker. “They’re something.”
Santos lifted both hands. “Rude.”
Your daughter leaned around her car seat. “Bye, Daddy’s doctor friends!”
Whittaker waved. “Bye.”
Santos waved too. “Bye, tiny consultants.”
The girl giggled.
Jack closed the car door and turned to them. For a second, no one said anything.
Then Santos crossed her arms.
“So.”
Jack sighed. “Don’t.”
“You have twins.”
“Yes.”
“And a wife.”
“Yes.”
“And Robby knows.”
Jack looked tired already. “Unfortunately.”
“And you just never mentioned it?”
Jack’s jaw shifted. “I don’t talk about them at work.”
That quieted her.
Because it was plain. Simple. Honest in the way Jack rarely was unless he had no room left to be anything else.
It was not secrecy for the sake of secrecy.
It was protection.
Santos understood it just enough. The hospital took everything it could from people. Time. Sleep. Patience. Softness. Sometimes whole pieces of yourself before you noticed they were gone. Jack had kept this separate because he needed something the hospital did not get to touch.
You.
The twins.
This little life of his, safe from the pain and suffering brought on by his sacrifices. Safe from the hospital. Safe from the strangers who would probably not remember him years from now, even if he remembered them. Safe from the endless fluorescent ache of giving and giving until there was almost nothing left.
Jack had kept this part of himself somewhere the hospital could not reach. Santos understood that more than she wanted to.
Whittaker, softer now, said, “They’re really great.”
Jack looked at him.
The hardness in his face eased a fraction.
“Yeah,” he said. “They are.”
You came around from the other side of the car and slid your hand into Jack’s.
“Are we traumatizing your coworkers?”
Jack looked at Santos and Whittaker. “Probably.”
Santos shook her head. “No. Just recalibrating.”
Whittaker nodded. “Majorly.”
You smiled. “Well, thank you for letting the twins help.”
“They may have saved the gift,” Santos admitted.
Your daughter shouted through the closed window, “Yellow wins!”
Jack did not even turn around.
“Yes, sweetheart. Yellow wins.”
Santos pointed at him. “That. That right there. That is insane.”
Jack looked at her blankly. “What?”
“You just said sweetheart.”
You laughed.
Jack looked mildly annoyed. “She’s my daughter.”
“I know, but still.”
“What do you want me to call her? Resident?”
Whittaker laughed so hard he turned away.
Santos grinned. “There he is.”
Jack gave her a flat look, but it had no real bite. Not here. Not with your hand in his and your thumb moving gently over his knuckles.
You leaned into him slightly. “We should go before the pretzel crisis becomes irreversible.”
Jack nodded. “Good call.”
You smiled at Santos and Whittaker. “It was nice meeting you.”
Santos meant it when she said, “You too.”
Whittaker nodded. “Really nice.”
Jack opened the driver’s door for you first, and Santos almost made a noise.
You seemed not to notice because, again, this was normal. Jack held the door. You touched his arm as you passed. He waited until you were settled before closing it gently.
Then he walked around to his side, paused, and looked back at Santos.
“If this becomes a thing at work…”
Santos smiled sweetly. “What thing?”
Jack glared.
Whittaker looked between them and wisely said nothing.
Santos held up the baby shower bag. “We’ll tell Dana the twins approved the gift.”
Jack nodded slowly. “Fine.”
“And that you paid.”
He grimaced. “She’ll yell.”
“Probably.”
Jack sighed, then opened his door. Before getting in, he glanced back once more. His face was guarded again. Mostly.
But not entirely.
“Drive safe,” he said.
It was such a normal thing to say. So ordinary. And yet somehow, coming from Jack Abbot outside of work, after discovering he had an entire life wrapped around him like warmth, it felt like another secret.
Santos nodded. “You too.”
Jack got into the car.
A second later, his daughter’s tiny hand appeared in the back window, waving wildly.
Whittaker waved back.
Santos did too.
Then your car pulled out of the parking space. Jack was behind the wheel, you were beside him, the twins were in the back, and all four of you disappeared into the gray Pittsburgh afternoon like this was just another Saturday.
Like the entire foundation of Santos and Whittaker’s understanding had not just collapsed in the baby aisle.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then Whittaker said, “Doctor Daddy.”
Santos lost it.
She laughed so hard she had to bend forward, one hand gripping the cart return while the baby shower bag swung from her wrist. Whittaker started laughing too, quieter at first, then helplessly, until both of them were standing in the cold like idiots, laughing about Jack Abbot’s secret wife, secret children, secret expensive coat, and secret ability to say sweetheart without combusting.
When they finally made it back to Santos’s car, the yellow gift bag sat between them in the back seat, cheerful and bright and absolutely the correct choice.
Whittaker buckled himself in and stared out the windshield.
After a while, he said, “Do you think the twins know he’s terrifying?”
Santos started the car. “No.”
Whittaker nodded thoughtfully. “They just think he’s their father.”
Santos pulled out of the parking spot, still smiling. “Yeah. That might be worse.”
Whittaker was quiet for another few seconds.
Then he said, “Do you think Dana knows he dresses like that?”
Santos groaned. “Whittaker.”
“I’m serious. He looked like he had dinner reservations.”
“He probably did.”
“With his wife.”
“Yes.”
“And his tiny rich children.”
“Do not say tiny rich children at work.”
“They had better coats than I do.”
“So did Jack.”
Whittaker nodded, staring into the middle distance. “Today changed me.”
Santos laughed again, softer this time. “Yeah. Me too.”
Then both of them went quiet.
Just suddenly, like the same thought had arrived in the car at the exact same time and settled between them beside the yellow gift bag.
They had gotten your name when you introduced yourself and shook their hands. That much they had managed to process, despite the visual assault of Jack Abbot’s very pregnant wife, his tailored coat, and the baby gift debacle unfolding in real time.
But they had never gotten the twins’ names.
Somehow, in the middle of haunted bears, sad rich bags, teething giraffes, Doctor Daddy, pretzels, and Jack paying for everything like it was nothing, Santos and Whittaker had completely forgotten to ask.
Whittaker turned his head slowly.
Santos kept her eyes on the road.
“We don’t know their names,” he said.
“I know.”
“We met Jack Abbot’s secret children, and we don’t know their names.”
“I know.”
“That feels important.”
“It does.”
Whittaker sat back, visibly filing the information away with dangerous care. Santos already knew what he was thinking because she was thinking it too. They were absolutely bringing this up the next time they saw Jack. Not loudly. Not in front of everyone. Not immediately.
But eventually.
Carefully.
Casually.
Just enough to watch him squirm.
Whittaker looked out the window, then smiled to himself.
“We have to ask him.”
Santos turned onto the main road.
“Oh, absolutely.”
By the time they got back to the hospital the next day, gifts in hand, Dana was already waiting at the nurses’ station with one hand on her hip and the expression of a woman who knew, with absolute certainty, that they had taken too long.
The ER swallowed them immediately.
The warm, polished hush of the department store vanished the second they stepped inside, replaced by ringing phones, squeaking gurney wheels, muffled voices behind curtain dividers, someone coughing too hard in triage, and the steady mechanical pulse of monitors. The air smelled like coffee, disinfectant, old paper, and the particular metallic edge of a hospital that never truly slept.
Santos had the yellow gift bag in one hand.
Whittaker had the other bag tucked awkwardly against his chest.
Dana looked at them. “Well?”
Santos held up the yellow gift bag.
Dana looked at it, then at Santos, then at Whittaker.
“Why do you both look like that?”
Whittaker opened his mouth.
Santos slapped a hand against his chest. “Gift’s handled.”
Dana narrowed her eyes. “What happened?”
Santos smiled. “Nothing.”
Dana looked past her toward the yellow tissue paper sticking proudly out of the bag.
“That is not a nothing bag.” Her eyes narrowed further. “This is more than the budget I gave you two.”
From somewhere down the hall, Jack Abbot’s voice cut through the noise of the ER.
“Santos.”
She turned.
Jack stood near the trauma board, back in his scrubs, badge clipped to his chest, expression flat and tired like nothing unusual had happened at all. Like Santos had not seen him in a fitted wool coat less than twenty-four hours ago. Like she had not watched his daughter call him Doctor Daddy in the middle of a department store. Like he had not held his wife’s hand in a parking lot. Like he had not paid for a baby shower gift that was clearly, painfully over budget because his children had emotionally attached themselves to a stuffed lamb and a yellow gift bag.
Like he did not have polished shoes, a beautiful wife, and tiny children in gorgeous coats waiting somewhere outside the hospital’s reach.
Santos smiled slowly.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”
Dana’s eyebrows rose.
Whittaker looked at the floor.
Santos walked past Jack with the yellow gift bag and said, very sweetly, “Nice bag, Doctor Daddy.”
Jack closed his eyes.
Dana turned sharply. “What?”
Robby, passing by with a chart, immediately stopped. “What did I miss?”
Jack pointed at Santos without opening his eyes. “No.”
Santos kept walking.
Whittaker followed, trying and failing not to laugh.
Dana looked between all of them, suddenly very interested.
Robby grinned.
Jack sighed like a man who had survived war, trauma medicine, twin toddlers, marriage, and now the worst possible thing of all.
Coworkers with new information.
From the nurses’ station, Santos looked back once.
Jack was already moving toward his next patient, expression guarded again, voice low and calm as he asked for vitals. The scrubs were back. The hospital posture was back. The unreadable face was back. The man in the wool coat had vanished so completely that, if Santos had not seen him herself, she might have thought she had imagined the whole thing.
But now she knew.
Underneath all that exhaustion, all that dry humor, all that distance, there was a yellow gift bag kind of life waiting for him somewhere.
A wife who called him husband.
Twins who called him Daddy.
And Jack Abbot, impossible Jack Abbot, who loved them enough to let the world see it by accident.
Just once.