Just keep it clean and don't call me honey.

26 | she/her | Marvel | Star Trek/Wars | Doctor Who | Criminal Minds | Ted Lasso | MINORS DO NOT FUCKING INTERACT

[xmpxlxx]

Price with a partner who sleep talks

pairing: John Price x gn!reader cw: sleeptalking wc: 903 an: price, the man you are. id forgotten my obsession with him until I found my Tumblr archives on my pc. this was SOOO fun to write, enjoy!

John Price had never been a heavy sleeper. 

While it was a part of himself that had been apparent to him since before his time in the military, it would be foolish to say it didn’t play an important role in it. He rarely got more than a couple of hours of sleep, which his body had adapted to over the years—not without putting up a fight, that is. 

He’d always struggled with the civvie life. Before you came into his life—a whirlwind of colour and a warmth he did not believe himself capable of deserving—he’d hated sleeping outside of the comfort of his quarters. His house was suffocating in its quiet loudness. 

He had become acquaintances with the cat who rummaged through his trash at three in the morning, on the dot. He still woke up whenever the fridge clicked without explanation in the middle of the night—that sharp, sudden noise that had him shoving a hand under his pillow before he could even process the fact that he didn’t need to aim his gun at an electrical appliance. The electrical line that had been busted for almost three months, constantly emitting a loud buzzing noise, had pushed him to the edge. 

Then you’d come along. Quietly, sneakily—like mould. And, God help him, he’d never been more grateful for anything in his life. A toothbrush here, spare socks there, your things all over his house. What could only be described as a parasitic infestation had never felt better. 

Along with your banter over lunch and your tea in his cupboard, came your…peculiar nightly habits. 

He’d heard of sleeptalkers, of course. He was guilty of his own nonsensical mumbling late at night after a string of stressful ops. But what you did wasn’t mumble or whisper softly—it was borderline paranormal. 

The first night he got to witness it, you were jolted awake by the sudden weight laid over your neck. His forearm pressed against your neck, gone as fast as it had appeared. You blinked once in shock, unsure as to what the hell had happened and if you had imagined it in the first place. It’d been John, the following morning, who recalled the events for you.

“Thought someone had broken in,” he mumbled, and if you hadn’t known any better you would’ve sworn he was mad at you. “Scared the shit outta me, love.”

He acclimated—unwillingly. While his military instincts were hard to quiet down, he become almost fond of the late-night conversations and complete lunacy that came out of your mouth whenever midnight rolled around. 

That night, he was woken up by the sound of you arguing with someone who had quickly become Price’s number one nemesis. 

“Colonel Duck,” you whispered with a frown on your face. “This was discussed in the briefing.”

John woke the way he usually did once his body had learned to recognize your nightly conversations as non-threatening—groggily, slow, exhausted. He lay on his side, propping himself up on his elbow while his other hand rested above your stomach. Your shirt, caught in sheets and whatever else you had done to it through the night, lifted to reveal your cold skin. He flattened his palm over his stomach as he stiffened a yawn. 

Outside, only the sound of a nearby creek and crickets were carried by the wind. Inside, Price watched as your nose scrunched at whatever this colonel had dared say to you—a civilian whose only contact with the army was through whatever the man shared with you.

He dragged his palm closer to your waist, twisting you effortlessly so that your chest would be pressed against his. He nuzzled your neck, his beard scratching the sensitive skin in a way that earned a quiet laugh from your otherwise serious façade. 

“John, do something,” you whined against his ear. “He won’t listen.”

Despite the exhaustion, he chuckled against your neck. He pressed a quick, albeit soft, kiss to your jaw before pulling away, feeling the tiredness that clung to his bones slowly bleed into his muscles. 

“M’afraid I can’t, love,” he whispered. “He’s a colonel.”

John’s smile widened at the sight of your pout—so genuine and upset he almost asked Laswell to dig through whatever archives needed to be dug to find this Colonel Duck who had plagued your dreams for the past two months. 

Your arm slid over his waist as you finally closed the distance between you. You muttered something he couldn’t hear, even in the silent room, before burying your nose in the crook of his neck. He chuckled—low and revibrating against your chest. 

“He’s drunk on power,” you mumbled with that voice he’d come to recognize as your finally going back to sleep voice. 

John laughed, then sighed at the feeling of your body going limp beneath him. He felt your hair against his chin and your breath against his skin. His fingers dug into your hip as his lips found your forehead. 

“We’ll report him,” he assured your sleeping form. 

He let his lips linger on your forehead for a beat longer before he let his head fall against the pillow again, arms safely wrapped around you. Your breathing evened, and he listened to it like a lull to fall asleep to. 

John Price had killed a general already. He’d taken on a bloody colonel if needed. 

[phiphieee]

bruises

You’d been stirring for a while already when he came in. If there was one thing that river always complained about it was your need to let the curtains half open when you slept. 

‘But I’m scared of the dark.’

 ‘But I’m here, just trust me alright close the fucking blind so we can sleep.’ I’ll protect you. That’s what he had meant to say. 

But he hadn’t of course, because he was a massive fuck up. And now he was coming back at the crack of dawn with his head bashed in. He was praying you’d be fast asleep and stay that way for a while so he could feel the weight of you in his arms without having you asking what had happened. River couldn’t take pity from you. He had never seen it in your eyes but he was so afraid of the day it would inevitably happen, he didn’t fancy his chances. And god he was tired. He just wanted you and sleep. 

After an express trip to the bathroom he slipped carefully under the covers. You tended to hog them when you’d fall asleep before he came home, if there was at least one good thing about slough house is was that he was usually bolting at 5 o’clock sharp and definitely in bed with you by 11:30. Not today he thought sighing. Awkwardly shuffling to nudge himself fully under the covers. 

Hearing you make a deep noise halfway between a hum and a groan he knew he’d miserably failed, and turning your head around to face him, eyes still closed and half asleep he couldn’t help the soft smile that spread across his face.

‘Hi Riv’ you said nuzzling his chest before slotting yourself against the familiar curve of his neck.

‘Hi’

‘What time is it?’

‘Fucking early, you have ages’ he’d cupped the back of her head hoping that was enticing enough to keep her from looking up at him and spotting the black eye or remnants of dried blood. Feeling her lean into his touch and pressing her lips to his chin before muttering something he knew he had succeeded for now and allowed himself to slip into a dreamless sleep.

…

The first thing river saw when he woke up was her furrowed brows, fingers hovering above his face in the way that she usually traces his features in the morning. He slowly blinked his eyes open.

‘River’

‘Good morning ‘

´What happened ?’ She’d said it with a slight pout which made him want to kiss her, he settled for one on her nose.

‘Uh- got beat up’

She sighed ‘it looks bad-‘

‘Aw thanks darling ‘

‘Did you see a doctor ?’

‘…No’

‘Do you think you need one?’

´No,honestly. I’m fine’

She was looking at him so intently he couldn’t help almost shying away from it. Maybe this is when the pity-

‘Baby’ he laughed. Like he had the first time she’d called him that. She always said it so softly it still caught him off guard.

´I’m going to have to fight them if they keep doing that to your pretty face’ 

´Yeah?’

‘I would 100% fight them for you, you know that? Right?’ 

River pictured her in front of nick Duffy and shuddered at the mental image. ´I wouldn’t let you I don’t think’

´Start guarding your face better then’

´Ill try that next time, promise’ 

[teddyheartwright]

What Are We Doing Here, part seven

It's here, the final chapter!! I hope you enjoy - apologies for the delay, turns out I just can't write smut and thats okay! I hope it was worth the too-long wait - while this is the end for now, my inbox is open for potential hcs/blurbs/scenes for this pair of doofuses because someone has to keep the River Cartwright love alive

Warnings: fem!reader, no use of y/n, allusion but no actual smut (sorry to my horndogs out there), my boy yearning but happy ending dw :)

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six

Who would be ringing River at almost 3am? 

It’s you. He picks it up so quickly it almost falls out of his hand.

“…Hello?” He asks.

There is a silence which sends a sinking feeling straight to the very bottom of his stomach.

“…River? Are you there?” You whisper. He can just about hear you, but it sounds like you’re out of breath, maybe?

“What’s wrong?” There is a panicked edge to his voice.

“…Never mind, I’m probably being stupid-”

River gets up and picks up his car keys.

“Please just tell me what’s up.”

“…it’s just…I think there might be someone in a car outside.”

He stops in his tracks.

“What?”

“I-I don’t know. I couldn’t sleep and then I looked out the window and there’s a car I don’t recognise, and what looks like some guy just sitting in the front. I got so scared, I’ve just hidden on my floor so he can’t see me. I mean it’s probably nothing-”

River is running down the stairs now.

“Remember, there is no thing as coincidences in our world!” He warns you in between breaths.

“Oh. Right. Well, I don’t know if he’s still there, but I haven’t heard any movement or driving, and I just wondered if it was normal - I’m probably just being stupid and paranoid though,  it’s been a really weird night so just ignore me-”

River hears you get a little distant from the phone and cries out.

“DON’T -don’t hang up the phone! Sorry for shouting, but even if it is nothing, the safest thing to do is stay on the line. Can you do that for me?”

“Oh, er, okay.”

“I’m going to drive to yours now and keep you on the line okay? But you just need to keep talking for the time being. Do you live alone?”

“Yes, it’s just me.”

“Right. Right.” River tries to steady his breathing as he runs through all the scenarios in his head. “Do you have some weapon you can grab onto?”

“I’ve got a cricket bat, that might be my dad’s or granddad’s, maybe? It’s not exactly going to stop a gun, is it?”

“I mean it could stop the hand holding a gun, so it’s better than nothing.”

“Wait, so is it likely the person has a gun?” River can hear the fear in your voice.

“It is possible. But not certain. I’m not trying to scare you, I’m just preparing you for a worst case scenario. Fail to prepare-”

“Prepare to fail.”

“Exactly. I assume they gave you some basic self-defence training for working at the Park.”

“Some basic stuff. I also did some judo as a kid.”

“That’s pretty cool.”

“Well, it stops the kids bullying you.”

You both laugh for a second, before remembering the very tense situation you’re in.

“Okay, I’m going to get in my car. Is there more than one way in or out of the building?”

“Just the front door.”

“Not ideal in terms of getting out, but at least it will stop any surprise entries.” River puts the key in. “I’m coming to you as fast as I can. What I’m going to need you to do is stay where you are, out of view of the window, and when I say, you are going to leave as quickly and as quietly as possible. I will park directly outside your gate and meet you at the front door, okay?”

“Okay.” 

Just before River is about to drive, you speak up again.

“You said we need to keep talking, right?”

“That’s right.”

“So will you tell me the ways to disarm someone if he was to come in?” You sound so small then. He can see you, curled at the side of your bed, clutching the phone. 

“I can do that.”

So as he weaves around the quiet London streets, he gives you detailed instructions on how to potentially disarm and surprise attackers. You repeat everything back to him, only occasionally stopping if you think you hear a noise. Every time he stops breathing, for just a moment, before you continue talking again.

It takes an incredibly quick time, even for River, to get to your street. Here he slows, looking into every parked car in search of a face.

“What car was it?”

“The one outside? I think it was a black, or maybe dark blue one, right under the tree.”

River looks. There it is, lights are off. But you are right. There is a man, just sat in the drivers seat, looking at his phone. 

“River? River are you still there?”

River’s adrenaline kicks in. Maybe it’s a coincidence, but that’s not a chance he’s going to take. He pulls the car in just past the blue car, watching the stranger in the wing mirror until he stops. 

“I’m just pulling up. Get downstairs, without turning the light on if you can.”

He pulls his gun out of the glove box, keeping it hidden under his coat as he walks to your front door, phone in the other hand. He can’t risk arousing any suspicion just yet. As he gets to your front door, he mimes looking for his keys.

“Hey babe, can you let me in?” He says down the phone, just a little louder, and slurring his words. “Open the door in just a minute, okay?” River whispers. He then waits for what feels like forever, until finally the door creaks open.

There you are, in your pyjamas, which are obnoxiously cute and it clearly looks like you’ve been crying.

“What now?” You whisper.

“Come with me and walk fast.” He glances over his shoulder and sees the man is still looking at his phone. He bundles you under his coat and power walks you to the car, almost breaking into a sprint. He puts you into the passenger side, blocking your body until you are full in, before getting back behind the driver’s seat. He pulls away with cracking screech. You look behind. There is no sign of the blue car.

There is a long silence between the two of you.

“I feel a bit silly now.” You say, staying at your hands which are folded in your lap.

“Why’s that?”

“That guy doesn’t seem to be following us.” You rub your forehead. “You can just drop me back home. It’s fine.”

“Just because he’s not right behind us now, doesn’t mean he wasn’t spying on you. Or he wasn’t just waiting for other guys to come. There’s lots of reasons why he might have been parked outside your house, and whatever it was, I don’t trust it.”

You let out a soft ‘oh’ and go back to staring at your hands. River thinks about putting his hand on your thigh and decides against it.

“I’m not trying to scare you. He might have just been a weirdo. But I just didn’t want to take those chances. Not again.”

You look at him, street lights dancing over his face in the dark. You remember the story of Sid that Jackson told you. You think about putting your hand on his thigh but decide against it.

“Okay, so where are we going River?”

“Well we could either go to a hotel, or you can come to mine.”

“Okay, which one is safer?”

“If I take a couple of detours, mine has less random members of the public accessing it. And I’ve put in more security stuff.”

“Okay, I guess that sounds like a plan. Yours it is.”

_______

When you arrive at his flat, it is nothing like you imagined. For some reason you imagined it would be immaculate, all luxury furniture and high tech and bottles of whisky on display or something. But it is just…very normal. There isn’t much decoration at all, bar a couple of photos of River and his granddad. of course there are papers covered in scrawled notes in red pen and half-empty coffee cups everywhere. There is a blanket on the couch which suggests that he’s definitely fallen asleep there more than once. As you enter, he goes ahead, frantically tidying up.

“Sorry about the mess. I didn’t anticipate company.”

“Don’t worry about it. You didn’t see my flat. Although as a MI6 admin, I don’t think you should be leaving this stuff out.” You pick up the papers.

“I don’t know what you are talking about, I would never do such a thing.” He says, looking directly at you as he picks the papers up and puts them into a drawer, which he locks.

“Of course.” You say, before a yawn creeps over you. “Right, what now Master Spy?”

River continues tidying without looking up.

“You can sleep in my bed.”

“And where are you going to sleep?”

“I can take the couch.”

There is a long pause. River finally looks up. You’ve got that look on your face again, like you’re trying not to act scared.

“Yeah, okay, that’s fine.”

“Do you want me to be somewhere else?”

“No-really, it’s fine.”

River stays where he is. He wonders if he should push it, but then he remembers your expression earlier. Boundaries. Remember boundaries, River.

“Okay. Whatever you want, but please tell me if you change your mind. I’ll just be outside.”

You nod, closing the door gently behind you. He gets changed into a t-shirt and boxers, about to set himself on the couch, when he hears the door open.

“Actually, god this is embarrassing, but-” Your voice drops to a whisper. “would you mind sleeping in here? It’s just…I don’t think I’ll ever get to sleep otherwise. And we have to be back in work in less than five hours. I promise I’ll keep to my side of the bed. Or I can sleep on the floor or something.”

“Yeah, of course. Although I’m not allowing you to sleep on my floor. That’s not good for anyone’s back.”

Without thinking, you remark. “Yeah, I can’t tell everyone at work that’s how you blew my back out.” The scoff River lets out is almost violent, and you look shocked at yourself. “Sorry ignore me, I’m clearly delirious from the sleep deprivation.”

“I mean yes. But also why would you telling the people at work that in the first place?”

You stare into the distance, clearly mortified.

“I…good point. Just get in here before I say anything else stupid.”

He follows you into the bedroom and the pair of you climb into bed without saying anything. 

“Goodnight River.”

“Goodnight”, he says, turning out the light.

There is silence for a moment as you face away from each other, until he can feel the bed shaking. He turns around to face you. He realises. You’re crying. He immediately sits up, turning the light back up. You sit up, wiping your eyes.

“What’s going on?” He asks you.

“Sorry, it’s just-it’s just been a really weird day.” 

“Yeah it has. And I’m sorry. This is all my fault.”

You look at him surprised.

“What?”

“First I get you sacked from the park, and then I get you trailing Russian diplomats who then send people to stalk you.”

“What? Please, I did all of this to myself and more. I deserve it.”

River looks at you curiously.

“You don’t deserve any of this. You are brilliant and smart and beautiful and excellent at what you do. You deserve a good job and and a normal life and a good guy who can take care of you and who doesn’t fuck everything up.”

You reach up a hand to his face and gently stroke it with your thumb.

“As far as I can tell, I’m looking right at a guy who dropped everything in the middle of the night to keep me safe, then took me home and gave me his bed to sleep in. That sounds like a pretty good guy to me.”

“You don’t mean that. You won’t mean that. Not when you’ve spent enough time with me.”

“I’m not like you spies. I mean everything I do.” 

And then you lean in and kiss him. Not rushed, like the first time, but gently as if you’re savouring him. The feeling washes over him at first, before returning, this time frenzied. He kisses you back, grasping your face, warm hands pulling at your cold exposed flesh on your waist.  You grab onto those arms, surprisingly strong and solid under you. His kisses wander from your mouth to your neck. He feels a soft sigh leave you.

“I’ve wanted you for so long.” He confesses into the crook of your shoulder, one hand snaking down your thigh. A feeling starts coiling in your stomach.  You feel high right now.

“Me too. I’ve imagined it a lot-”

His head pricks up.

“You have?”

It’s dark, but you can feel your cheeks heat up.

“Haven’t you?”

“Of course, but I want to hear specifically how you’ve imagined it…”

“River, shut up and keep kissing me.”

River, for once in his life, was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, or in this case, neck and other erogenous zones. But as he works his way back up to your mouth to kiss you again, you turn your head away very suddenly.  River pulls back, scared he’s gone too far, when he sees it. You’re trying to stifle a yawn. 

“I’m so sorry, I don’t know where that came from,” you tell him in a very small tone.

River looks at you in the dim light of the room. He can see how hard you’re trying to stay awake, staring at him and gripping on as if he might disappear the moment you close your eyes.  While his body is burning, his heart is breaking at how devastatingly soft you look in this light. He places a hand on your cheek. 

“It’s very late. And as much as I do genuinely want to rock your world, maybe it’s best if we get some actual sleep first.”

Your face falls slightly.

“Oh right. Good idea,” you say, your tone not very convincing at all.

He kisses you again, firmly this time.

“I do mean it though. About rocking your world sometime. Could we…maybe get a drink after work?”

“Will it require any more espionage?”

“Not unless you want it to.”

You look as if you’re mulling it over.

“Maybe not this time. Although if you want to do that Scottish accent again…”

“Oh that did it for you?” River smirks. “Duly noted.”

______

Of course neither of you could actually go straight to sleep after that. But after some more kissing everywhere (and I mean everywhere), River finds it very funny how quickly you do actually fall asleep. What surprises him even more is how quickly he does too. 

So when the alarm blares at you both in the morning, you wake up, completely entangled, bleary-eyed and confused. You’re both running late, so get dressed quickly. You borrow a shirt of his, along with some leggings of undetermined origin. River mumbles something about leggings being good for yoga or something on your way out.

When you walk into Slough House, you can see how quickly Catherine looks down at the shirt, so you walk quickly past.

The two of you get to work in focused silence. River thinks about the way you wear his shirt. You think about his hand on your thigh.  You both look up at the same time and give each other a little secret smile. However your cute harmony is broken by Catherine striding in, looking directly at you. 

“You need to come with me,” she says firmly.

“What is it Catherine?” You ask.

“I’m not at liberty to say. Not here.” Her voice doesn’t waver at all, but she does very briefly glance in River’s direction. You look at River for a moment too, before standing up and following her out. You don’t say goodbye, but you shoot River one last look before the doorframe. He wishes he knew what it meant.

______

When River walks back into the office after spending his lunch break pacing in the local park, he sees that your desk is still empty.  He immediately goes to search for Catherine, but instead finds Jackson at Catherine’s desk.

“What are you doing here?” River asks.

“I could ask you the very same thing dipshit. But I know exactly why you’re here.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because loverboy, you’ve got the look of a kicked puppy looking for it’s owner to give him a treat.”

“You do have a way with words, Lamb.”

“Well I have to be the bearer of bad news, but your new girlfriend has been taken back by the Park.”

“What? I mean she’s not my girlfriend - did she say she was - I mean, that’s not the point, what you mean, taken back by the park?”

“Apparently her deployment here was an error. They’ve realised she was too good for shitheads that take her on risky guerrilla missions and snatched her back before you could presumably get her clobbered. Does that sound right to you?” Lamb leans back on his chair.

River stands, urging everything in his body not to betray him at this exact moment. 

“Right, of course. I should get back to work.”

“Yes you should. And stop pulling this nonsense with every pretty young woman who happens to make eye contact with you, okay?”

River just shoots him a glare, before descending the stairs.

_____

River spends the rest of the day, staring at a blank computer screen from the cold hard wooden surface of the desk. He leaves the building, he is so wrapped up in his thoughts about how he is ever going to motivate himself back into the building that he almost doesn’t recognise a familiar shirt leaned against his car.

“Oi!”

When he sees you, a thousand different thoughts go through his mind. 

“You left. I thought you weren’t coming back.”

You furrow your brows at him.

“I was only gone for the afternoon, drama queen.”

“But you’re going to the Park. You don’t belong in Slough House.”

You step closer to him, stroking his arm and looking down at his torso.

“Well, it’s funny you say that. They did offer me my old job back.”

River is looking at you desperately.

“What? Really?”

“But I would be working with Spider again, which made me want to rip my own eyes out. And I told them that.”

River’s mouth gapes open a little.

“But…it’s the Park?”

“I know, I know. I’m not a complete idiot.” You look towards the street. “The thing is, while I’ve been at Slough House, Catherine and Lamb had got me started on this digitisation project on a lot of our materials. It’s actually been quite interesting, and I think it would be helpful in future with a lot of other departments.”

“You never mentioned this to me.”

“It was kind of a need-to-know basis. We were just trialing a new system I devised.”

“You devised?”

“Yes, please keep up, I’m very good at my job. So I suggested that I continue my project with Slough House and that I could work with other departments as and when.”

“So what does that actually mean?”

“So I work three days a week at Slough House, one day at the Park and one day wherever needs me.”

“And they agreed to that?”

You nod. River smiles ear to ear. 

“So…you’re staying? Are you sure?”

“For now. It’s a trial run. But I figured I could do a lot of actually good work at Slough House.” You look at him. “Besides, I can really see a future here. That is, unless a certain handsome spy really pisses me off. Then I might reconsider.”

River leans his head towards yours, just inches away from your mouth.

“Handsome?”

“He knows he’s bloody handsome alright? Just promise me he’ll try not to piss me off."

“Well, he will do his best not to, as long as you keep calling him handsome.”

“Good. Now, speaking of promises. Will that handsome spy finally rock my world as he promised last night?”

River wraps his arms around you and kisses you, squeezing you flush against him. He has this feeling throughout his body that he hasn’t felt before, like he could burst. So instead he keeps kissing you, until it is a few minutes until you finally break apart for air. 

“I actually know a good hotel we can go to right now actually, if you like…”

You roll your eyes. “I believe you did offer to buy me a drink first, actually.”

“Oh we’ll have plenty of time for that after.  If you’d rather, I could offer you the backseat of my car?”

“That’s the last time I’m telling you anything about my past!” You playfully shove him and he laughs, before slipping his hand into yours. Burnt orange and purple leaks across the sky. A chill evening breeze dances across both your arms. He looks so good in this light, smiling at you. You don’t know how you got here, but for once, you really don’t mind at all. 

___________________

That's all folks (for now) but hope you enjoyed and feel free to share!! Also there may be another bonus chapter in future as I haven't yet figured out when these two idiots tell each other they love each other, so if you've got ideas, send them lol

@beebodallyy @cyberheavens @vodkanoredbull @yiiiikesmish @gallysonegoodlung @maellem @akvdstgcbhkj @sylvie-singer

@fcblb81

[teddyheartwright]

once more we're back into the fray with an angsty section this time (sorry not sorry) but I'm actually finishing up the last chapter/s so the end should be very soon!! Thank you all for sticking around and indulging my massive crush on this fictional dweeb, as well as how long it takes for me to write stuff - your comments have kept me sane and motivated these past few months!!

gif by @b-sidju

What Are We Doing Here, part six

Warnings: fem!reader, no use of y/n, Webb being a little bitch, ooh baby the ANGST

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five

“There you two are.”

That familiar voice again. Spider Webb. You spring back from River’s grip. River doesn’t move yet.

“What the hell are the two of you doing here? You could be risking a lot of lives right now.”

River finally turns to him.

“Webb. I think you know we can ask you the very same question.”

“Funnily enough, it’s not Slough House’s business. And it never is.”

River folds his arms, standing slightly in front of you. “Yet here we are.”

Webb peers around him.

“Now as far as I understand it, there are only two explanations for you being here with a Russian convoy. Either you are helping make a special delivery without the knowledge of the Park, so you wouldn’t want them finding out.” Webb goes to speak, but River holds a finger up. “Or this is Park sanctioned, which means there are a bunch of people they really don’t want to know. It would be a shame if we have to tell them.”

“I’m not telling you.”

“You don’t have to. If word gets out, we’ll figure it out soon enough.”

Webb scoffs. River steps forward.

“Do you doubt me, Spider?  Do you want to test it out?”

“And what exactly are you doing all this for exactly?” Spider leans over to make direct eye contact with you. “And how exactly are you involved in all of this?”

“Well, maybe this is where we can help each other out.” River smiles at him, only just. He raises an eyebrow.

You finally pluck up the energy to speak. Your mouth is so dry.

“Why am I in Slough House?” You almost bark at him. Webb steps back and laughs.

“This is what all of this is about?”

“I know you have something to do with it, you pathetic little weasel!” It’s not your finest insult, but it’ll do as you try to ignore the palpitations throbbing throughout your entire body. 

“Why do you think I had some part of it?”

Both you and River fold your arms at him and stare in silence.

“As I said, it would be a shame if anyone was to find out about today’s transaction that wasn’t meant to.” 

Webb is now staring at the both of you, looking up and down several times. You both say nothing.

“Fine. Yes, it was me. I got you sent to Slough House.”

“But why? I was very good at avoiding you completely and still managed to actively help you multiple times, Webb. It doesn’t make any sense.” You ask.

Webb looks at you witheringly, before looking at River.

“How do you think I kept my job when that whole “fiasco” thing went down? Do you think Taverner would have really kept on an agent who gave away blackmail material?”

“Fiasco?” You turn to River. River tries to keep his face stoic, but you can see the anger rumpled into his forehead.

“Jesus Christ, Webb. You really will throw literally anyone under the bus to save your own neck, won’t you?”

“Look, I barely did anything.” He points at you now. “Your pathetic crush on Sadwright over here was visible even to the International Space Station. It wasn’t too difficult to suggest that our best records coordinator may have let her soft spot cloud her judgement.” Your whole face becomes tight. River feels his body fill with white-hot heat on your behalf and he steps forward, squaring up to Webb.

“It’s almost cute that you’re still jealous of anyone who even looks at me.  But it’s not going to happen, and it’s high time you accepted that Spider. Whatever beef you have with me, you cannot take it out on other people. People who had nothing to do with your fuckups. Do you understand?”

Webb looks between the two of you.

“Whatever story you two want to tell yourselves to sleep at night is fine by me.”

This time River grabs him and pushes him against the wall.

“You better tell the Park exactly what you fucking did, you pathetic little rat, or I’ll see to it that this whole operation goes sideways. “

Webb stares at him for a while.

“Fine. I’ll see what I can do. But get out of my sight.”

River inhales deeply, before letting him go. He turns back to you. He’s surprised to see you staring into the distance, holding your own arms.

“Does that sound alright to you?” He asks.

You don’t look at him, instead still staring out into the distance.

“Yeah, fine, whatever. Let’s go.” You say flatly.

River drops Webb and Spider scrambles back inside.  You start walking to the exit and River catches up to you.

“Hey, are you alright?”

You won’t look at him.

“What’s the fiasco thing?” You ask.

“The reason I’m in Slough House. I was set up by the Park. We had to use it against them last year and Spider was the one to give me the information.”

You nod into space.”Right.”

He gently touches your arm.

“Are you okay? I’m sorry this has been a lot, but we could still get a drink somewhere, or get something proper to eat, or make a Webb voodoo doll-”

You interrupt him. “I just want to go home. Sorry River.” 

“No, no, of course.” The two of you walk out of the building in silence. He watches as you pull out your phone and get a taxi app out. 

“Hey, what are you doing? I can give you a lift home. I drove you here, might as well.”

He watches you chew your lip.

“You don’t have to worry about that. You don’t owe me anything. ”

“I know I don’t, it’s just cheaper for you. Besides, your coat is still in my car. Remember how the rich people don’t need coats.”

He does a half-hearted laugh at the end to try and make you smile, but you simply nod.  A wind blows past the both of you, and he watches the goosebumps on your arm.

“Yeah, okay, let’s go.”

______

River has been staring at his ceiling for what feels like hours. He knows he should get out of his suit, but that feels…wrong. Like admitting the night would end, like there wasn’t some magical way he could make this all right.  So instead he lies there, uncomfortable. But then he deserves to be. He knows this. The car trip back was also deadly silent. He even said bye to you loudly like some desperate fool outside your door, and you had merely replied with a half-hearted wave. How could it have gone so wrong? He thinks of the expression on your face, when you found out that it was all his fault you ended up at Slough House. Your career ruined. All because Webb had gotten some idea about you liking him and the Park had somehow bought into it too.  He thinks of all the times he thought you were going to kiss.  Were you?  But it’s stupid shit like that that cost you your position at the Park. You must hate him now. You would never want to see him again. And that would be fair, he reasoned. Back to long uncomfortable silences in the office, until one of you quit. 

And then, his phone rings. River almost falls straight onto the floor out of surprise. Who would be ringing him at almost 3am? 

But it’s you. He picks it up so quickly it almost falls out of his hand.

“…Hello?” He asks.

There is a silence which sends a sinking feeling straight to the very bottom of his stomach.

“…River? Are you there?” You whisper. He can just about hear you, but it sounds like you’re out of breath, maybe?

“What’s wrong?” There is a panicked edge to his voice.

“…Never mind, I’m probably being stupid-”

River gets up and picks up his car keys.

“Please just tell me what’s up.”

“…it’s just…I think there might be someone in a car outside.”

______

teehee hope you enjoy the cliffhanger(!!) but don't worry, you can read the next part right here: the final chapter

@beebodallyy @cyberheavens @vodkanoredbull @yiiiikesmish @gallysonegoodlung @maellem @akvdstgcbhkj @sylvie-singer

[teddyheartwright]

we're so back babies and don't worry I didn't forget about you all, I just had a shit ton of deadlines but I am determined to finish this story and remember why I love writing so here we are with another segment.

What Are We Doing Here, part five

Warnings: fem!reader, no use of y/n, reader wearing a dress, height difference between reader and River, also ooh baby the YEARN

part one | part two | part three | part four |

_____________________________________________________________

Just as you reach the entrance, you pull River to the side, into a small enclave. 

“Masks!”

“Oh yes, right.” He nods, trying to get his heart rate back to normal. 

You tie it around his face, leaning over and he gets a whiff of your perfume. He hopes you can’t hear how deeply he inhales, but it’s hard to tell. You stand back when you’re done.

“Do you need help with yours?” He asks, desperate for the proximity again.

“NO! No, I’m fine, actually.” It comes out too bluntly and you feel bad for a moment. You can’t have him know how much you want him near to you again. Definitely not when you were trying to conduct espionage. “Let’s go in, shall we?”

You check in without any problems, although River swears the doorman gives him a sort of dirty look and he rues the day that Roddy was born.  The adrenaline is already pumping through your entire body when you walk into the hall, and you are doing your best not to shake. It’s clearly not working as River squeezes your hand.

“It’s okay. I’ll count to four, and I want you to take a deep breath with me.”

“River, I’ll be fine.”

He turns you towards him.

“You’re not in this alone, remember? And if you want to go, just say the word.  Or if you want to wait in the car or go home, that’s fine too.”

Your brows crumple.

“River, I’m not leaving you to do this all alone either.” You stare up at him. “What if something was to happen to you?”

Suddenly it is River who is lost for words. He has to bury this feeling inside him quickly, before it reaches his eyes. 

“Don’t worry about me. Let’s just get a drink and that will settle both of our nerves.”

He pulls you towards the bar and orders for the two of you, in that damn Scottish accent again.  You have to look away before you get flustered again, so you scan across the room. Laughter and chatter tinkles throughout the grand hall, while jazzy music floats between everyone.

“Shall we dance, my lovely wife?” The accent whispers from behind you. You straighten up.

“Shouldn’t we be looking around?” You ask him.

He takes your hand and leads you to the dancefloor where there are already many couples dancing.  He looks right at you.

“We will, we just need to be subtle about it. This is the best way. Just trust me.” As the two of you promenade around the room, your eyes graze over the other guests. Nothing you recognise. Although you’re not sure what you’re looking for. As this point River twirls you but just a bit slower then expected. You drag your eyes over as much as you can again, when you recognise the familiar diamanté glint.

“Very clever.”

“Sometimes you have to think on your feet.”

“Like dry humping in a steam room.”

“Exactly.”

“And as we dance around the floor, we need to look out who is interacting with them.”

“Got it.”

You dance in silence, trying to glance over River’s shoulder when you can. 

“Why did you ignore me once you started at Slough House?” He asks.

The question throws you off and you almost trip over his foot.

“Jesus River, where did that come from?”

“I mean, I guess I wanted to know. I figured we were friends now. And you seem much more like the old you. The one I remember from the Park.”

“I would say you were different from the River we knew at the Park as well.”

“Yeah, but that’s because you met me after months of working for Jackson Lamb.”

“I guess I was hurt that you didn’t remember me.” You step in. “But I guess if we’re being totally honest, I was just depressed. I had a job I had worked years to get, and suddenly it was all pulled out from underneath me and I had no idea what I did wrong.  And I know it’s unfair, but I just had this feeling it was something to do with you.”

“With me? Why? Did I do something wrong?”

“No, not at all. The thing is-

You look at him, with his big, stupid, perfect face looking down on you. The words are stuck on your lips. But before you can say anything more, you feel River tense up.

“Webb. He’s here.”

“How likely is he to recognise you in a mask?”

“I’m not sure?”

“So you guys weren’t into that stuff. Good to know.”

At this point, River dips you and you almost fall over.

“Not with him, no.” He mutters in your ear. You hope he cannot notice how tense your entire body just became. However, as you are upside down, you notice the diamonds on the move.

“I’m going to the bathroom. You tail Webb.”

“What, now?” River tries to say but you are already rushing off the dancefloor.

____

You are reapplying lipgloss when the woman shuffles out of the cubicle. You gasp.

“I love your dress!”

“Oh, thank you.” The woman purrs, with the slightest hint of an accent. 

“Are they…real diamonds?” You whisper to her. Her eyebrows furrow for a moment. 

“Yes, of course darling. It’s a Russian designer I know from back home.”

“That’s incredible. You’ll have to give me his number.’ You reach out a hand. “Mirabella Arthurs. Lovely to meet you.”

“Tatiana Harker.” She extends her silk gloved hand. She looks around. “What brings you to the event tonight?”

“Oh, well, my company gave a rather large donation to the charity this year.” 

“Your company?”

“Well I technically inherited it from Daddy, but you know how it is.”

Tatiana looks you over. You hope she cannot tell this dress is not designer.

“Actually I’m only here because of my husband, but that’s incredible. Good for you.” She purrs again, and you can feel the sweat pooling under your arms. 

“So what is the designer’s name? I’ve got some events in New York in May that something like this would be perfect for.”

The woman looks a little uneasy for a moment, before resuming her aloof air.

“It’s unfortunately just a loan. We’re just bringing it over for a friend, but they agreed I could take it out for one night.” There is a strange pause. “As a favour.”

“Oh yes, of course.” You hope that sounded natural. “I should get back to the bar before my husband drinks it dry. But if you’re in London for a little while, you should definitely come for brunch.  Chiltern Firehouse is right around the corner from Arthurs HQ.”

The woman seems to mull it over for a moment. 

“That sounds…nice. I’ll get my people to get in contact with your people.”

“Sounds great!” You PowerTalk out of the bathroom and frantically look for River. However you can feel your throat closing up, struggling to breathe, and you decide to head outside where there is hopefully less people. You find an almost empty courtyard and walk out, turning the corner straight into a man’s torso.

“I’m -so - sorry-”

There’s a familiar scent of cologne.

“There you are! “ River grabs you by both arms. “Are you okay?”

You crouch down.

“I will be - in a minute.”

“What happened?” Suddenly there is something steelier in his voice. “Did someone hurt you?”

“No, no no, not at all.” You look at him and realise he is rubbing your back. “I asked Webb’s lady to brunch.”

A snort comes out of him. 

“What?”

You stand up.

“I didn’t know how to get out of the conversation, so I said she should come for brunch sometimes.”

“Right.” River mulls that thought over for a second. “Did you get…any other information?”

“Her name is Tatiana Harker, if she is to be believed. And the dress she is wearing is apparently a loan. They were just transporting it for a friend. Apparently a Russian designer.”

“Russian?”

“That’s what she said.”

“A Russian designer importing a dress made of diamonds.”

“Which is weird, because I thought we still had a bunch of sanctions on Russia.”

River lights up.

“That’s it!” He grabs your head and kisses it. “You’re so good at this!”

Your head is spinning as you touch the spot where his lips were. “What is it?”

“The dress. It’s obviously someone high up in Russia, maybe the Harkers, trying to do some underhand deal and get around the sanctions.”

“Of course. So does that mean Webb is helping Russians?”

“I mean it certainly looks like it.”

“So…what now?” You ask him. You realise River is still holding onto you. You look him. The moonlight dapples across his face as he looks to the sky.

“There’s a lot of things…” River looks back to you and his words trail off. “Why do you look at me like that?”

Your heart is racing again.

“Like what?”

His lip twitches, hovering, as if he is deciding to say something.

“Like you want me to kiss you.” 

“Oh.” A breath leaves you and you immediately look down. “I can stop, if you want-”

“It’s driving me insane.” He grips both sides of your face, forcing you to look past the mask and into those big blue eyes. “I haven’t been able to think straight, sleep, do anything really ever since you came back to Slough House. Even now, I know I should be thinking about this mission, but all I’m thinking is how much I want to kiss you. But if you don’t want this, say the word and we’ll never talk about it again. But I can’t go on for a second longer pretending that kissing you in this courtyard isn’t all I’ve ever wanted. So tell me. Is this what you want?” 

You open your mouth, trying to force the air out to make the words.

“Ye-”

“There you two are.”

A familiar voice sends a shiver down your spine.

_______________

read part six here!

Hope you enjoyed the long awaited return and as always, let me know if you want to be tagged for the next part (we're deffo near the end lol)

@beebodallyy @cyberheavens @vodkanoredbull @yiiiikesmish

[teddyheartwright]

What Are We Doing Here, pt.4

new year, new chapter - we're so back and having to write actual plot because I am my own worst enemy.

gif by @emziess

Warnings: River is in the trenches and trying to flirt, very British references, Lambdish alert (yes Tumblr has got me on board with that one) fem!reader, reader wearing a dress

part one | part two | part three | part four

___________________________________________________________

River did not sleep last night. Or not very much at least. The dreams he had became so inappropriate, he simply decided the best thing to do was just sober up and make a game plan for today. So he sits at his kitchen table, trying to not think about you at all, bar in a purely professional and business sense, and fails miserably at making any sort of progress. He couldn’t forget your face in the lamplight. Despite all his intelligence training, he was never that good at reading signals. There was a moment, where it looked like maybe you wanted him to kiss you, but then you looked very scared and ran away. What the hell did that mean?

He has no answers, but when he arrives in work, he is at least comforted by the fact you look almost as tired as he feels. You are both holding identical pink bags of pastry and cups of coffee. You stare for a moment before both laughing.

“Well, I could do with two cups of coffee anyway, so that works out.” You say, placing the bags on the table. “So, what’s the plan River?”

“Well-” He opens his mouth when Catherine comes in with a stack of papers.

“Here are the-” She starts to announce before looking at both of you. Her eyes squint, just a little, before pursing. She looks like she’s assessing something. “Council tax files from 1956 -1957. You know the drill.” She turns and leaves.

River looks at you.

“What was that about?” He whispers.

You shrug.

“I don’t know. Whatever it is, I bet her and Jackson will be gossiping about it later.”

“What?”

You stare at him.

“Come on. Those two definitely have some weird sort of vibe.”

“Standish? And Lamb? Did you get concussed at some point yesterday?”

“Just trust me. I’m not sure what their relationship is, but it’s definitely something intense and potentially co-dependent.”

“I don’t want to imagine it.”

“Me neither.”

“So what’s the plan? We need to figure out what this ball actually is, and ideally get an invite.”

River sighs.

“I know where we can get that info.”

______

The two of you sidle up into Roddy’s office. 

“Roddy, we need your help.” You ask him.

He doesn’t even look away from his screens.

“You know the price.”

You look at River. He looks back at you in disbelief. You keep looking at him. He rolls his eyes and gets his wallet out.

“And what do you two actually want?”

“We need to find a ball in the Kensington area. Happening tomorrow night. And we need to get on its guest list.”

“Can you give me any other details?”

“We think James Webb is on the guest list. Although he may be under the name Thomas Crown.”

Roddy turns to look with one raised eyebrow.

“That’s not an easy task, you know.”

You see River reaching again for the wallet, but you push it back down. Instead you walk over and lean on the desk a little, close enough that Roddy “I thought you were meant to be the best of the best, Roddy.” You tilt your head at him, pouting a little and leaning a little closer.

He squints a little at you.

“Yeah, obviously.”

“So surely this is a walk in the park for someone of your skill level.”

“I mean, yeah.”

“So the normal price then?”

He  does not move but when River places the first note down, he waves his hand to signal you both to shoo away. You both slink back, up the stairs.

“Nice negotiation. Good work.” River whispers, leaning closer than anticipated and he swears for a moment he sees you shiver, just slightly. 

_____

The day passes and the two of you barely get any work done. But it’s almost enjoyable.  You make jokes with each other and make drinks and you actually have your lunch in the break room with River, much to River’s surprise.There is another quick glance from Catherine but you both try to ignore it.

 It’s almost five when you get a message from Roddy to come downstairs.

“It’s a Masquerade Ball for some kiddy cancer charity. I’ve got you the invites as the heiress to a smoothie company and her husband that she’s definitely cheating on because he has a small penis.” He slides a pair of fake IDs to you.

“What?” River exclaims. “Where would you even input that information?”

“Thanks Roddy!” You grab the IDs and grab River’s hand. “Come on, let’s go.”

He looks at the two of you with disgust.

“Please don’t tell me you two are hooking up.” He turns to you. “If you want a real man, let me know.”

“Why, do you know any?” You ask. River stifles a snort. As the two of you return to the office, you start packing up already.

“What are you doing?” River asks.

“Surely we are heading out now? Especially if we’ve got to get ready for a black tie ball. Do you have a suit?” You ask him.

“What kind of question is that?”

You keep staring at him.

“Yes of course I have a suit. Jesus, what do you take me for? Luckily, I keep it in the boot of my car for emergencies.”

“What emergencies, River?”

He waves the air.

“These sort of ones, obviously. The more pressing question is do you have a gown?”

“Yes of course I do River, don’t be stupid.” This makes River wonder what he actually knows about women, but he doesn’t have time to linger on that question. “I’ve also got some masks at home, luckily for you.”

“Masks?”

“Because it’s a masquerade ball? And will help with being less obvious hopefully.”

“Right, of course. I can drive us to yours first.” He remembers last night, and judging by the look on your face, he thinks you remember it too. But the look vanishes and you become composed again.

“Yes, of course. I’ll meet you downstairs!” You ask River and he nods, watching you leave. He turns out to pack his bag, when he hears a familiar croak behind him.

“Remember what I said Cartwright.”

“Lamb?”

“She’s a good administrator. No funny business.”

With that Jackson goes back upstairs. River is wondering what he could be referring to, when he sees Catherine follow up behind him, glancing away from River.

____

River is in the backseat of the car outside your building, trying to put his trousers on without anyone noticing and thinking he’s some sort of pervert. As he tries to wiggle ever so slower to pull them up, he wondered if he should have just asked to come inside. But you had been quiet the whole drive over here, which gave him the suspicion that you were nervous again. He didn’t want to get you any more nervous for tonight, so here he was wiggling in slow motion, when he hears a gentle knock on his car window. 

You wave through the condensation and he opens the door.

“Oh, er, am I interrupting something?” You avert your eyes away from him.

“Sorry I was just trying to get this on. There’s not much dignity in the backseat of a car.”

“Tell that to the guy I lost my virginity to.” You say and River’s head whipped around. Your eyes widen as you realise what you’ve said. “Er, forget I said that.”

“I don’t think I ever can, sorry.”

You groan and slip into the seat beside him. He can see a sliver of red velvet from under your big black coat and your face looks different, your makeup glittering slightly under the light. There is a lush scent of something flowery and elegant around you now and River hopes he is not inhaling too deeply to be obvious.

“Shall we go?” You remind him and he snaps out of his stupor.

“Yes, lead the way!”

____

You hop from foot to foot.

“River, can you just park the bloody thing already? It’s freezing out here!”

He finally turns the engine off.

“I take pride in my car you know. I don’t want any idiot dinging it.”

He goes to step out when he notices you’ve taken your coat off. Not only that, but you’re in some incredible red velvet gown that looks like it’s folded to your body somehow. Do all women have dresses like this?

“Cartwright, you’re staring. Is it that bad?”

“Huh, er, no, not at all. The opposite actually. Where the hell did you get that from?”

“Charity shop. I’m just hoping no-one there is well versed in Dorothy Perkins.”

“Well I’m not, if that helps.”

“It doesn’t.”

River scoffs at this. 

 “Why did you take your coat off? You must be freezing.”

“I did tell you I was cold when you took forever parallel parking. But also rich people don’t wear coats, because they are driven or flown everywhere.” He looks at you. “I’ve watched Succession, okay?”

“Whatever you say boss.” He notices the goosebumps on your arms. “I am genuinely worried you’re going to catch something though.” 

He wraps an arm around you and rubs your arm with his bare hand. It’s almost burning to the touch, and his head hovers dangerously close to your cheek. 

“Is that better?” He asks in a low whisper and you shiver again. “Clearly not.” Before you can say anything, he uses the arm to pull you into his chest, wrapping you in both arms and rubbing your back. “How about now?”

You look at him, outlined in a mix of cold blue and orange streetlights. 

“Yeah, that’s good.” You manage to croak out. You go for a moment to lift a hand up, to touch his cheek, when a car drives past and honks at the two of you. “We should probably go inside, right?” You ask him.

His eyes have a look you can’t quite discern.

“Yeah, probably.”

And with that, he lets you go, but just as you feel the cold again, you feel a warm palm slip into yours as you are dragged down the road into the swankiest hotel you’ve ever seen.

_____________________

Read the next part here:

Hope you enjoyed - let me know if you want to be tagged for the next part (I'm hoping there will only be one or two more segments but we will see lol)

@beebodallyy @cyberheavens @vodkanoredbull @yiiiikesmish

[catssluvr]

glasses, aaron hotchner

aaron hotchner x fem!reader (1k words)

in which aaron sees you with glasses for the first time and his brain can't handle it.

warnings: kissing, hotch is head over heels!

✦ ˑ ִֶ⊹

It's not that your day starts off necessarily bad, because the extra minute in bed comes nicely to you. What isn't as great is having to rush around your apartment to make it to work in time, huffing as you button up your shirt before clumsily throwing a sweater over it.

The only thing reassuring you that you didn't put it on backwards is the scratch of the annoying tag against the back of your neck — you'll have to remember to rip it off later.

You only realize you forgot your contacts when the letters of the ads on the subway blur, relieved when you find the glasses you always keep with yourself just in case inside your bag.

Not much thought comes into it, not used to wearing them if not in the comfort of your home late at night but simply a necessity now. You don't not use them for thinking that they look bad, but because they used to bother you more than help you and now you've simply gotten used to the contacts.

Once you arrive at the bullpen, you're only five minutes late and don't seem to be the last one arriving. You let that be a victory.

With your morning drink close by, you finally start working on the mountain of files pilling up at your desk.

"Good morning." You're only half an hour in when the familiar voice sounds behind you, steps sounding closer as Aaron comes to stand beside your chair.

"Hey." You greet back, leaning your head to look up at him.

"I don't mean to put even more in your plate but i really need you to fill these out." It's only now that he looks away from the papers and at you, eyes widening for one second in surprise.

You try to ignore it, though it settles something in you. It's a strict rule that have to act professional around each other at work — all an atempt to not have Strauss ripping your heads off.

"No problem." You take the files from his hands with a polite smile, setting them in front of you to start working on them.

Aaron lingers on his spot, clearing his throat. "You're wearing glasses."

“I am.” You state carefully, not sure where he’s getting at. Though you find yourself shifting on your seat a little subconsciously.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him so dumbfounded.

“Since when?” His eyebrows are furrowed as if wondering if he’s missed this trait, sweet Aaron.

“Always?” You say with confusion, “I just usually wear contacts. Was a bit late today and forgot them.”

Your boyfriend nods at your explanation, eyes still fixated on you with concentration as you feel your skin grow hot under his gaze.

“You look good.” His words are gentle as he speaks after a moment.

His hand comes to tug a little on his tie — something you’ve noticed he does when nervous. It’s hard to believe you’d be the one to make him nervous.

“Thank you.” You answer just as soft, a little like a question.

It didn’t cross your mind that he’d never seen you with your glasses when you put them on earlier. But you suppose his reaction makes up for it.

Aaron’s lips pull into a small, “Anytime, honey.” Even lower than before. And then he’s walking back into his office like he didn’t leave you melting.

You almost forget about it as you distract yourself with work, getting up from your chair once you’re done and knocking on the door to Hotch’s office.

Once you’re given the green light to come in, you slip inside and close the door behind you before heading to his desk.

“Here you go.” You leave the files on it, moving to get back outside.

But before you can reach the door, you feel his hand catch your wrist. A gasp leaves your lips as he turns you around and presses his own to them in a hard kiss.

Aaron’s hand are on your face as he kisses you, a sight escaping his nose as he gets the first taste of you in the day. Instinctively your hands come to rest on his arm, fingers slightly gripping his button up.

He tastes of coffee with a mix of the mints he always has while working. The bump of his nose against the rim of your glasses has him pulling you closer, one hand moving to your waist to help with doing so.

You let your own hand wonder to his shoulder, feeling the muscles relax under your fingers as you softly massage them.

“You’re driving me crazy, sweet girl.” He mumbles after pulling way, lips still dangerously close to yours.

“What?” You giggle with curiosity.

To prove his point, you feel his fingers tap the rim of your glasses with care. “These are the reason.”

Your heart thumps furiously, shy grin on your lips as you keep him close. “You like them?”

“Love them.” Aaron corrects with an arm tightening around your waist, eyes set on every detail of your face.

“Not too nerdy?” You muse, mostly teasing compliments out of him.

“Just enough.” He reassures nevertheless, lips to your cheek for a sweet peck. “So pretty.”

You squeeze his elbow in return, not surprised when his lips chase you for another kiss. Not that you can complain, relished by the attention.

This one is softer, as if he knows you should get back soon and not wanting to get himself worked up.

“Wear them to our date tonight.” He practically begs, lips shiny from you.

“Pervert.” Your joke earns a grin from him.

“Can’t help it when it comes to you.” Aaron says with honesty. His grip loosens, mouth pressed to your temple.

“Pervert and corny. Wow, Hotchner.” You snort, hitting his chest with your pointer finger.

He catches it with ease, bringing it to his lips for a quick kiss there before reaching to adjust your slightly crooked glasses. “There.”

You hum in thanks, fixing his rumbled button up in return before leaving his office with a giddy feeling on your stomach.

[s-writing-s]

𝐃𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬: 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝? 𝐗𝐈𝐕 ⚕ 𝐉.𝐀.

summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?

tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, fluff, angst, tw: mass casualty

word count: 4.7k

a/n: thank you guys for waiting so patiently!! this chapter kicked my ass for some reason... but you've all been so sweet and kind <333 oh and there's a little reference to you guys in the chapter <33 i hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33

Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist The Pitt | Masterlist Main | Masterlist Previous part | Next part

You wake up giddy.

Floating, weightless, over the moon—whatever it is that best describes the pure happiness coursing through your body. A feeling so strong that not even the dull throb in your head can put a dent in it.

Last night, something was cracked wide open, something you hadn't ever dared to dream of. Nothing about it felt fake—it felt solid, like confirmation that everything you felt was reciprocated.

A confirmation that Jack liked you, too. Likes you, too.

Even if he didn't kiss you again, the way his gaze kept dropping to your lips felt like undeniable proof that he wanted to. Add that to the way he had kept you glued to his side for the rest of the night, his fingers splayed possessively across your hip, and all doubt had slipped away. You hadn’t spent the night worrying about proving your relationship; your attention was all on Jack—Smith’s sour expression at the bar was just an added bonus.

By the time you and Jack stumbled home together, both more than a little inebriated, the question of where you'd sleep didn't even come up. You'd just drifted toward his room, still laughing about something stupid someone said, brushing your teeth together while bumping hips, and then climbing into bed together. His bed.

And no matter how charged the night was, no matter how much you wanted to let him know how sticky your underwear was, you didn't want your first time with him to be while you were drunk and exhausted. So you'd cuddled up to him instead, content with just going to sleep. There was always going to be time for it later.

Now, morning spills across the room, warm and gentle rays lighting up the space. Your head rises and falls with his breathing, your cheek pressed to his warm skin, your legs tangled with his. His arm rests low across your waist, holding you close even in sleep. Your fingertips idle along the ridges of his stomach, subconsciously tracing patterns that make his muscles twitch under your touch.

You’re replaying everything in loops—the eye contact, the whispers in your ear, the kiss—when his voice rumbles through his chest.

"What are you smiling about?"

"I'm not smiling," you protest, though your grin only grows wider.

"You are. I can feel it," he retorts, shifting slightly yet tightening his arm to pull you closer. He sounds happy, like he's smiling, too.

"Just happy I don't have a nasty hangover for once," you say lightly, resuming your gentle tracing.

He hums a low, sceptical sound, his fingers drawing slow circles on your hip. After a moment, he murmurs, "...Lily will."

You snort. "Oh, absolutely." Images flash through your mind of her drinking shot after shot, and then subsequently vomiting it all up. "Thank god, Parker took her home."

Jack’s chest rises under your cheek, his fingers stalling as he ponders. "Is there something between them?"

"Parker and Lily?" You think it over, shrugging. "I don’t think so. But they’d make a cute couple."

Jack hums in agreement, his hand resuming those soothing circles on your hip. Silence falls over the room again. Neither of you mentions the kiss, but it lingers in the air, settling softly into the space between you. It doesn't feel like something you're purposefully avoiding or tiptoeing around—it feels like something that doesn't need words, doesn't require explanations.

A rumble from your stomach breaks the quiet, and Jack laughs softly.

"Can we order something greasy?" You lift your head to look at him. "Please?" you add, pouting, before he can offer to make something healthy.

He watches you for a moment, his gaze drifting to your lips. "Fine," he concedes with a sigh. "Order whatever you want. Use my card."

Your brows furrow at that. Jack smooths away your frown with his thumb. "Compromise," he says gently.

You hesitate, then mutter, "Okay."

"Good girl."

Those words hit you like a spark on dry tinder, igniting a heat that rushes through you. You’re pretty sure he notices the way your breath catches because a corner of his mouth lifts.

"I’m gonna shower. Order something for me," he says, not waiting for you to respond before slipping out of bed.

You're left in the bed, staring at the closed door, your mouth still slightly agape. If this is how things are going to be from now on—Jack teasing you, flirting back, and actually meaning it—you’re in trouble.

Oh, Olivia is going to freak when she hears about all of this.

Most of the night shift is hungover when you clock in—steps heavy, eyes squinting at the harsh fluorescent lights, dreading the twelve hours still ahead.

Lily is at the nurses' station, a coffee cup in front of her, her fingers rubbing at her tired eyes. She looks surprisingly put together considering the rough night she had. Jack walks by, nodding at her with a slight grin, muttering something low that makes her laugh. You miss him by a few steps, your gaze flicking to his broad shoulders as he walks away.

You drag your attention back to Lily and nudge her shoulder with your hip before leaning against the desk. "Hey, how are you feeling?"

She tilts her head back in her chair dramatically, one hand covering her eyes, as she whines, "Embarrassed."

You snicker. "It wasn't that bad. You weren't even the worst one there."

"Yeah, I heard Shen had to send a couple of the interns home in Ubers," Parker chimes in as she walks over. "You only threw up twice. Well—four times, if we’re also counting my place."

Lily groans in response.

"I’m more upset I missed the hottest kiss of the year," Parker adds, smirking at you.

You roll your eyes at her, "Oh, shut up." You try to keep a neutral face, but you can't help it—your mouth curls before you can stop it. Parker sees it, her eyebrows waggling.

You change the subject swiftly. "Shen also won a hundred dollars from that frat-looking dude after you left."

"The guy with the terrible Jamaican accent?" Lily asks, grimacing when you nod. "Good for him." She massages her temples, taking a big sip of her coffee. "But honestly, I’m not going out with you night shift people ever again."

"Yeah, yeah," Parker waves her off. "We're definitely more fun than the day shift. Especially now that a certain someone isn't here anymore."

"Ugh, yes," you groan in relief. "I know she only has like two weeks left, but if I had to see Smith’s face every day? I’d probably end up getting escorted out for starting a fight. At least now I only have to fake it at shift change."

"Hey—just tell me when and where," Parker says with a grin. "I'm always ready for a good fight."

You let out a laugh. You don't doubt it.

"Not me," Lily raises her hands, but she’s smiling now. "But I can hold a camera."

It's a few hours later when Parker catches you by the board. "There’s a patient in West 14 asking for you by name," she says.

You blink in surprise. "For me?"

She nods. "Possible fracture in her left arm."

"Okay…" you say slowly. "Thanks." As you start the walk down the hallway, you skim the chart. It's not a name you recognise. It's only when you open the door and spot a woman perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed, and a little girl sitting by her side, that the pieces slot together.

"Katherine?" you ask gently, stepping closer. She looks up, relief washing over her face. Lulu ducks her head into her side, blinking tiredly at you.

"Hi," Katherine murmurs, her voice trembling. "I… I’m sorry if I pulled you away from something. I know this is ridiculous. I just… I didn’t know who else to ask for. I thought maybe—since I met you—you’d, um… I don’t know." She winces at herself. "Sorry."

You pull a chair closer and settle down. "I’m really glad you asked for me," you say, offering both of them a warm smile. "What happened?"

"I was just emptying out some of the last boxes when I fell," she explains, laughing shakily. "I don’t even know. It was stupid. And I landed on my arm weirdly. It barely hurts unless I push on something. I’m sure I’m overreacting."

"Mama hurt her arm," Lulu adds, staring at you with wide and worried eyes.

Katherine winces, embarrassed. "She got scared. I didn’t mean to make a whole… thing out of it."

"Hey," you say gently, "you took a fall, and you’re hurt. That’s worth getting checked." You soften your voice, glancing at Lulu. "Can you give mom a little hug while I take a look?"

Lulu nods, leaning in and squeezing Katherine gently.

You slip on some gloves, lightly pressing on Katherine’s arm, moving it into various positions, taking note of the winces that cross her face. "Okay, you might have a small fracture, but I’m going to order an X-ray so we can get a clear picture of what’s going on. Once we have the images, we’ll see if you’ll need a cast."

You move to the computer, placing the order, then step back to her. "Is there anything I can get you while you wait?"

"No," Katherine replies softly. "I… I’m sorry."

You shake your head and tilt your head to meet her gaze. "Hey—don’t apologise. You haven’t done anything wrong. And—" you add with a gentle grin, lowering your voice a bit as you nod towards Lulu, "you’ve given me a chance to see my favourite neighbour again."

That earns you a tiny, wobbly laugh—exactly what you were aiming for. "Someone will come to escort you to the X-ray when it’s ready. Any questions?"

She shakes her head.

You lean down, ruffling Lulu’s hair lightly, and placing a soft hand on Katherine's shoulder. "Okay. We'll get you started on some pain meds in the meantime."

Several hours pass before you finally receive Katherine's X-ray images—multiple severe cases bumping hers to the end of the line. You push the door to her room open gently, half-expecting Lulu to be asleep by now.

She isn’t. Instead, she’s giggling, comfortably settled on Jack's lap. He’s in the chair, playing with her socks and making silly faces—puffing out his cheeks and sticking out his tongue. You stand frozen in the doorway, watching as she taps his arm and he obliges with another ridiculous face.

It's the sweetest thing you've seen—a feeling you can’t quite name tightening in your chest at the sight.

Katherine sits propped against the pillows, her eyes half-lidded as exhaustion finally catches up with her. "Hi, doc," she greets you.

You unfreeze, remembering why you came in. "Hi," you say softly, stepping closer.

Jack looks up at your voice, and his face lights up. "Hey," he nods toward Lulu. "I heard her crying in the hallway." Lulu smiles at you, cheeks still damp, her little hand fisted in Jack’s shirt.

"He's been a lifesaver," Katherine adds gratefully, rubbing her eyes. "She wouldn't stop crying until he came in."

You can't help but smile as Lulu snuggles into Jack's side. "Well, I’m glad someone’s been keeping an eye on our neighbours," you say. "Wouldn’t want them stirring up trouble while we’re not here."

Both of them blink at you, a little confused.

"Oh," you say, your brows knitting together. "I’m sorry, I thought you knew—this is our neighbour, Katherine," you introduce, gesturing toward her. "And this is my husband, Jack."

Jack’s face breaks into a warm smile. He doesn’t flinch at your introduction; nothing in his posture suggests he dislikes it. "Ah, I see. Nice to officially meet you," he replies, rising while still holding Lulu. He grins at Lulu, tickling her side lightly, "And you, little lady."

Katherine’s eyes widen for a moment before a grin spreads across her face. "Oh! I didn’t realise he was your Jack."

You clear your throat, trying not to let the warmth in your chest flare across your cheeks.

Taking a seat in the chair, you focus on the task at hand. "You’ve got a small fracture right here," you explain, showing Katherine the image. "We’ll start with a splint to protect your arm and manage any swelling. Tomorrow, you'll follow up with Orthopaedics for a proper cast to ensure the best chance of full healing."

Jack leans in closer, his shoulder brushing against yours as he examines the images too. He nods in agreement.

"How does eight AM work for you? Is the earliest time—I'm hoping it'll mean less waiting time, but I can't promise anything."

Katherine is about to reply when the door swings open, and Lena pokes her head inside, catching Jack's eye. "MVC in five."

"Got it." Jack sets Lulu gently back beside Katherine, his fingers brushing your shoulder for a brief squeeze. His eyes meet yours before he gives a small nod to Katherine, "Next time we meet, I hope it’s under better circumstances."

You watch him go, a quiet smile tugging at your lips.

Katherine turns to you, her lips curving into a soft, tired smile. "He's really good with kids."

"He is." The image of him holding Lulu flickers through your mind. You shove it away—you're at work, and this is not the time to be ovulating. "So... how does eight sound?"

Aside from the one MVC, the rest of the night unfolds rather undramatically. You get home a little after seven-thirty, a time Jack considers pretty decent. He lets you take the first shower, stepping into the steam-filled room after you to the sweet scent of your shampoo.

As he sits on his shower chair, he breathes in deeply but not desperately. He's starting to believe that it won't be gone once this ruse ends—that there's hope of a future in which you don't leave.

He can still feel the imprint of your lips on his, see your darkened gaze in his mind, and feel the way you'd pressed yourself close to him. The significance of your falling silent after the kiss looms larger than anything else.

Because that meant that your flirting—every little thing you'd done while alone—was intentional. Genuine.

When he reenters the living room, he expects to find you curled up on the couch, sipping tea and scrolling through your phone. Instead, you’re there with company.

Lulu is nestled in your lap, clutching her teddy bear as a movie softly plays on the TV. Jack leans against the doorway, taking in the scene of you gently stroking her hair. You’re slumped against the corner of the couch, your eyes drooping as you gaze at the screen. His crutches squeak against the floor as he shifts, accidentally revealing his presence before he means to.

"Didn’t realise we were having company," he says, moving closer and sitting down on the couch. He ruffles Lulu's hair on the way over.

Lulu perks up and waves at him with a smile. He returns the gesture.

"Katherine called while you were in the shower. Her babysitter got a flat, and she had that Ortho appointment," you explain. The rest goes without saying. Even on a good day, the wait can drag on, and Lulu had already been restless most of the night—cranky toddlers and hospital waiting rooms are not a great combo. "I offered to babysit. Hope that’s alright. You can go sleep if you want."

"And miss out on Paddington?" Jack replies, nodding toward the TV. "Not a chance."

Lulu giggles, and you send him a soft smile, sinking deeper into the couch until you’re almost lying down. Lulu leans back on your chest, her fingers fiddling with yours.

He settles back, pulling your feet onto his lap and gently massaging your calves, occasionally glancing over. His chest tightens with desire as he watches you and Lulu drift off to sleep.

He wants this. A future with you. Real marriage, not a staged one. Children who are yours, not just borrowed for a few hours. A life where he gets to call you his without pretence.

But now that he knows it’s not as unattainable as he thought, he’s content to enjoy this moment for what it is.

Jack leans back, head dropping against the cushions. His eyes drift shut to the soft breathing of you and Lulu.

Katherine picks up Lulu a few hours later with a newly fitted cast on, and you and Jack manage to squeeze in a few more hours of sleep before his phone starts ringing loudly.

You hear him mumble into the phone, the conversation shifting from sleepy to serious as his body tenses up. You sit up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, straining to catch bits of what’s being said on the other end. Dana's voice drifts through, barely audible.

"We'll be right there," Jack responds, ending the call, already looking at you. "There's an active shooter at Ross Park Mall." He doesn’t need to elaborate; you’re already up, shrugging off your sleepwear and pulling on scrubs. It doesn’t even occur to you that Jack is still in the room, but he isn't looking, too busy with his own scrubs.  

Adrenaline surges through you. Ross Park Mall isn't far from PTMC, which means the Pitt is about to get the brunt of it.

In under five minutes, you’ve got your scrubs on, brushed your teeth quickly, and are in the car. Jack's hand had hesitated, but at your nod, he'd turned on his police scanner, both of you listening for updates. The police have surrounded the area, but the gunman is still at large, with an unknown number of victims.

It feels like Pittfest all over again.

When you enter the ER, Robby is addressing the Pitt, delivering a speech reminiscent of the last mass casualty incident. When he spots you, relief floods his features, his shoulders sagging. "I'm so fucking happy to see you two," he says, clapping a hand on each of your shoulders.

"Do you know how many we're expecting?" Jack asks, shifting his bag on his shoulder.

"Not yet. Maybe fifty," Robby replies. "Maybe more."

Jack clenches his jaw, giving him a stiff nod, already reaching for a vest. "I'll run primary ER."

Robby nods.

"Where do you want me, boss?" you ask.

"I want you here with Jack," Robby answers. He turns to find Samira. "Mohan, I need you here as well." She gives him a nod.

He continues, turning back to you, "I'll be running triage with Mel until Shen comes in. If anything comes up, check with Jack." He rests a hand briefly on your shoulder, locking eyes with you, no hesitation in his face. "You’ve got this."

Robby looks back at the ER, taking in the faces filled with fear but also determination. A willingness to brave through the storm that's about to hit. He delivers a pep talk, trying to rally the team to weather yet another horrific event.

As he speaks, Jack steps closer, intertwining his fingers with yours and squeezing tightly. You don’t look at each other, focusing instead on putting on a brave face for the residents and interns looking to you for guidance. But that squeeze reassures you; you’re in this together. It's a brief reminder that we'll be okay. We'll get through it.

Ten minutes later, your gown is stained with blood, the metallic smell thick in the air. The first waves are adults—most hit in the limbs, one with a GSW to the shoulder, another with a sucking chest wound, and a third hit in the thigh.

You hear Jack’s voice somewhere behind you, and Lily's voice calling out numbers from beside him. Jesse's voice rises above it, calling out numbers to you as Samira places a chest tube. It's relentless, victim after victim pouring in.

But every time you look up, Jack meets your gaze—a quick glance but enough to steady your hands—enough to keep you going. He steps in a few times, when he has time, but he doesn't offer any advice, noting that you've got it covered.

More victims arrive. Most make it to the OR with a fighting chance.

Then the children start arriving.

A boy no older than eight, grey-skinned, gasping hard. Your hands move automatically—IV, fluids, FAST exam. It’s positive. Massive internal bleed. You call for the OR, but you already know the odds.

Across the room, Jack’s voice cuts through the chaos. You meet his eyes for half a heartbeat. The fear there mirrors yours, but neither of you has time to acknowledge it. Not when more children keep arriving.

A toddler with a chest wound, her breaths shallow and wet.

A girl, younger looking than her thirteen years, who'd stepped in front of her brother.

A pair of twins, cotton candy still stuck in the corners of their mouths.

A boy who'd clutched your fingers tightly as he fought with all he could.

Small bodies, battered with wounds too large for their tiny frames. Distended bellies. Pale skin. Rapid blood loss. You can’t save them all. No matter how hard you try.

In just forty minutes, you lose six children.

There’s no space to process it. No pause. No breath. Every time your heart threatens to crack, another stretcher barrels through the doors, and you give your everything again. You push it down, treat the next patient, even as the ache in your chest deepens.

By the time the last red-zone patient gets pushed into a room with Jack, your hands are trembling. You strip off your gown and gloves and duck into the nearest bathroom. You grip the sink tightly, trying to breathe past the heaviness in your chest. A couple of tears still manage to escape despite your efforts. You swipe them away quickly—angrily—like that might make it easier to keep going.

You tell yourself you’re okay. That you can keep going. That you can pretend the faces of those children aren’t burned into the backs of your eyelids. But every blink betrays you.

You can't let it break you just yet, so you inhale slowly, splash cold water on your face, and shove yourself back into the storm.

The second you step out, Santos flags you down. "Hey, can you come look at something? Abbot and Robby are tied up, and I can’t find Shen."

"Of course," you say, already moving.

The patient she leads you to is mid-twenties, maybe, with a yellow snapband around her wrist. Smith stands beside the bed, arms folded, brows pinched. Perlah watches with careful eyes.

"Daniella Highman," Santos reports. "Trampled in the stampede. Mild leg pain, some superficial bruising… but—I don't know—something's off."

"Patient's alert and oriented," Smith adds. "BP stable. I just think—maybe we should wait for an attending? Or—"

"They're busy right now," you interrupt, already scanning Daniella. You snap on gloves. She looks pale and clammy. "Hi Daniella. I’m just going to take another look at you."

"But—" Smith continues.

Your head snaps up. "I'm your senior resident—almost an attending—if you don't trust my opinion, take it up with Robby. Right now, we're in the middle of a mass casualty, and we don't have time for this."

Smith's mouth snaps shut. She doesn’t push further, but her jaw tightens, and there’s a subtle exhale, almost a hiss of frustration. You know she blames you for the move to day shift, but in all honesty, you couldn't care less. She should be grateful that was the only punishment she received, all things considered.

You continue questioning Daniella, palpating her hips. She winces sharply. Her breath is shallower than you like.

Perlah, monitoring vitals, says, "BP’s normal—120 over 60… wait, it's dropping—now 90 over 50."

"I don’t feel good," Daniella murmurs, her head lolling back.

"Daniella?" you call. "Wake up, Daniella!" Her pulse is weak and thready beneath your fingers, before slipping away. Santos presses her knuckles into Daniella's sternum, but there's no response.

"Shit. Move!" you bark. In one motion, you’re on the bed, starting compressions as the team pushes her toward a trauma room where Daniella is shifted onto the bed. "Santos, get the ultrasound ready—FAST on my mark." You pause for a heartbeat as she probes quickly; compressions resume immediately after.

"Fluid in Morrison’s pouch and LUQ."

"Okay," you say without missing a compression. "Perlah, page the OR and activate MTP. Santos, bag her. Prep for intubation if needed. Smith, get two large-bore IVs—or IO if needed."

You keep compressions steady as people flit around. "Smith, what’s the next step when there’s internal bleeding?"

"I… uh… fluids?" Smith stammers, her hands trembling as she fumbles with the lines.

"Correct, but what kind of fluids?" you press.

She blinks at you.

Santos answers instead. "Start rapid crystalloid, then blood products."

"Exactly," you nod without breaking compressions. "She’s crashing from internal bleeding—we need volume fast."

Smith fumbles with the IV again.

You look at her, at the panic in her eyes, the way her hands tremble. "Smith, step back. Breathe. Perlah—" you nod at her. Perlah steps in, pushing Smith back, and inserts it quickly.

Compressions continue. Slowly, a strong carotid pulse returns. BP returns to normal as Daniella's pulse steadies and her oxygen saturation rises. A quiet sigh leaves you all.

Walsh strolls in, minutes later, after things have quieted, glancing at the bed with a raised eyebrow. "OR's ready—thought we were done for the day."

"Well," you say, shrugging as you throw your gloves into the bin, "you know us—never a dull moment down here."

She smirks at you as she begins guiding the bed through the door. "Hope this isn't what it's like with you as an attending."

You grin back. "Trust me, I’ll try to make it a little less entertaining."

Things quiet down after that. No more critical patients. Twelve dead in total. Sixty-four saved. The numbers hang heavy, impossible to reconcile with the pounding in your chest.

Robby’s speech sounds over the hub, words meant to inspire, meant to honour—but all it does is push the ache forward, force it to the surface, raw and unrelenting. You can’t stay. You don’t want to stay. You need air. You need space to let it out before it consumes you.

The roof greets with cold air, the city lights a blur beneath you. The quiet is almost alien after the chaos. Jack is already there, leaning against the railing, hands tight around the cold metal, his jaw tense. He turns at the sound of the door.

You move toward him, unthinking, the last walls you’ve built between yourself and the ache crumbling. You collapse into him, body trembling, and he holds you upright, chest warm and solid under your cheek.

The first sob tears out of you before you can stop it. He presses his cheek to the top of your head, letting you collapse into him. The sound of your own crying is sharp and shocking in your ears, but he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t speak. He just holds you.

Your tears soak into his scrubs, dampening the fabric. He's quiet for a moment and then—he breaks too. You feel it first in his arms, the way they tremble. It’s not loud, not like yours, but you know he’s crying when a few drops land on you.

Finally, your sobs soften into ragged, trembling breaths. You don't move away, remaining pressed to his chest. Listening to his steady heartbeat as his hands rub your back slowly.

"We did what we could," he murmurs.

"Yeah," you breathe. Neither of you truly believes it. Not right now when the aftermath still clings to your skin.

"You should go home," he says. "We can do the night shift without you."

You shake your head against his chest. "I… I don’t want to be alone right now," you whisper, voice trembling. And you don't want to leave him alone here.

Though he suggests you leave, the tension in his body eases when you refuse, betraying that he really wants you here with him. "Okay," he says.

The two of you stay on the roof for five minutes more, breathing slowly and building up strength to go face the relentless Pitt again.

There are no words that could make up for what you'd experienced today. Nothing to be said to make it better. But knowing he's there with you, that he's weathering the same storm, makes it tolerable. Even if it's just a little.

Next part

[luveline]

jack keeps staring at you. this is not unusual. jack stares at everybody all the time, loves forcing the people around him into some non-judgemental eye contact to keep the day interesting as it is long. the only issue seems to be your imperviousness. it’s like you just don’t notice him, and it’s driving him crazy—if jack doesn’t get a good look at you soon he’s gonna make it everybody’s problem.

over patient heads and across bay’s, in company and all alone in a quiet break room, jack tries to prompt your gaze with dedication. eventually you’ll have to look at him, but you just don’t. it’s statistically impossible to not meet his eyes at this point, and it’s breaking his heart wondering what the hell it is that’s upset you. that’s gotta be what this is, right?

but the day chugs on and you sound like you’re in good spirits. jack listens to you talk to doctors, nurses, patients and porters with your usual dulcet tones, but forces himself to play things cool.

so, he says eventually, decidedly uncool about your downturned gaze, any plans tonight? finally, finally! you raise your head and meet his eyes. it would’ve been rude not to, and you’re his polite girl. nothing exciting, just… stuff, you say.

he ducks his head when your eyes drift, forcing the contact. what stuff? tell me about it.

your eyes squeeze shut. you won’t like what i’m gonna say.

oh, so you won’t look at me because you’re feeling guilty? here i was thinking you’re a big girl. what am i not gonna like?

have to go home, sorry. my plants need watering.

you’re not looking at me because you can’t come to my place? jack laughs. laughs hard, wrapping his arm over the front of you so you can wear his bicep like a belt, his chuckle warming your temple as he attacks you with scratchy kisses. i thought something was wrong. all day i’ve been– he snorts. hey, listen, i’ll forgive you if you let me look at you, yeah? let me look at those eyes and we’ll pretend my heart’s not breaking.

you smile shyly, all gentle and apologetic under his arm, and jack finds it way less funny, then. begins pleading his way into your bed. if the plants need watering, let him water them.

[hengo-thepointman]

He's so stupid I can't

[ppaattrriizziiaa1]

The Winner Takes It All | 2: The Last Time

Pairing: Harry Castillo x reader

Chapter summary: After your failed dinner Harry has to face the consequences of his neglect.

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Chapter warnings: angst, marriage falling apart, barely mentioned sex, trying for a baby mentioned, language

Words: 2.7k

Notes: Okay, here we go with the second chapter. I’m so excited and I didn’t expect that many nice comments! It really warms my heart, I love how you get excited for this series as much as I am. Also English is not my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes. Please do not copy my work. Thanks!🩷

Harry came home late. He knows that. He hasn’t seen the missed calls, or messages. His phone dropped dead around seven.

And now it’s after two and he quietly enters the penthouse. Everything is dark, but he sees slight shadows and soft edges thanks to the city lights outside. He has to admit… he’s a bit drunk. It wasn’t intentional, just Peter kept pouring him more and more…

Stumbling just a bit he steps further into the dark space. That’s when his blurry vision helps him see the table. All set, with fresh flowers, burned out candles and food. All cold and miserable. Shit. He approaches it and then something crunches under his boots. Glass. A shattered wine bottle. „What the hell?” he mutters, realizing he fucked up.

He’s aware lately he wasn’t a great husband. And seeing this beautiful table, set just for him and his success… He only sees how big of a failure he is. Everyday he’s eaten by this enormous guilt when he has to rush for a meeting, or focus on some important documents. This shame is so big, he skips the dinners even more frequently. It’s awful, but he can’t stand your gaze when he calls off yet another date. He’s unable to face his mistakes, he chooses to run. It’s safe. It’s what he has done all his life.

He grabs his phone, he charged it a bit in a cab. He scrolls through the missed calls. „Fuck” he mutters. Then he listens to the voice message you left.

„Um… Hey, baby. I was wondering if you’re heading home? I made dinner… it’s getting cold. And I’m worried. Just…” a sigh „Call me.”

Harry closes his eyes. This was a call from 8 P.M. He knows he really messed up. You’re going to be so pissed in the morning, he already braces for that. It’s not like he doesn’t deserve it — God knows he does. He really meant to be home earlier tonight just… everyone in the office was so ecstatic about the successful deal… His brother insisted on getting out and heading to a bar. It’s such a lame excuse, Harry winces. He realizes he’s gonna need something more than just that.

So with a sigh he cleans up the mess from the floor, it’s the least he can do now. Then careful, not to wake you up, he gets to the bedroom, changes into just fresh boxers and a tee. When he’s ready to sleep he takes a moment to look at your sleeping form. Guilt runs through his veins. He doesn’t want to hurt you. It’s the last thing in the world he wants. He just doesn’t know how to end this vicious cycle. He settles under the covers next to you and closes his eyes exhausted. He’ll make it up to you tomorrow, he believes. You always forgive his little slip-ups.

*********************

What Harry surely didn’t expect was being brutally woken up few hours later, by the loud thud in the closet. Confused, he gets up, rubbing his eyes to sharpen his senses. He doesn’t have to look at your side of the bed to know you’re not in there anymore. Which is weird, you usually like to sleep in.

He shuffles to the closet and freezes the moment he sees you.

Kneeling beside an open suitcase, throwing your clothes in it.

You don’t look up at him. You’ve had enough.

„Baby, what… What are you doing? You going somewhere?” he asks completely stunned. You can’t help, but roll your eyes. „Yeah, to Cassandra.”

„But why? Something happened?” he takes a step closer, still not getting it. You zip a pouch in your suitcase with a little too big strength. „Yes, my husband doesn’t give a shit about me.” you answer sharply.

After you woke up and found Harry fast asleep next to you, smelling like his cologne and sweat… something snapped in you. You were furious. There are no words for how many different things you felt at that moment. You only knew you couldn’t take it anymore. That’s how you ended up, packing in your walk-in-closet. You hoped he’ll wake up later, but the suitcase was too heavy, you dropped it a bit too loud. Well… maybe it’s good. Now he can see how badly he screwed up.

That’s when it gets to him. Finally. „Love, I know I messed up last night… My phone dropped dead, we closed the deal. Peter wanted to celebrate…” he gives excuse after excuse. „I promise it’s the last time I pulled something like that.”

„Oh yeah, you bet it’s the last time.” frustrated you stand up and pass him heading to the master bathroom. You don’t even want to listen to what he has to say. He hurt you. He had taken you for granted so many times you even wonder if you’re really married. You grab your toiletries from the counter. „Baby, wait...” he reaches to grab your wrist, but you pull away.

„No! Don’t touch me!” Angry you set the toiletries back on the counter with a thud. You take a calming breath. „Do you know how long I waited for you last night?” you glance at him. „Five hours. Five fucking hours, Harry!”

The memories of last evening come back to you. How excited you were, how you spent most of the day in the kitchen… All this for the food to go cold and your heart to break once again.

„I know, I’m sorry.” he looks at you pleading. „Sorry isn’t enough.” you say bitterly. „Maybe it would’ve been the first time, or second… But something like that happened countless times! I’m not gonna be the idiot waiting for the great Harry Castillo to come home. Not anymore.”

You finally decided to fight for yourself. He either can pick up that fight, or choose his work. Once more. But for now? You need to change your surroundings, get away from this shiny, suffocating walls of your shared penthouse. You used to love your home. Still do. But lately it has been nothing, but a reminder of how lonely you are.

„What do you mean…? You can’t be serious. I know I’ve been busy, but… Let’s just talk about it. Don’t leave… It’s not like you.” he says hoping that will get to you, but the truth is it only makes you see things clearer. You felt so lost last night and when you woke up and saw him laying beside you like nothing happened… You don’t wanna be that woman. That wife, that doesn’t even know what time her husband gets to bed. You swore to yourself, he will never humiliate you like that ever again.

„What’s not like me is standing aside and letting you treat me like some trophy.” you see his confused expression. „For the last few months I was nothing, but an afterthought to you.”

„Baby, that’s not true…”

„Yes, it is!” you rise you voice frustrated. „You’re gone all the time. Constantly some meetings, some new deals, some emergencies in the office… And when you’re finally home, it’s still like you’re absent. Always on the phone, or with your nose in your fucking laptop. Oh, how I hate your laptop.” you shake your head, finally letting out every single frustration you kept bottled up, leaving Harry absolutely speechless. You grab your cosmetics again and head back to the closet, throwing them carelessly into the suitcase. You can hear he’s following you. „You spend with it every single night. You don’t even look my direction when I get to bed. I dress up in those satin nightdresses hoping for at least a pathetic glance and I get nothing. Nothing!” you zip your suitcase and set it ready to go. His hand instantly grips the handle.

„So that’s what it is about? Sex? You’re mad I am working my ass off and am too tired to fuck you?!” he also lost his temper at this point. You huff ripping the suitcase out of his grip. „You know exactly what I mean. You know it’s much more than that.” you stare into his deep brown, puppy eyes. God, do not think about his eyes, or you’ll be damned. He can’t draw his gaze away from you either. Two people who love each other deeply, now just standing on the opposite sides of the same front. When did that happen? All your anger drains out, replaced by the pure regret and sorrow.

„You said… that we’ll start trying for a baby right after the Japan deal.” you whisper. „You closed this deal three months ago.”

„Jesus, I know. I know it delayed, but we still can. We can right now if you want.” Harry takes a step closer, willing to do absolutely anything. „Gosh, you don’t understand shit.” shaking your head, you feel tears welling up in your eyes. You take a handle of the suitcase and pass him. You need time to process everything. Away from him.

„Then explain it to me, damnit!” he shouts after you, following you down the hallway. He hates fighting with you, he feels like a lost child then. Stupid for caring that much, he always had a problem with that. He’s aware he hurt you and reached some limit. But love was always something foreign to him. How the hell does he fix that? His pride still envelops his sense of remorse. „What the hell do you want? I’m right here, we can fix everything. You want a baby? We’ll have it.”

„It’s not just this baby, or sex, or even this missed dinner last night!” you stop, turning towards him in the middle of the living room. You both don’t realize your housekeeper, Magda, already cleans up in the kitchen, able to hear your whole fight. „It’s about you not noticing me! You ask me what I want?! I want to feel like your fucking priority again! I’m your wife, Harry! For God’s sake!” you rise your hand to his eye level. A diamond ring, shining like mistakes he made. Shining with the love that still bounds you two. Prove of his devotion to you that lately became eclipsed by his neglectful behaviour. The sight of it hits him like a punch. So what a human does in that situation, facing the harm they caused? The worst. They get defensive.

„You’re right, you’re my wife, so you should understand my work is important! You whine about the dates I missed, but it’s me who’s paying for all that! For your fancy dinners, your jewelry, or designer clothes! Money won’t earn by itself.”

„You did not just say that.”

„What? You mean you could afford all this thanks to your stupid books?” his words cut like a knife. He has never, not once in your shared life, degraded your job like that. You’re speechless for good few seconds. They seem like a lifetime, as you recall every single time he encouraged you, or said words of pride. You take quiet breath in.

„I don’t think we have anything more to talk about now.” you whisper, completely stunned and so hurt. This is not your husband. Not your marriage. And maybe he realizes he went too far, when you silently turn around towards the elevator. His expression softens, suddenly aware you’re really leaving. He takes desperate steps towards the elevator entrance, where you just stood, he stops the door from sliding closed.

„Darling, I didn’t… I didn’t mean it. Come back, we can talk about it…”

„No. Not now, Harry. I guess we both need to cool down now. Please, step back.” you answer and when he hesitates, you add quietly. „Please.”

He doesn’t know what makes him do what you asked for. Is it your eyes? Pleading and filled with those sorrowful tears he hates so much? Is it your defeated voice? The curses, the excuses and accusations that flew this morning? He’s not sure, but he takes a slow step back. Letting you go. Just for now. It’s for the best. „Just… please text me when you get safely to Cassie’s.”

Your gaze softens as you nod. Then…

The elevator’s door slide closed. Leaving you alone in this lifeless metal tube. Leaving him alone in this lifeless luxurious penthouse.

He already regrets everything he said. Everything he did. He regrets making you cry and making you wait endlessly for him. But… he won’t admit it. Not out loud, when he feels so embarrassed. Like a cheap imitation of a man. He shakes his head, turning away from the hallway. That’s when he catches Magda’s scolding gaze. „Please, not now.” he sighs defeated and walks away, needing space to think.

He paces in your bedroom, the same one you just slept in few hours ago, made love countless times. The one you cried in and he held you through it, or cuddled watching your favourite romantic comedies (they’re his favourite too). He can’t believe how badly everything went to shit. How badly he screwed up… He knows it’s his fault and maybe that’s why he snapped at you. He thought he could focus on his work and you’d just be there at his side no matter how lost he gets. But he was wrong. So wrong. He got it out on you and there’s nothing he regrets more.

Frustrated with himself he heads to the bathroom, splashes cold water on his face, but it doesn’t help. Reaching for a towel, he notices there’s none. Oh right, it’s Saturday. A day of changing towels in the whole penthouse. Apparently because of the fight, Magda didn’t have a chance to put fresh ones. He sighs, grabbing few pieces of toilet paper. Once his face is dry he aims at the bin.

He misses.

„Fuck!” he shouts and in few long strides he approaches the poor bin and kicks it. As it falls with all the contents spilling onto the floor his gaze drops to a tiny pink stick. Kneeling he picks it up. A breath catches in his lungs. You said… that we’ll start trying for a baby right after the Japan deal. Your words ring in his head as he stares at the negative test. You closed this deal three months ago.

You were right. He did promise you’ll start trying. And now this pink stick is glaring at him, reminding him what an awful husband he is. It’s not how all this is supposed to be. You were supposed to be happy together, to have a family already. Instead he begun coming home later and later until it broke you. That is the moment when he realizes how much he failed you. Sitting on a cold bathroom floor he just observes the pregnancy test and sheds a few tears full of regret.

Despite being a feared, confident CEO that shines on „Forbes” or „GQ” covers, Harry is a sensitive man. He feels a lot of emotions, he’s ashamed of them. And only with you he was able to express himself without feeling like a complete idiot. You’re his rock and he’s yours. At least he was. That is why he handles poorly any fight you have, he hates the fact that he’s failing you. Because Harry knows you deserve so much better than what he gives you. He knows he’s not perfect despite what people think about him. It was you who taught him that he doesn’t need to be perfect., that he’s enough the way he is. „Your imperfections are just perfect.” — the first time you said that was after he showed you his height surgery scars. You didn’t run, or laugh. You understood. You kissed his scars.

You’re the most precious thing in this world.

And now he’s terrified he might not be able to fix this. All because of his selfishness. Because of his fear. Your marriage is on the verge of breaking just because he couldn’t face the pain he caused you. He feels like a child lost in a fog when you’re not around. Your love is the only love he isn’t scared of. And now your love is the one he might lose.

He’s not having that. Absolutely not.

He’ll be better. He needs to. He’ll give you everything you want.

„You fucking idiot.” he whispers to himself.

*****************

Ending chapter notes: I want to thank everyone for engaging in this story! As you could notice I’m getting my inspirations from my favourite songs and every chapter is named by a different song. I also hope you like my version of Harry. After watching the movie I really fell in love with his avoidant side. I don’t think this side of him is approached often and I wanted to try. Thank you again🩷🫡

Taglist: @palomavs @negrita2345 @jothenurse91 @chewie-bars @ivoryandflame @perpetualharpyresonance @alyloops @mamustreads @misstokyo7love @picketniffler @inept-the-magnificent

Also let me know if I missed anyone in the taglist! Thanks!

[ppaattrriizziiaa1]

The Winner Takes It All | 1: My Man On His Willpower

Pairing: Harry Castillo x reader

Chapter summary: Harry works another long night and you feel rejected. Worried about your marriage you prepare a dinner. It doesn’t go as planned.

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Chapter warnings: language, neglect, struggles conceiving, barely mentioned sex

Words: ~2.8k

Notes: Well it’s my first chapter of my first series. My apologies for any mistakes, English is not my first language. I hope you’ll like it! Enjoy and thanks! Please, do not copy my work. Thanks!

HARRY CASTILLO TAKING OVER THE PRIVATE EQUITY SECTOR

HARRY CASTILLO NOMINATED FOR THE CEO OF THE YEAR

HARRY CASTILLO - WILL THERE BE ANY HEIR TO HIS GREAT COMPANY?

You read the titles of the newest articles that were posted on the internet. You asked your assistant to always email you if there’s something new associated with your last name. And there is. There’s always something new.

You just like to know things. To be prepared. It makes you calmer, knowing what the world has to say about you, or your husband. And now? Now he’s on top. Now he has everything and he’s going for more, that’s the way Harry is.

With a quiet sigh you set the phone down on the counter, right next to yet another negative pregnancy test. Your gaze remains glued to the tiny, pink stick. Why does it have to be so hard? Why other couples seem to have no problem with conceiving? You look up at the mirror, at your reflection… see the delicate, blue nightgown and the flat stomach that hides underneath. Well… you and Harry haven’t been trying, not exactly. But you weren’t careful either. And you were talking about kids, you both want them. You’re married for over two years now… All you need to be fully happy is a baby.

With a sharp movement you throw the pregnancy test to the bin. It’ll happen. Sooner or later.

You walk out the bathroom, right into your specious bedroom. It’s pretty late already. The always active New York City noise is muffled by floor-to-ceiling windows and the only light is coming from bedside lamp on Harry’s side. It’s cozy. Harry hired the best decorators to make your penthouse feel domestic and comfortable. They used the best materials here. Oakwood floor and furniture… ecru soft goods and warm lighting… You love this place. Love spending time here with your husband and…

Your jaw clenches slightly, when he doesn’t even look up at you from his laptop. He’s already in bed, blanket over his legs, wearing glasses that protect his eyes from the blue light. He’s working. Again. You decide not to get angry. Yet.

You slowly make your way to your side of the bed, grab a vanilla and cashmere body lotion. That’s your usual after-bath routine. You sit on the edge of the bed and deliberately soothe it into the skin of your bare legs, hoping to feel Harry’s gaze on your back. But you don’t. Only hear him typing away on the keyboard.

You don’t give up, after applying the lotion, you turn towards Harry and crawl closer to his side. The mattress dips a little under your weight, that’s when he spares you a single glance. Finally.

„Harry…” You whisper, pressing your soft lips to his shoulder. He keeps fucking typing. So you leave another sweet kiss, this time to the warm skin of his neck. „Baby…” He exhales quietly. And then another kiss on the neck, begging for his attention. At first Harry tenses slightly, but the feeling is gone as soon as your hand lands on his thigh. „Love, I have to finish this.” He says, clenching his jaw in guilt. His eyes meet yours, he hates seeing you like this, feeling like you have to beg for his time. But work has been so busy lately… He closes deal after deal, he needs to keep up.

„It’s after midnight… I’m sure your laptop can wait until morning” you say „Your wife can’t…”. He sighs, fixing the glasses on his nose.

„Not tonight. You know it’s not that easy. I have an important meeting tomorrow”

You lean back and stare at him as his gaze is again on the screen. You don’t want it to turn into a fight, but, fuck… you miss him. It feels like you both are drifting apart lately. You hate it, you want him to notice you… You open your mouth wanting to say something more, but you see how he brushes his face in exhaustion, how stressed he looks. He told you about this meeting, some another twenty-million deal… It’s better not to burden him, right? That’s what a good wife would do… Right?

„Just… Don’t stay up too long” you finally say defeated and lay down under the blanket. „I promise” he answers and again you can hear typing. Your back is to him, you face the window. The dark night is glaring at you, the city lights now scattered because of the rain drops, the soft hum of drizzle making your eyelids go heavy.

But not only your eyelids feel heavy. Your heart does too. You wanted to talk to him, to discuss the topic of a baby again… Or at least feel him close, skin to skin, mouth against mouth. You miss the way he filled you until your breath caught. Miss the sweet words and praises he whispered to your ear as his fingers were knuckle-deep inside.

You fall asleep with a single tear dried on your cheek. Completely unaware of apologetic gaze that burns into your back. Harry feels guilty, of course, but he knows he can’t just drop all the work for you. A whole company depends on him. That’s many people. A lot of money and different lives. Sure, he misses you… But he’s right here, next to you. Isn’t it enough? That’s what he chooses to believe.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the morning you wake up to the sound of a commotion in the walk-in-closet. You slowly sit up, hair mussed from sleep, it’s so bright in the bedroom, you have to squint your sleepy eyes.

„Shit.” You hear a frustrated mutter from the closet, you get out, sliding your feet into your fluffy sleepers. You shiver, it’s not so warm outside the duvet.

You enter the closet and see Harry struggling with his tie in front of a mirror. It draws a soft chuckle out of your mouth. That’s when he notices you. He looks a bit sheepish, caught on the fact that after all these years of being a businessman, he still needs his wife to help him with a tie.

„Let me.” you approach him, reaching for his tie. He instantly relaxes, thankful that he doesn’t have to do it alone.

„Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you” he says, his voice low and warm. Always working on you like a cozy blanket. „It’s okay, didn’t sleep well anyway” you say, hoping that maybe he’ll bring up last night. That maybe he’ll apologize and you’ll finally feel important…

„Yeah, me too. I kept thinking about this meeting today. But it’ll all be over in few hours. I’ll finally have some freedom after closing this deal.” while saying that, he rests his hand on your hip, his thumb brushing over the delicate silk of your nightgown. You feel goosebumps on your skin at the sensation. You crave every little touch he gives you. „Yeah?” you look at him hopeful, finally finishing dealing with his tie. Your hands stay on his chest though, on the crisp, white shirt he wears.

He nods. „Maybe we’ll go on some holiday? Somewhere warm, like… Majorca, or Bahamas. Bahamas were fun last spring.” he smiles at you, you can notice a slight ghost of wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. His question makes your heart swell with hope and love. You were right, you just needed to be patient.

„Really? That sounds great.” you grin. „It’s been a while since we’ve been somewhere.”

„I know.” he sighs, his thumb gently rubbing your hip. „And it’s on me.”

„What? No, you’ve just been busy. I know company is in a crucial moment.”

You really said that. You really justify his actions. But… he seems sincere. You want to believe him. That long hours in the office will be gone. That lonely dinners are over. That pleasureless nights will be burried as only bad dreams.

„You’re a saint, sweetheart.” Harry kisses your forehead.

And then his phone rings. A quick peck on your nose and then he leaves the wardrobe, too busy with the person on the phone. You stand there, wrapping your slender arms around yourself. Tonight… Everything will come back to normal. He’ll be in a good mood after closing the deal. He’ll have more time. I’ll make some fancy dinner tonight — you think to yourself — We’ll spend nice evening… I’m gonna talk to him.

With these hopeful thoughts, you decide to go about your day. After marrying Harry, he insisted for you to quit your job at publishing house. He wanted to provide for you and you agreed. This work wasn’t exactly something you loved anyway. You loved books. You loved writing. And that pushed you to write your own book. There was one. Then the second. And then the third. And before you realized you’d became a bestselling author. You’re known for your romance novels. Many people think this genre is trivial. But you think love is the most essential human feeling, needed for survival in this cruel world. It’s a cure for any lost soul. The answers are always hidden in love.

And that’s why lately you couldn’t get any inspiration. You feel stuck with your writing, it’s the reason you took a break for some time. Your publisher wasn’t thrilled, but fortunately you have already worked for your reputation.

And for now? You have the lady of the house duties. After eating breakfast you help your housekeeper, Magda, clean up a little. You coordinate the flower delivery. Once a week you order new flowers to your apartment. This week you chose peonies. You look at the arrangements at the entrance, on the dining table, or by the fireplace. Perfect.

„Magda, take the rest of the day off” you say to an elder woman. „I’ll make dinner by myself” you can’t help yourself and smile.

„Oh, I see. Mr. Castillo closes a big deal today.” she smirks.

„Yes. I’m planning something great.”

„I could help you, Mrs. Castillo…” Magda insists, she’s a very devoted worker, you really like her.

„No, go meet your grandkids. I’m sure they miss you.” you respond, knowing she has a lot of them. Magda is like an aunt or grandma to you, so keeping her here, just to do her hours feels ungrateful and mean.

„Thank you, Mrs. Castillo.” she says and heads to the exit, she grabs her bag on the way. „Have a nice dinner, tonight.”

„I will, thanks.”

After Magda left, you went to the kitchen with a big grin on your face. You carefully write down a list of groceries and soon leave the penthouse. First you have your pilates class with your friend Cassandra. You like a good workout, especially when you’re nervous about something. And today… you really want everything to be perfect. Later, you gossip a little over the coffee and bagels at your favourite cafe in Tribeca.

Your day went on, after saying goodbye to Cassie, you went to a grocery store, preparing for the dinner. As you walk through the aisles you fidget anxiously with the list you made at home. This is important. In few hours he’ll be home.

You’re gonna eat delicious meal, drink his favorite white wine. Finally spend some quality time together. And maybe finally you’ll be brave enough to mention your concerns about conceiving. You long for a family. You long for a family with him. You can see it, the way Harry would be with your child… You blink few times to avoid tearing up in the middle of the vegetables aisle.

******************************

The evening comes. You spent almost three hours in the kitchen. Salmon in lemon and dill sauce. Mashed potatoes. His favourite Chardonnay. Home-made apple crumble for the dessert (and maybe you, if you’re lucky).

The glass table in the dinning room is set with peonies and vanilla-scented candles. The food is warm, waiting, because Harry can be home any minute. You smooth your black mini dress with your hands and check the time. 8 P.M. He texted you at six — a brief text he’ll be around eight.

So here you are, waiting.

Tapping the surface of your phone. Hoping for maybe some text, like: Hey, stuck in a traffic jam, or: Stopped by the florist’s. But no. Nothing.

You go fix your makeup in the bathroom. Some more blush, a little touch with your Chanel lipstick. You look at your reflection. Hopeful. Dressed up. Just for your husband. You start second guessing. Maybe that dress was a wrong choice? Maybe you should’ve worn the purple, halter one? No… it makes your hips look bigger. Maybe your hair should’ve been pinned up? No… you don’t want to seem old. Shit, where is he? Maybe he had an accident… Maybe he’s at some hospital fighting for his life… No. It’s your anxiety speaking.

„Get a grip.” You mutter angrily to your reflection.

You go back to the dining room and check the phone for any notifications.

None.

You decide to call. You go straight to the voicemail.

„Um… Hey, baby. I was wondering if you’re heading home? I made dinner… it’s getting cold. And I’m worried. Just…” you sigh „Call me.”

You put the phone down on the table. It hits the glass surface a bit too hard, wincing you check for any damage, but fortunately there’s none.

„Son of a bitch” your voice cracks, because deep down, you know. It has been like this for months. But after this morning you really thought he feels bad. He acknowledged he’s been neglecting you. That has to mean something, right? You take a breath. Not yet. Don’t give up on him yet. He’ll be back.

You sit. You wait, checking the time. 9 P.M. It happened before. He can walk through that door anytime, you believe.

By the time the clock hits ten, you open the wine. You sip the liquid staring at the food that has absolutely gone cold. The salmon seems to look and laugh at you. Like it can’t believe you were that stupid to think Harry will celebrate with you.

By eleven, you’re tipsy. (You’re drunk.)

After midnight you finally break.

„I knew it.” you let out a sob. „You fucking idiot.” you stare at your reflection in an empty wine bottle. Some impulse makes you push it down the table, with the force you didn’t expect of yourself. You watch the glass shatter on the floor, but the sound of it isn’t louder than the sound of your breaking heart. You don’t even mind cleaning that up. You just stand up heading towards your shared bedroom.

It’s always the same. You wait. He fails. You cry. You… make peace with it.

It’s so hard, being the one standing aside and watching as someone you care about climbs the career ladder, leaving you behind. You were once a team. What the hell happened to that?

You step into the shower hoping, hot, streaming water will wash your sorrows away. Your tears mix with the droplets. To make yourself feel even worse, you use his body wash. It makes the tears flow even harder. Sliding down the tiled wall, you curl up under the cruel stream.

By 1 A.M. you lay in your shared bed, contemplating silently about your shitty marriage. When did that happen? This question repeats in your head over and over. He wasn’t like that. You, you weren’t like that. You used to call him out on his bullshit, not just accept it, taking every punch of disrespect with grace.

You hug your pillow tighter. It feels so lonely here. You’ve never felt worse.

I’ll finally have some freedom after closing this deal.

That’s what he said. You repeat these words in your head.

I’ll finally have some freedom after closing this deal.

But now, you realize his freedom wasn’t destined for you. You thought he meant he’ll have time for you. Instead… the freedom apparently means time for other deals. Other business-related bullshit. Not you.

Never you.

When did that happen?

******************

By 2 A.M. you fell asleep, lulled by your tears and the sound of a breaking heart. Just in time not to notice a text message you got.

2:23 A.M. — Harry

Hey, love. We went out with George and Peter to celebrate closing the deal. Be home soon.

[s-writing-s]

Diagnosis: Married? | Part 13

Summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?

tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, fluff, drinking, sexual tension

word count: 7.5k

a/n: a slight trim from 8k but still a long chapter for you guys <33 i hope you enjoy it! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33

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It's been three days since Olivia left. Three days since you moved into the guest room.

Three days since Jack has slept more than an hour at a time.

He'd expected that he'd miss you, but he hadn't expected his body to react so viscerally to your lack of presence. Hadn’t expected it to feel like something essential had been pulled out of him—like his body didn’t know how to settle without you.

It's familiar in a way he hates. The restless energy buzzing under his skin, the sharp edge of awareness, the way his mind keeps searching for something to do—something urgent, something loud enough to drown everything else out.

He'd caught himself earlier, halfway to the drawer where he'd hidden the police scanner, until his mind caught up to his body. He wanted to reach in, grab it, but he didn't. Because if he did, he’d go. And as long as you were here—even in another room—he wouldn’t.

He'll reach for it when you're gone. Not a second before.

You've left for the guest room half an hour ago—your room now—after getting ready for bed. He'd convinced you to keep your things in his bathroom, arguing that it made more sense than to move them—a weak excuse that somehow worked.

It meant that he could sit against the headboard, listen to you potter around in there and get a sweet smile from you before you eventually leave.

After that, he could creep under the covers, drag your pillow into his arms, and bury his nose deep into the fabric where your scent still lingers. Pretend for a moment that you haven't left—that you're still in the bathroom.

But this time the familiar scent is not there. He'd turned the pillow around, rather desperately, hoping—praying—to find it.

He didn't.

You'd changed the sheets. Washed off the last bit of evidence he had that you'd been there. He lay back down with a thud, pillow still hugged tightly to his chest, and resigned himself to a night of no sleep.

He was wrong. It isn't a night of no sleep—it's much worse. Because when his eyes close, he's right back there.

Dry, suffocating heat sticks to his skin. Lungs burning with each breath. Sand grinds between his teeth. There's a sharp, metallic stink of fuel and blood.

Someone's bleeding.

He's pressing down, his hands slick, trying to keep it in—begging stay with me, stay with me—but it won't stop.

It never stops. It's one after the other. Faces blur. Voices overlap. Orders shouted over choking breaths.

He's too slow. He's always too slow.

A broken sound tears out of him. His hands twist into the sheets, knuckles straining white, fabric biting into his palms. He doesn't feel it until something pulls him up, drags him out—

His eyes snap open to another nightmare—one that hurts in an entirely different way.

You're sitting beside him, watching him with worried but sympathetic eyes. Close but not touching him like he wishes you would—he wants nothing more than to feel your warmth, even if it's just a mind's trick. His chest is still heaving, lungs refusing to settle, heart slamming hard enough it hurts. Adrenaline courses through him. He doesn't move—couldn't if he wanted to—so he just stares at you, waiting for the inevitable moment when you fade away again.

"You're okay," you whisper, shifting closer on the bed.

He doesn't believe it. Not when he can still feel it—the heat, the blood, the weight of it all sitting heavy in his chest like it never left.

"You're okay," you murmur again, glancing from his face down to his hands still clutching the covers. You reach out, but stop halfway, hesitating. "Can I touch you?"

"Please," he manages, his voice cracking. He can barely breathe.

You move slowly, carefully easing the fabric out of his grip and replacing it with your hand. Your other hand comes up to his face, swiping at the tears that he hadn't even realised had fallen.

"Breathe with me," you say. You bring your intertwined hands up to your chest, resting them gently on your sternum, so he can feel the slow and steady rise of it.

He tries matching you, but it feels impossible.

You keep murmuring assurances, gentle words that he doesn't believe, but he keeps trying. His breaths come uneven at first, catching, stuttering—but you keep at it.

He knows it’s a panic attack. Rationally, he does. But his body takes its own time to realise it. Eventually, the edges dull. The noise fades. His lungs stop fighting him.

And once he's finally able to take a full, deep breath, he realises, it isn't a dream. Your hand is warm—real.

"Hey," you whisper, giving him a small smile.

"Hi," he says back.

You don't say more. You don’t ask anything. You don’t push. You just look at him, something soft in your expression, and then—

you pull your hand away.

The loss is immediate. He swallows, disappointment filling his aching chest. Of course. He should've known you wouldn’t stay. You just came to make sure he was okay. That’s what good people do. People like you.

He should’ve known better. Should’ve known not to expect more. Men like him don’t get to have things like this. Not with everything he carries. Not with everything he’s failed to carry. Not with—

The mattress dips beside him. You don’t say anything as you slip under the covers beside him. Your face tucks into the space between his shoulder and chest, your arm draping over his stomach.

He doesn’t move at first, then his arm comes up. Careful. Hesitant. It wraps around your shoulder, pressing you closer into him. His nose dips into your hair, and he takes another deep breath. Finally breathing you in. His eyes close again, his grip tightening just slightly around you, afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens it.

And for the first time in three nights, he sleeps properly.

Jack wakes slowly. His shoulders loosened, breathing calm, and his head not aching for once. He breathes in quietly, searching for your soft breath in the room. It's quiet.

Too quiet.

Heart slowly sinking, he keeps his eyes closed as he reaches across the mattress, searching for your body. Not wanting to see just yet. Not wanting to confirm it.

His fingers only brush against cold sheets.

Jack sighs, cold realisation hitting him. He keeps his eyes closed for another second before he reluctantly opens them to face the truth.

You've left. Of course you have.

And judging by the coldness, it must have been sooner rather than later. Probably right after he fell asleep.

With another harsh exhale, he pushes himself up to sit at the edge of the bed. Building up the nerve to go act like it doesn't mean anything, that his heart isn't fracturing, trying to keep up this pretence.

Then the door creaks open, your foot nudging it as your elbow releases the handle. In your hands, you hold a tray with plates and mugs clinking as you step inside.

"Nooo," you pout when you see he's awake. "I was supposed to wake you up with breakfast in bed." You lift the tray, staring at it dejectedly. "I even made you coffee," you add.

Jack blinks at you, trying to make sense of the situation. Had you slept there the whole night, after all?

"Lay back down," you demand, cutting through his thought process.

"Really?" His voice is hoarse from surprise and sleep, but the corner of his mouth twitches. Amusement flickers through the haze of disappointment.

"Yes!"

And because he can't resist you, he does as he's told, his eyes closing again. He hears the tray set down next to him, his book hitting the floor—he bites back a comment.

"Okay, you can wake up now," you say.

Jack doesn't move.

"Ja-ack," you exaggerate, poking his arm. He doesn't budge. "Come on," you push at his arm, your voice growing closer as your face nears his.

"I'm sleeping," he murmurs, his mouth curling despite his attempt to control his grin.

"Funny," you deadpan. " Come on, wake up. Wake up. Wake up." You poke, push and prod with each word. "Wake u—" he cuts you off this time, his hands wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you into the bed. In a smooth roll, he pins you lightly beneath him, leaning on one arm to avoid crushing you, the other draped across your frame to hold you in place.

Your mouth stays open, but no words leave this time.

"I thought you were taught bedside manners in med school," he says. "Looks like I was expecting too much."

He can see your eyes widening, how your breathing turns shaky. He has to stop himself from leaning down and pressing his mouth to yours. He drags in a breath and forces himself to keep still.

He doesn't have the chance to act, even if he wanted to, because your head turns, soft lips brushing his ear seconds later.

"What? Something more like—" your voice turns breathy, sweet, and downright sultry. "Good morning, Jack. Your sweet, sweet wife made you breakfast."

He knows you're teasing him, but that is actually what he wants. What he wishes for every day.

But he can't show you that, so he rolls back, shrugging. "Something like that, yeah."

You grin, pushing yourself up to lean against the headboard. "I'll remember that. Now," you gesture to the tray, "eat before it gets cold."

"Yes, ma'am." Jack reaches over, giving you one of the mugs and taking the other himself. He takes a small sip of the dark liquid.

You've been watching him carefully, your brows knitting as he swallows. "It's not good, is it?"

He tries his best to hide the instinctive grimace that comes from drinking watery coffee, murmuring, "No, it's… It's good."

The lie flops immediately. Especially when you take a sip yourself. "It's horrible." You pout again, something Jack really wishes you would stop doing. It keeps drawing his attention to your lips.

"It's the effort that counts," he says.

"I don't want your pity," you say.

"Hey—the offer to teach you still stands."

"Hmm, nah," you say, shaking your head, a slight smile on your lips. "I'll just let that be your thing."

Jack tilts his head, thinking. "Did you make it bad on purpose?"

"What?" He can see you considering how to answer, knowing that he'd placed a trap—that either answer is bad.

You settle on, "Shut up and eat," instead.

Jack grins, watching you over the rim of his mug.

You'd seen the worst of him, and still you'd come back. He wants to believe that means something.

The shift is progressing much better than the last few ones, despite the cases being nearly the same. The difference is in you—yawning less, not fighting so hard to stay awake.

Just one night of sleeping with Jack again apparently makes up for days of fractured sleep. The bed in the guest room isn't as nice—it's what you tried to convince yourself at first—but deep inside, you know it's really about not sleeping with Jack. It’s unsettling how quickly your body has gotten used to it—how much worse everything feels without it.

Tonight you're still tired, but significantly less so.

"Here." A cup lands on the desk next to you as Lily leans against the counter. "I finally give in—come to the 'dark side' or whatever you call it—" she grins, "and then you're too tired to even notice."

"No, ugh—I'm the worst," you groan. "I'm so happy you're here. You're one of the few nurses I've managed to convince."

"Don’t you mean the only one?" Lily tilts her head, red ponytail slipping over her shoulder as her eyes narrow playfully. There’s a grin tugging at her lips, the kind that says she already knows the answer.

"Give it time. My charm is a slow burn."

"Mm-hmm. Or a complete myth," she says, nudging your shoulder lightly.

Lily’s been here as long as you have—long enough that you can’t quite remember any shifts without her. She’s the kind of person who somehow looks put together even after twelve-hour shifts, her scrubs never wrinkled, her smile never fully fading. When everything feels dark, she’s the one who brightens it.

And somehow—miraculously—she’s also figured out how to make the break room coffee taste like something other than regret.

"Seriously though," she adds, softer now, studying your face. "You look exhausted. Like… more than usual exhausted."

"I’ve just slept like shit the last few days," you admit, shrugging one shoulder.

"Uh-huh," someone mutters in passing. You don’t even have to look to know it’s Parker, but you do anyway. She’s halfway past the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, already moving like she’s got somewhere better to be.

"What’s that supposed to mean?" you call after her, because you absolutely cannot let it go—even though experience tells you that’s a mistake.

Parker stops, glancing at you, unimpressed. "You've slept 'shitty'," she repeats flatly.

"Yes?"

She hums, glancing between you and Lily, something calculating flickering behind her eyes. "That’s just funny."

You sigh, regretting this conversation even more. "Why?"

"So has Abbot."

"So what?"

Parker’s mouth curves, just barely. "It’s just funny that two newlyweds both show up to work tired." There’s just enough pause after it for the implication to settle.

"Oh my—" Lily’s eyes go wide, and she physically leans closer to you, her voice dropping into a whisper that is not quiet at all. "Are you trying?"

"What? No!" you choke, nearly spilling your coffee as you whip toward Parker. "Stop making up rumours!"

But Parker’s already turned back to Lily, completely ignoring your protest. "I’ve got twenty on it happening this year," she says, like she’s placing a perfectly reasonable bet. "You in?"

"Oh, I’m absolutely in," Lily replies instantly, all delight and zero hesitation. "Thirty on it happening in three months—and them pretending it didn’t until it’s too obvious to hide."

"Guys," you groan, dragging both hands down your face this time. "Guys, please—"

They’re already walking away, laughing like this is the best thing that’s happened all shift.

You stare after them, equal parts horrified and exhausted. "…I hate both of you," you mutter, even though they’re long gone.

But you know the night shift's noticed. The way you lean in more, flirt a little easier—just trying to take Olivia’s advice, even if you’re doing it far more subtly than she'd like you to.

Still, you didn’t think that, combined with a few bad nights of sleep, would be enough to start a bet.

At around four in the morning, there's a lull in patients, the waiting room empty for once. Unlike others, who are taking the time to catch some Z's, you’re using it to catch up on your charts.

You’re mid-sentence when a body drops heavily into the chair beside you. "Ugh."

"Hmm?" You barely glance over, fingers still moving across the keyboard, though slower now.

"I’m gonna have to file a harassment claim by the end of the night if this keeps going," Shen says, dragging a hand down his face.

That gets your attention. "A patient?"

"No." He shakes his head immediately, expression souring. "Worse."

You already have a feeling. Your eyes flick instinctively down the hall—and just in time to see Smith slip through the doors of one of the rooms. "Don't tell me it's—"

He grimaces, nodding. "Uh-huh."

You lean back with a quiet exhale, rubbing your temple. "Damn. I told her to drop that."

"Who?" a new voice cuts in. Jack's shadow falls across the counter a second before he leans over it, his eyes moving between you and Shen.

"Smith," Shen mutters. "She hasn’t crossed a line yet, but she’s right on the edge."

Jack’s expression tightens slightly, his easy demeanour sharpening into something more focused. "Has she done it to anyone else?"

"Not that I know of," Shen says, shaking his head. "Just me."

Jack nods once, adding almost like an afterthought, "So you and me."

Your spine straightens instantly. Shen’s head snaps toward Jack, eyes wide, then flicks to you like he’s suddenly very aware he’s in the blast radius of something.

You turn fully in your chair, staring up at Jack. "She hit on you?"

Jack blinks, like he hadn’t quite anticipated the reaction. "Yes."

"When?"

"When you were—" he gestures vaguely toward your midsection, searching for the least awkward phrasing, "…I turned her down."

Your brows knit tighter. "Why didn’t you tell me?" It comes out sharper than you mean it to.

"Uh oh," Shen mutters under his breath, already pushing himself upright. "I have a patient in South 19—I gotta go."

Neither of you stops him. He disappears fast.

Jack exhales quietly and moves around the counter, stepping into your space instead of staying on the other side. He leans back against the edge beside you, closer now, his voice softer.

"Hey," he says. "I’m sorry. I didn’t really think about it at the time. I was more worried about you that day, and then it just… slipped my mind."

You worry your bottom lip, gaze dropping briefly to the desk as you turn that over.

"Still," he adds quickly, watching your face, "I should’ve told you. I’m sorry." He pauses, then asks, "Are you mad?"

You look up at him then—taking in the tension in his shoulders, the way he’s trying not to make a big deal out of it but clearly cares about the answer.

After a second, you shake your head. "No. Not at you."

Some of the tightness leaves him immediately, subtle but still noticeable.

"I’m mad at her," you continue, turning back toward your screen, though you’re not really reading it anymore.

Jack shifts beside you, thinking. "I’m going to write her up."

You glance at him again, surprised. "You are?"

"That’s two attendings now," he says evenly. "And there’s also the shit she pulled with you." His mouth presses into a thin line. "Hopefully it’s a reality check."

"And if it’s not?" you ask.

A hint of something dry creeps back into his expression. "Then I’ll have her moved back to days."

You raise a brow.

"Make her Robby’s problem," he finishes.

A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, cutting through the lingering irritation. "Wow. Harsh."

"He’ll survive," Jack says lightly, completely unapologetic.

You study him for a moment, something softer settling in your chest now. "…Thanks," you say.

He shrugs, like it’s nothing, pushing off the counter slightly. "It’s my job as your attending to take care of you."

He says it lightly. It doesn’t feel light. Doesn't quite match the way he’s looking at you.

"Hey," you say, catching Parker just as she’s finishing up, the early signs of shift change rippling through the department. "Wanna go out soon?"

Her head snaps up so fast it’s almost comical. "Uh, yes?" she says immediately, eyebrows shooting up. "I’ve been waiting for you to ask."

A small, tired smile tugs at your mouth. "Good."

You mean it more than she realises. You need it—something loud, something distracting, something that isn’t this constant low simmer in your chest. Every time you catch a glimpse of Smith moving through the department, laughing too easily, standing a little too close to people, it tightens again.

It’s not about Jack. Not really. You trust him. It’s the audacity of it that gets under your skin. The fact that she knew. That she looked at him, at the ring, at you—and still decided to try anyway. Fake marriage or not, it irks you.

"Can I come too?" Lily calls as she passes behind you, halfway to the supply room, but clearly listening in.

"Of course," you say easily.

"Yay!" she grins, then, without missing a beat, she turns slightly. "Hey… you coming?" You follow her line of sight—and your stomach sinks.

Smith.

She’s just stepped up to the board, pausing mid-motion as she blinks at Lily, clearly caught off guard. "Uh… me?" she asks, pointing lightly to herself.

"Yeah!" Lily grins, completely oblivious to the undercurrent running through the rest of you. "Come hang out with us."

There’s a split second where Smith hesitates. "Uh… sure," she says finally.

"Great," you reply, the word coming out smoother than it feels. You glance at Parker, and the look you share says enough.

Great. Just great.

"Uh—let’s invite day shift too," you add quickly, already stepping back, reaching for a pen you don’t need. "Make it a whole thing."

Bigger group. More noise. Less chance of being forced to interact.

"Yeah, yeah, good idea," Parker murmurs, catching on instantly.

As you start to move away, Parker falls into step beside you just long enough to mutter under her breath, "I’ll tell Lily what’s going on."

You let out a quiet breath, tension easing just slightly. "Thanks," you murmur back.

"Hi!" Lily beams the second she steps through the door, her voice already carrying that bright, slightly-too-loud energy of someone ready for a night out.

Warm light spills from the living room into the hallway, soft music humming in the background. The place already feels lived-in for the night: shoes kicked off near the entry, jackets draped over chairs, laughter drifting in from deeper inside.

"Come in, come in," you say, stepping back to let her through, one hand gesturing her inside while the other tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "Jack’s just leaving."

Right on cue, he appears from the hallway, shrugging into his jacket, keys already in hand. He looks relaxed in a way he rarely does at work—sleeves rolled, hair slightly mussed. He nods at her.

"Hey," Lily says, her eyes flicking between the two of you with immediate interest.

"Call me if there’s anything," Jack says to you, like he hasn’t already said it twice. He'd offered the house for you guys to get ready together, something the other girls had squealed at—more than just a little excited to see "your" place. It's just a few of you pregaming, the rest meeting you later. "And take an Uber to the bar."

"It’s a ten-minute walk," you shoot back instantly, crossing your arms. "I’m not wasting my money on that."

Jack exhales, slow and long, like he saw that coming. "Hand me your phone."

You don’t even hesitate, though your eyes narrow as you pass it over. "What are you doing?"

"Saving you from yourself," he mutters, already unlocking it, password memorised. His thumbs move quickly, tapping through screens easily.

You lean slightly, trying to peek. "Jack—"

"Relax," he says, not even looking up. "I’m not reading your messages."

"Wow, thank you for that bare minimum reassurance."

He huffs a quiet laugh, then hands the phone back. "My card’s on there. Take an Uber."

You glance at the screen, then back at him, sighing. "…Alright."

He studies you for a second, like he’s deciding whether to argue further, then seems to accept the win. His hand comes up, settling briefly at your waist as he pulls you a step closer. He presses a soft kiss to the side of your head, lingering just a second longer than necessary. "I’ll see you later, honey."

The door clicks shut behind him, and there is exactly one second of silence. Then—

A high-pitched squeal cuts through the hallway. "Oh my god, you two are disgusting," Lily breathes, clutching her chest.

You roll your eyes, but you’re already laughing, shaking your head as you take Lily by the arm and guide her further inside. "You're just jealous."

"Am not," Lily says immediately, though her grin says otherwise. Her eyes are already darting around, taking everything in. "Also—wow."

She steps fully into the living room, turning slowly like she’s trying to catalogue the entire place at once. "Okay," Lily says, wandering a few steps farther in. "This is so nice."

"Right?" Trinity chimes in from near the hallway, already halfway through opening a door before you even notice. "I’m just gonna—"

"Trin—" you start.

Too late. She peeks inside anyway. "Bathroom. Boring," she announces, closing it and immediately moving to the next.

"You guys are unbelievable," you mutter, though there’s no real heat behind it.

"Wait, is this your room?" Trinity asks.

"No," you say quickly. "Trinity—"

"I’m just looking!" she insists, disappearing down the hall anyway.

Lily drifts toward a bookshelf, tilting her head as she scans the spines. Mel perches carefully on the very edge of the couch, like she’s still not entirely sure she’s allowed to take up space there—but she’s trying. There’s a small smile on her face as she watches the rest of you bicker and move around each other, something soft and a little uncertain, like she’s easing into the rhythm of it. You're not sure how Trinity managed to convince her to come out with you—but you're so happy she did. You like Mel.

From the kitchen, ice clinks against glass. "Come get your drinks," Parker calls.

You make your way over, leaning against the counter as she hands you a glass. Behind you, Trinity’s voice echoes from down the hall, "Oh my god, your closet is so organised, it’s actually stressful."

"Don’t touch anything!" you call back.

"I’m not touching—I’m just looking!"

"Same thing!"

Lily appears beside you again, still grinning. "No, really, you guys are so cute," she says, nudging your arm. "I’ve seen you two at shift change, but never like that."

"Like what?" you ask, taking a sip.

"Domestic," she says immediately. "It’s weird. In a good way. But also—" she scrunches her nose, "—barf."

"They’re barf material," Trinity yells from the hallway, doubling down. Mel grins over the rim of her glass.

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself, the earlier tension finally loosening its grip.

"Oh—wait," Lily suddenly says, her whole expression shifting as something clicks. She turns to you, eyes wide. "I’m so sorry about inviting Smith, I didn’t know—"

"It’s fine," you cut in easily, waving a hand like it’s nothing. And you mean it. She couldn't have known. "Seriously. Don’t worry about it."

Parker snorts, not even looking up as she pours another drink. "Yeah, we’ll just make sure she sees exactly who she’s dealing with tonight."

"Ooh yes. Here's to dressing slutty," Trinity adds, sliding up to the table and grabbing a drink.

Lily raises her glass, grinning. "And to making Abbot incapable of coherent thought."

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch anyway as glasses clink together around you.

Olivia’s words echo in your mind: Flirt more. Try harder. See what happens. You have… kind of. But nothing bold. Nothing risky.

Tonight? Tonight you’re going to push it. And if it blows up—there’s alcohol, witnesses, plausible deniability.

The house descends into chaos, music playing just loud enough to keep the energy up without drowning conversation. Empty glasses and half-finished drinks cluttered the coffee table.

Trinity has taken over the couch like she owns it, legs tucked under her, talking fast and loud about something that had happened earlier as she draws a sharp cat eye. Lily sits cross-legged on the floor, halfway through curling her hair, pausing every few seconds to laugh. Parker hovers near the kitchen, topping up everyone’s drinks whether they ask or not. Mel lingers just at the edge of everything, but she’s smiling more now, shoulders less tense. Every now and then, someone pulls her into the conversation, and her laughter blends softly with the rest.

"Can I do your makeup?" you ask once you're finished with your own.

She blinks, caught off guard. "Who—who, me?"

You nod, already shifting closer. "We can do something simple… or we can go all out. Your choice."

"Um… well," she glances back at Trinity. "Could we do that?"

"A cat eye?" you light up. "Yes. Absolutely."

You're sitting in front of her now, steadying her chin, carefully dragging eyeliner across her lid.

Behind you, Trinity leans back into the couch cushions, watching. "I’m doing her hair next," she declares.

You finish Mel’s eyeliner, leaning back to assess your work. "Okay. Now don’t touch it."

Mel turns toward the mirror, and her expression shifts. "Oh… wow."

"Okay," Trinity cuts in, pointing at you as she grabs the curling iron. "Your turn. Go change. We need to see the look."

You grab your drink off the table, taking a quick sip before heading toward the bedroom.

"I'll come with you," Parker says. "Make sure you don't choose something boring."

The bedroom is quieter, the living room muffled behind the door. Parker perches on the bed, watching as you pull options from the closet. "No." You hold up another. "No." Another. "Absolutely not. What is that?"

"You’re so picky," you mutter.

"Sit," she orders, pointing at the spot she just left.

You roll your eyes—but sit. Parker is already on her feet, rifling through your closet, pushing hangers aside. She pauses, then slowly pulls a dress out.

Black. Fitted in all the right places, but still soft. Short. "This one," she says, turning to you—and the look she gives you makes it very clear this is not a discussion. "Abbot will have a heart attack."

You raise a brow—but you’re already reaching for it. You don’t bother turning away as you change. Parker doesn’t even blink, just leans back on her hands, completely unfazed. Your first year of residency together killed any sense of modesty between you.

"Girl, if you weren't married, I'd tap that," Parker says with a smirk. "If Abbot ever fucks things up, you'll always have me."

You laugh, loud and unfiltered. "I'll keep that in mind." You grab your drink again, finishing what’s left in one go, the warmth settling low in your chest.

"Alright," you say, turning toward the door, a spark of something sharper and bolder settling in as the fabric shifts against your body. "Let’s do shots before we leave."

Parker grins, already pushing off the bed. "Now you’re talking."

You spill out of the Uber in a tangle of laughter, Lily gripping your arm as she nearly misses the curb entirely. The air hits cool against your skin, grounding but not nearly enough to dull the soft buzz humming through you. Even Mel looks a little looser around the edges now.

Inside, the bar is already alive. Trinity pushes ahead, dragging Parker with her toward the bar. Lily stays close to you, fingers hooked loosely in your arm so you don’t get separated, while Mel lingers just behind, taking it all in.

Your eyes are searching the crowd, but it doesn't take long to find him. Jack's at the bar with other night shift people, leaning back against the counter. He looks relaxed, posture loosened by alcohol, but his eyes keep flicking toward the door.

Even half-hidden behind the others, he sees you. His mouth curves immediately in response. The group converges, greetings overlapping, orders being shouted toward the bartender—but it all blurs a little as you step closer to him.

"Hi," you say. You don’t overthink it—you just lean in, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. His reaction is immediate, his hand finding your waist, steady and warm. "Oops," you murmur, swiping your thumb lightly over his cheek. "Lipstick."

Jack doesn't seem to mind. He's watching you. You can see his eyes move, taking you in properly. From your face, down the line of your neck, over the dress… lingering just a second too long at the hem.

The reaction hits you instantly—a warm, electric rush settling low. You grin, leaning back to give him more space to look. "Do you like it?"

He hums, head tilting. "Can't really see it, sweetheart."

Your smile sharpens. "Oh?" you murmur, sliding your fingers into his. You lift his hand, spinning beneath it. The dress shifts against your thighs. "How about now?"

His grip tightens slightly when you come back to him. His gaze burns dark. "You look…" he starts, then pauses, swallowing once. "You look gorgeous."

There’s something in the way he says it—something quieter and more real than you'd imagined. For a second, you just hold his gaze, letting that settle between you, then your smile softens, something genuine slipping through the teasing. "Thank you."

You close the space again without thinking, your body angling naturally into his. His hand adjusts at your waist, pulling you in just a little closer.

Before you can say anything else, the music shifts. Trinity lights up instantly. "Oh, this is my song," she announces, already grabbing Lily.

"Wait—no—" Lily protests, laughing as she’s dragged away anyway.

Parker doesn’t even hesitate. "We’re going," she says, pointing at you and Mel like there’s no alternative.

Mel hesitates, clearly unsure. "I don’t—"

"You do now," Parker calls, already moving. Mel looks at you like she’s not entirely convinced, but she turns anyway.

You glance back at Jack, one brow lifting slightly. "Wanna come dance?"

"I don't dance, sweetheart," he answers.

You hum, leaning in just a little closer, your fingers brushing lightly along the front of his shirt. "That’s a shame," you murmur. Your gaze flicks up to his. "I think you’d be good at it."

His hand tightens at your waist. "Yeah?" he says, his voice lower now.

"Mm," you hum, lips curving slightly, a little more confident now, alcohol heightening the feeling that it might not be just you feeling this way. You might’ve said more—leaned in just a little further, pushed it one step further past safe—

—but Parker’s hand closes around your arm, pulling you with her before you can. And just like that, you’re gone into the crowd—though you can still feel the imprint of his hand where it was, and the weight of his gaze lingering long after.

The dance floor is packed, bodies moving close, lights flashing in uneven bursts. Trinity is fully in her element—hands in the air, singing along to every word, whether she knows them or not. Parker’s matching her energy, spinning Lily into her until they’re both laughing too hard to keep rhythm.

Mel hovers at first, then slowly loosens, shoulders relaxing, a small smile turning into something more real as she lets herself move. You fall into it easily enough—the music, the drinks, the way the night feels like it’s building toward something. Every now and then, you catch glimpses of the bar, half-looking for him without meaning to.

Time blurs a little after that—songs bleeding into each other, drinks appearing and disappearing, the group shifting and reforming as people wander and come back.

Eventually, the heat of the dance floor gets to be too much, so you slip away, weaving through the crowd toward the bar. "Water, please," you say, sliding onto one of the high chairs. The bartender nods, and a second later, you’ve got a cold glass in your hand. You take a long sip, closing your eyes for just a second.

God, that’s better.

You’re just starting to settle, letting the room sway lightly around you, when a voice cuts in beside you. "Hey—"

You don’t turn right away. A man leans against the bar next to you anyway, shaggy-haired, smirking. "I saw you out there," he says, nodding toward the dance floor. "You looked good."

"Thanks," you answer, your voice cool, eyes forward, sipping again. Letting him know you’re not interested.

He doesn’t take the hint. "I’m Trent," he goes on, shifting closer like that alone will make this work. "You’ve got some moves, but I think we could make some great moves together—if you know what I mean."

You let out a soft, unimpressed breath. "I’m married," you say, lifting your hand just enough for the ring to catch the light.

He hesitates for only a heartbeat before smirking like he thinks he can charm it away. "He doesn’t have to know."

Your expression shifts, irritation flickering sharper now. You finally turn your head fully, meeting his gaze.

He mistakes it instantly for interest and leans in just a little more.

"I'm not interested," you say flatly.

"Come on," he presses, his voice dropping like that’s supposed to help. "Your husband can’t please you like I—"

"You sure about that?" Jack’s voice cuts through like a blade. You feel him before you see him—solid at your back, close enough that your shoulder brushes his chest. The shift is immediate.

Trent straightens, the confidence cracking just slightly as he looks past you. Gone is the easy, relaxed lean from earlier. Now he’s all sharp lines and tension—shoulders squared, jaw tight, eyes locked on Trent.

"Fuck off," Jack says, voice quiet but edged. "And leave my wife alone."

Trent looks like he might argue for half a second—ego flaring—but then he really looks at Jack. At the way he’s standing. The way his gaze doesn’t waver. The kind of anger that doesn’t need volume to be threatening. It drains out of him just as fast. "Yeah—yeah, man, whatever," he mutters, backing off, hands half-raised like he wants no part of it anymore. He disappears into the crowd.

Jack doesn’t move until he’s gone. "Asshole," he murmurs, then he turns to you. His hands land on your hips, spinning your chair so you’re facing him fully. "You okay?" he asks. His voice is still low—but different now. Still tight, but threaded with something protective.

You look up at him. At the tension still lingering in his jaw. The way his eyes flick over you like he’s making sure you’re actually fine. Your breath stutters just slightly as heat curls low in your stomach. Your thighs press together instinctively, a reflex you can’t fully control. You feel it everywhere—warm, electric, pooling low, your pulse throbbing in places it shouldn't.

You’re hyper-aware of him: the brush of his hands on your hips, the nearness of his chest, the tension still coiled in his body, ready to snap at a moment’s notice. Your eyes betray you—you know it. They darken, deepen, and when your gaze meets his, you see it reflected back.

"Mm," you hum softly.

Jack watches you for a second longer, like he's clocking the shift in you, before he exhales lightly. "Come join us at the pool table."

He doesn’t pause for your answer. His hand finds yours, fingers sliding between yours with a possessiveness that makes your stomach flutter. He keeps you close as he guides you through the crowd, and the heat in your chest only grows.

The pool area is quieter. Enough space to breathe, enough light to actually see what you’re doing. Shen’s already there, lining up a shot with calm precision, like the chaos of the bar doesn’t touch him at all.

"You play?" he asks without looking up.

"Define play," you reply, grabbing a cue from the rack. Truthfully, you don’t care about the game—not with Jack this close.

You lean over the table, more focused on the way your dress shifts against your thighs than the shot.

You hit. The cue ball goes entirely the wrong direction. "Damn," you say, pretending to be disappointed.

"Sweetheart." Jack’s voice comes from behind you, closer than before, threaded with amusement. "What was that?"

You glance over your shoulder, lips already pulling into a small pout. "I don’t know how to do it."

His eyes flick to your mouth before returning to your eyes. Shen sinks his shot cleanly in the background.

You step forward again when it’s your turn, deliberately setting up another questionable shot. There’s a small pause, then—

"Here," Jack says, a little quieter now. "Let me help you." He steps in behind you before you can move. Close enough that you feel the heat of him before anything else—his presence slotting in naturally. His hand slides over yours on the cue, the other settling at your waist.

"Not like that," he murmurs, his voice lower now. "You’re fighting it."

You inhale a little sharper than you mean to.

"Loosen this," he adds, thumb pressing lightly against your fingers. His mouth is near your ear now, close enough that you feel the shape of the words more than hear them. "Yeah," he says softly. "Like that."

For a second, the rest of the room fades—the noise, the game, Shen waiting patiently at the edge of it.

"Take it," he murmurs. You do. The ball sinks cleanly this time.

He steps back again. You straighten, turning toward him. He’s already looking at you. There’s something hotter there now. Something that matches exactly what’s been burning under your skin all night.

It hits you all at once, sharp and unmistakable. Oh.

This isn’t one-sided. This isn’t you imagining things or pushing boundaries just to see what happens.

He’s… there with you. Meeting it. Responding. Wanting it.

You don't win the game, but it doesn't really matter. You barely register the score. Because every time you step up to the table after that, you can feel his eyes on you—and every time he steps in again, a little closer, a little bolder—it has nothing to do with pool anymore.

It actually feels possible now—and that changes everything.

Shen’s convinced Bridget to play him after absolutely destroying you. You linger off to the side with Lily and Jack, half-listening as they laugh about something, half-watching the game. You're mostly focused on how his thumb keeps stroking softly against your hip bone.

"I’m gonna go pee," you murmur into Jack's ear, your lips brushing just enough to feel the warmth of his skin before you slip away. He lets you go, but his hand lingers for half a second at your waist.

"I'll be at the bar," he responds, smiling at you with half-lidded eyes.

The second you’re in the bathroom, door locked behind you, you exhale hard—then immediately press a hand to your mouth, a breathy, disbelieving laugh slipping out anyway.

"Okay—okay," you whisper to yourself, pacing once in the tiny stall. Your head is light—spinning, but not in a bad way. The alcohol sitting just right in your system, softening your edges, quieting the part of you that usually overthinks everything. You press your lips together, trying to steady yourself, but the grin keeps pulling back. "Jesus," you breathe, shaking your head.

You’re just about to step out when you hear it. A voice, sweet and slightly high-pitched, carrying just loud enough for you to catch the words over the music. "Has Abbot done this before? Been with other residents? Do you think I still have a chance?"

Your body stills instantly. Smith. You'd completely forgotten that she was here. The other girl answers, uncertain, but it barely registers over the rush in your ears.

"I just don’t really see how they fit," Smith continues, giggling softly. "I mean, I’ve never seen them kiss or be really affectionate with each other."

Something in you snaps. A sharp, sudden possessiveness that cuts clean through the haze of alcohol and lands hard in your chest.

By the time the door swings shut behind them, you’re already walking. You don’t even fully think it through. You just move.

You find him easily, leaning against the bar, talking to Jesse and Donnie. Stepping close, your hand finds his arm, fingers curling into him. "Hey," you murmur.

He glances at you, turning his attention fully to you as he senses the shift in your energy.

You don't give him time to ask. You just lean in. This time it isn’t a quick, calculated peck. It’s not something you can pass off or laugh away.

It’s immediate—sharp and demanding. Your lips press to his with a purpose you can’t deny. Your other hand comes up to his shoulder, to his neck, pulling him closer, claiming him.

His reaction is just as instinctive. He cups your waist, tilts you slightly, deepening the kiss without hesitation. He exhales softly against your mouth before his tongue skims your lower lip. The world around you drops away until there’s only this. Only the two of you, lost in the heat and closeness that’s been simmering all night. The alcohol doesn’t dull it—it amplifies it. Makes you bolder, less restrained, and less willing to pull back.

As you break apart just slightly, your forehead resting against his, you whisper, barely audible over the pulse of the bar, "Sorry," you breathe. "Needed to… shut something down."

Jack doesn’t answer right away. His hand is still firm at your waist, thumb resting just where the fabric meets your skin. Not pulling away. Not loosening.

You expect a smirk. A joke. Something that minimises the heat. Instead, when you finally lift your eyes to his— he’s looking at you. Focused. Pupils blown.

His gaze drops to your mouth, like he’s replaying it, then back to your eyes.

"Yeah?" he says quietly, but he doesn’t move back. He doesn’t create distance like it was just a moment, just another cover-up. If anything, his grip tightens slightly, like he's keeping you right where you are. There’s the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth when you don't answer.

"Right," he murmurs, softer this time. But the way he says it—the look he gives you—doesn’t suggest he buys it. Not entirely. He looks at you like he's considering doing it again.

You hope he does.

[s-writing-s]

Diagnosis: Married? | Part 12

Summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?

tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, fluff, embarrassment (bleeding through), robby and olivia being menace's, drinking

word count: 7.1k

a/n: a slightly longer chapter for you <33 this might be one of my favourite chapters! i hope you enjoy it just as much! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas <33

Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist The Pitt | Masterlist Main | Masterlist Previous part | Next part

You wake up before the alarm goes off.

For a moment, you lie there, blinking up at the dark ceiling, trying to figure out why your body dragged you out of sleep. Then you feel it as you shift—that awful, unmistakable sticky warmth beneath you. The sensation only gets worse as you shift again, growing cold now where air hits it.

Fuck.

You push yourself upright slowly, trying not to move too much, but the damage is already done. You don't even have to look to know what you'll see.

You glance over at Jack, who is, thankfully, still asleep beside you. He has one arm tucked under his pillow, the other nestled on your hip. It slowly falls to the bed as you get up. He makes a sound at the loss of your warmth, but his breathing stays slow and even.

You slowly stand, mind racing as you stare at the bed. Maybe it's not that bad—but the second you lift the blanket, the dark stain laughs you right in the face. It's not huge, but it's still very noticeable.

It's fucking embarrassing. Your throat tightens. "God, I'm so stupid," you mutter under your breath, voice shaky. "I should've set an alarm… Should've—Fuck!" You should've known better. Should've never fallen asleep on his chest yesterday, only to be awoken gently, so you could brush your teeth. And in that soft space, with eyes blearily blinking, you'd forgotten that the second day always hit you with a vengeance.

And here's the evidence of your stupidity.

Panic buzzes through your body as you start pulling at the sheets. You need to get them off before Jack wakes up. You pull at the corner in an anxious haze, not once stopping to consider how you'll succeed with him still sleeping on them.

You just know you need to throw them in the wash before he sees how disgusting you are.

The mattress shifts, and Jack inhales sharply. His eyes blink open, and before you can even react, he's pushing himself up. He takes a glance at your panic-stricken face and immediately jumps into action, hand reaching for his prosthetic. He grabs it with practised ease, movements quick even while half-awake.

"What's wrong?" he asks, his voice still tinged rough with sleep. He stands up, crossing the space between you.

You step back, hands still tugging at the sheets. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to," you blurt immediately, tugging harder. "I should've known better—" The fitted corner flies free.

"Hey—hey, slow down," Jack says, reaching out to try and grab the bedding from your hands. You jerk away instinctively, avoiding his gaze. The sheets slide across the mattress, and for a split second, the stain is completely visible. There's no question whether Jack saw. You know he did.

"I'll clean it," you rush out, voice cracking in humiliation. "Or buy new sheets. I know it's disgusting—I'll just get you new ones." You keep pulling at it like if you move fast enough, the moment will disappear, and you can forget it ever happened.

Jack doesn't say anything, he just… stops. He watches you for a second, brows knitting together. He approaches you slowly, trying to make sure you won't move away again.

"I don't care about the sheets, sweetheart," he says gently. "I care about you crying over it."

Jack steps closer, his hands catch the edge of the sheet, trying to ease it out of your hands. You grip it tighter, and he lets it fall again. His hands reach for your wrists instead, fingers wrapping around them softly.

"Hey," he murmurs, head tilting towards yours.

You finally stop and look up at him. Your face is crumpled, eyes glassy, embarrassment written all over you.

Jack locks his gaze with yours. "Sweetheart," he says quietly, thumbs brushing lightly over your wrists. "I'm not mad. I couldn't care less about it, in fact. You're not disgusting. This shit happens."

You mull over his words, lip caught in between your teeth. "I'm sorry," you whisper anyway. "I'll get the stain out, I swear!"

Jack exhales softly. "I'll take care of it."

You immediately shake your head. "No—"

"You," he interrupts, nodding towards the bathroom, "are going to take a long, hot shower." He moves his hands from your wrists, carefully extracting the sheets from your grip. "We'll throw your clothes in another load after."

Your hands keep hovering in the air. "But what about the stain?" you protest, though more weakly now than you did at first.

Jack pauses and looks back at you like this might be the most ridiculous concern in the world. "Did you forget I'm an ER doctor?" He lifts the bundle of sheets lightly. "I know how to get blood out of fabric."

Your shoulders finally sag. He's not mad. He doesn't think you're disgusting.

Had you been thinking rationally, you might have told yourself this. That Jack isn't like the men you'd known before.

Jack nods toward the bathroom again, his voice softening. "Go on," he says. "I've got this."

The shower helps, the hot water loosening the tight knot that's been sitting in your chest since you woke up. Steam fills the bathroom, fogging the mirror and curling around your shoulders while you stand under the spray longer than you probably need to.

When you step out, wrapped in a towel, you can hear Jack moving around quietly. Cabinets opening, dishes clinking against the counter, and the low hum of the coffee machine. Your chest tightens again, embarrassment creeping back in as you get dressed.

By the time you make your way into the kitchen, hair still damp and sweater sleeves pulled halfway over your hands, Jack's already sitting at the table with a cup. He looks up immediately at the sound of your footsteps.

There's a plate in front of your usual chair and a steaming mug beside it. He nudges the plate a little closer as you sit.

"Eat," he says simply, no hint of teasing in his voice about earlier. "It's full of iron." His gaze flicks to your face like he wants to say something else, then he thinks better of it.

Your fingers curl around the warm mug automatically. "Thank you," you mutter, staring down at the plate. You still don't understand why he's being so nice to you when you'd just ruined his morning.

The shame is still there, pulsing hot and stubborn under your skin. "I'm—"

Jack points at you immediately with the fork he’s holding. "Don’t say it."

You blink, brows furrowing.

He continues, "You have nothing to be sorry about."

Your mouth opens, anyway. "I—"

"Ah," he chides softly, eyebrows lifting in warning.

You make a small, frustrated hmph in the back of your throat, but shut your mouth. He watches for another second like he's making sure you'll behave, then takes a slurp of his coffee.

The silence that follows isn't awkward like you thought it would be—it's comfortable, the slight crinkle of the newspaper as he turns a page, the clink of a fork against a plate, and the soft slurp of coffee. It's normal.

You're halfway through the plate of food, shame almost dwindled to nothing, when there's a knock at the door.

Jack glances up, like he's been expecting it. "I'll get it."

You hear the door open, muffled voices in the hallway, then the rustle of cardboard. When he comes back into the kitchen, he's carrying two packages, one larger than the other.

"What's that?"

Jack sets them down on the table with a small thump. "Well," he says casually, gesturing toward them, "why don't you open them and see for yourself?"

You eye the boxes suspiciously before reaching for the smaller one first. You stick your knife in, slicing the tape open. Inside is a soft grey heating pad, neatly folded in plastic.

You blink at it, warmth swelling in your chest. "Jack… You shouldn't have."

Jack just shrugs like it was nothing.

You don’t even think about it before you stand up and wrap your arms around him in a tight hug. He stiffens for a second, like the contact surprises him, then his arms come up around you automatically, tightening just a little more than necessary. You press your face into his shoulder, murmuring softly, "Thank you."

The hug lingers longer than it probably needs to, but you're not particularly eager to be the first one to pull away. Jack doesn't seem to mind, his chin resting on the top of your head, as his arms squeeze you tightly. Eventually, you loosen your arms and step back, clearing your throat a little; his hands fall away a bit slower.

"Okay," you say, glancing at the second package, trying to appear calm. "What’s in the other one?"

Jack picks it up, turning it over in his hands. "No idea. That one’s not from me." He sets it down and picks up his mug again.

You rip the tape open again. Inside are several metal pieces and a small bag of bolts. It takes you about three seconds to realise what they are.

Your face lights up. "It's the bed legs!" You pull one of the metal pieces out and hold it up triumphantly. "Finally."

Jack’s fingers stiffen around the mug, his smile fading. He leans his hip against the table instead, crossing his arms loosely. His eyes flick from the metal leg in your hand and then back to you.

"That eager to get away from me already?" he asks lightly. He lifts his coffee and takes a sip like the comment means nothing, gaze settling somewhere near your shoulder instead of your face.

You blink at him, confused, "What, no? That's not—" then realisation hits you, and you grimace. "Oh, shit. I forgot to tell you."

Jack raises an eyebrow.

"Um," you start, words spilling out a little too quickly, "so… Olivia’s coming to town, and I told her she could stay here, but then I realised we don’t actually have a guest bed—" You lift the metal leg slightly, as if it explains everything. "—which we do now. Or… we will. Once this is a bed and not just… parts of a bed."

You glance up at him, hopeful and a little nervous, searching his face. "So, this is good because now she has somewhere to sleep... Right?" You pause. "I mean, if it’s weird, I can tell her to get a hotel. That's totally fine. I just— I already told her she could stay here, so..."

Jack blinks once, then twice, his shoulders relaxing as he processes your spiel. His mouth lifts slightly at the corner. "No, it's fine. She can stay here," he says.

You relax instantly. "Good!" you grin. "Hey," you add, quieter, bumping your shoulder lightly into his arm. "I’m not trying to escape you… Well, maybe besides your snoring."

Jack snorts softly. "I still don't snore. You're such a liar." He leans forward, grabbing your mugs to make more coffee, hip bumping gently into yours as he moves past.

You pull the rest of the pieces out of the box, grinning even wider. "You’ll help me build it, right?"

The days leading up to Olivia's arrival made Jack increasingly nervous. So nervous that Robby caught on and had been teasing him ever since.

Jack doesn't really care. She's your best friend, the most important person in your life, and he has exactly one shot to get on her good side. To show her he's serious about this—that he understands the damage this secret could do to your life if it ever comes out. That he's in this until the bitter end.

He also can't quite kill the small, stubborn hope that she might convince you to start looking at him the way he already looks at you.

Olivia arrives on a Tuesday afternoon after a full day at the conference. She settles in easily, kicking her shoes off, claiming the guest room like she's lived there for months, and is now curled up on the couch beside you like the two of you never spent a day apart.

Introductions had gone smoothly, though he could tell you were nervous for some reason, even if he should be the one sweating over it, not you. But Olivia seemed to like him, and your shoulders had dropped again, especially when she had grinned appreciatively at him when he offered to make dinner as you caught up.

Olivia's conference runs for the next two days, and because you haven't been able to swap shifts with anyone, dinner is the only time the three of you have that overlaps. To your (and Jack's) relief, she's staying until the weekend, in which your days will line up.

Jack knows how much this visit means to you, and he'd checked the schedule to try and figure out something for you, thinking he might be able to move a shift or two around—until two residents called in sick, and there was no one left to spare.

Now, he stands in the kitchen, stirring a pan and trying not to be obvious about staring at you. You’re both laughing at something on your phone—shoulders bumping, heads leaning together, your voices bright and overlapping in that effortless way people only have with old friends.

Olivia is a lot like you. Same easy smile. Same animated way of talking with her hands. Same carefree energy that fills a room without trying. As much as he believes you to be trouble, he can tell she is, too. If not as much, then just in a way that encourages you.

But where you’re open like a book, Olivia feels… sharper.

Jack prides himself on reading people. It’s part of the job. Years in the ER teach you to catch the smallest cues—tension in a jaw, the shift of someone’s breathing, the flicker of pain someone’s trying to hide.

With you, it’s second nature. With Olivia? He’s getting nothing. Or worse, he's getting the uncomfortable sense that she’s the one reading him.

He feels it now as he cooks. Standing at the stove, stirring the pasta sauce, he glances toward the couch again, out of habit—just to check on you. The sound of your laughter pulls a smile onto his face before he even realises it.

But Olivia… Olivia isn't laughing. She's watching him, sharp eyes over the corner of her phone. The kind of look people give when they’ve already figured something out. The moment he notices, she smiles like nothing's happened and turns back to you.

Dinner passes quickly—just casual small talk and getting to know each other. It goes better than he'd hoped for.

As the clock ticks closer to seven, he begins to clear the table. You leave to change, something he'd done earlier, and now he's left alone with Olivia. She grabs the plates and starts rinsing them, ignoring his gesture for her to leave them to him.

"It’s a noble thing you’re doing," she says casually, but Jack feels her gaze on him. "For her," she adds.

He shrugs as he gathers the glasses.

Olivia tilts her head. "No, really," she continues. "Not everyone would agree to something like this."

"Something like what?" He tries to buy himself time, to keep his face from revealing more than it already has.

Olivia gestures lightly as she places a plate into the dishwasher. "This whole arrangement. Pretending to be married. Opening up your house. Letting someone move in just because." Her voice stays light, but Jack knows what she's fishing for. "Most people would’ve run the other direction."

"It was the right thing to do," he says simply, because it's the truth.

Olivia studies him for a moment longer than comfortable, then one eyebrow lifts slightly. "That’s it?"

"That’s it."

She hums softly, like she’s filing the answer away for later, then she washes her hands. "You look at her a lot, you know."

Jack freezes for half a second before recovering. "Do I?"

"Mm." She dries her hands with a dish towel. "You did it like… five times while cooking."

Jack huffs quietly, leaning against the counter. "Habit. Making sure she doesn’t get into trouble. Or something worse."

Olivia grins, her smile is warm now—more playful than investigative. "I’ve known her since middle school. It can’t get worse than when she once microwaved ramen without water."

Jack’s eyebrows lift, the corner of his mouth curling. "That explains a lot."

Olivia laughs softly. "Right?" She sets the towel down, studying him again, but this time it feels less like scrutiny and more like curiosity. "You’re good for her," she says after a moment.

Jack blinks at that. He hadn't expected that.

Olivia shrugs lightly. "She trusts you."

Jack shifts slightly, glancing toward the hallway where you disappeared down minutes ago. "I hope so."

"Oh, she does," Olivia says easily. "Otherwise she wouldn’t be here." She taps the counter behind her thoughtfully. "Still though… fake marriage. That's a big commitment."

Jack sighs quietly. "It's just temporary." He hates being reminded of it.

"Sure." Olivia’s mouth curves slightly.

Footsteps echo down the hallway. Olivia hears it too, straightening. As she passes Jack, she pauses just long enough to pat his shoulder. Leaning down slightly, she murmurs under her breath, "I know what you’re hiding."

Jack stiffens.

She straightens again, smiling brightly. "But don’t worry," she adds lightly. "I’m fun, not cruel. I'll keep it to myself." She glances into his eyes, shrugging. "…For now."

Your voice calls out from the hallway as you appear in the doorway again in scrubs. "Did I miss anything fun?" You glance from Olivia to Jack, trying to ascertain the atmosphere.

Olivia turns toward you immediately, grin widening. "Just telling your husband he passed my friend inspection." She hooks an arm around your shoulders as you walk into the room. You roll your eyes immediately, finding Jack's eyes and sending him a small smile.

His eyes flick briefly to Olivia, but she’s smiling at you like nothing happened. Like she hadn’t just read his deepest secret within a few hours of meeting him.

The for now feels like a ticking bomb he isn't sure how to disable.

Jack takes your things to the locker once you arrive, leaving you at the hub to get ready for the night. You're scanning the board when a shadow falls over you.

Robby smirks as he leans against the counter. "Hey," he says.

"Hi," you reply, eyes narrowing at him. He's looking way too pleased with himself, and you can practically smell the mischief on him.

"So…" he begins. "Didn't peg you for the scandalous type." He grins at you, watching gleefully as you try to school your features into something resembling neutral.

You don't say anything, just stare at him.

"I mean, living together? Sleeping in the same bed? Careful or this—" he leans in, voice lowering to a whisper, "fake marriage might turn into a real one." His grin widens as he watches you struggle to keep a straight face. "Do you have enough condoms, or do you need me to pick some up?"

"Robby," you warn, cheeks flushing. Your hand swats his shoulder, trying to make him stop, but Robby just chuckles loudly.

"Hey, brother," Jack greets as he steps up beside you. He glances from you to Robby, noting his smirk and your stiff jaw and sighs, "Be nice."

"Or what?" Robby counters.

"Or I'll tell that nurse your text last week was meant for someone else," Jack says in response.

Robby freezes. "…Low blow."

"Effective, though."

"…Fine. You two are no fun," Robby says, jerking his chin toward you. "I'll leave your girl alone." He steps back, hoisting his backpack over his shoulder. "See you later, love birds."

"Bye, Robert," you call after him.

He flips you off without turning around.

Jack nudges your shoulder. You glance at him, and the look you share is quick but familiar—checking in, making sure you’re good, before the night swallows you both whole.

Friday doesn't come fast enough. You've trudged through night shifts, waiting for the day that yours and Olivia's schedules finally align. And with Jack out of the house—he'd offered himself—wine night is finally on.

The TV plays some movie you've seen before as you giggle away on the couch, neither of you paying much attention to it. There's a half-empty pizza box sitting on the coffee table, and in your hands are two wine glasses. One bottle is already gone, and the second one is nearly empty.

Conversation flows easily as you jump between topics, the way you can only do with someone who already knows your entire life history.

"No, wait," you say, grinning as you lean forward, wine glass dangling from your fingers. "What about that guy who opened with 'hey beautiful, you look like you have fertile hips'—that has to be the worst one."

Olivia groans loudly, dragging her hands over her face. "Ugh. I forgot about that one..."

You collapse backwards into the couch, laughing. "Oh, or maybe that one you still went on three dates with… uh—what's his name—Matt? Miles?"

"Martin," she supplies. "And he seemed normal!"

"You told me he brought his mother to the restaurant."

She sits up straight. "I didn’t know she was going to be there! And she was nice."

You're nearly wheezing with laughter now.

"Anyway," she says after a moment, wiping under her eye. "Enough about my romantic disasters. I want updates."

"On what?" you say, leaning back.

She gestures broadly around the house, like it's obvious. "This."

You frown. "This what?"

She stares at you like you're dumb. "Jack? The man you're married to? Living here? Sleeping in the same bed? The kiss? I mean, have you kissed him again?"

You immediately shake your head. "No." You take another sip like that, somehow proves your point. "There’s nothing to say. Nothing's happened."

Olivia slowly lowers her wine glass. "…Girl."

You groan. "No, seriously," you say, shaking your head. "He doesn’t see me like that."

"Girl."

"I’m serious!"

"You cannot be serious."

"I am."

She stares at you for a full five seconds before setting her wine glass down dramatically. "You are living in a completely different reality than the rest of us."

You point at yourself. "Me?"

"Yes, you!" She leans forward now. "I can’t count how many times I caught him staring at you these last few days."

You blink. "What?"

"Kitchen, hallway, living room—it doesn't matter where. There was also that time when you were taking off your sweatshirt and he just—" she mimics someone freezing mid-motion "—completely forgot what he was doing."

You shake your head, rolling your eyes. "He did not."

"He absolutely did."

You laugh nervously and take another sip. "He’s just… Jack."

Olivia stares, then bursts out laughing again. "He's just Jack? Wow, that defence's gonna hold up well in court."

"He is!" you repeat, "and we're not in court, so who cares?"

"Girl, you two flirt constantly."

"We do not."

"You absolutely do." She starts counting on her fingers. "The shoulder touches. The little jokes. The way you smile at each other.

Your stomach twists slightly. "Liv, you’re reading into it."

"Am I?"

"Yes!"

"You two are more married than half the couples I work with," she states.

You snort, "Please."

"I’m serious." Olivia scoots closer across the couch, grabbing your hand. Her voice softens just slightly, "I’m not shitting you."

You swallow, bringing the glass up for a sip.

She continues, "That man is so in love with you."

Your heart jumps painfully in your chest, and you choke on the wine. You pull your hand back slowly. "But what if he isn’t?" you say quietly. The room feels a little smaller, walls closing in. "What if I’m just… seeing things because I want to?"

Olivia doesn’t interrupt this time.

"What if I’m just setting myself up for heartbreak?" you add.

She studies you for a moment, then she tilts her head. "Aren’t you already doing that?"

"…What?"

"You’re already in love with him," she says.

You open your mouth. Close it again. You can't argue with that.

She shrugs gently. "So either way, you’re risking it."

The truth of it sits heavily between you. You stare down into your wine glass. She leans back again after a moment, stretching her legs across the couch. "Look," she says casually. "You don’t have to confess your undying love tomorrow."

You swallow, the warmth of the wine doing nothing to calm the sudden flutter in your chest.

"Just… flirt more," she offers.

You make a face. "You just said I already flirt."

"Barely," she grins. "Just lean into it a little more. See what happens."

"And if it goes badly?"

She lifts her glass. "Then we open another bottle of wine, and I help you plan your dramatic move to Spain."

You laugh despite yourself.

"It can’t hurt," she adds with a small shrug.

Your stomach flips. "…Yeah," you murmur. "Maybe not."

You’re still thinking about what Olivia said as you pretend to watch the last of the movie. Unfortunately, your brain keeps replaying the words that man is so in love with you, like it’s trying to decide whether to believe them or not. You swirl the wine in your glass, watching the deep red circle the bowl.

Olivia, meanwhile, has clearly moved on from the emotional portion of the evening. She stretches across the couch, phone in hand. Every few seconds, she snorts.

"What now?" you ask.

She turns the screen toward you. "Look at this man." You squint at the profile. Looking for someone chill who doesn’t take things too seriously and will laugh at my dark humour.

You shrug. "That’s not that bad."

She scrolls down. "His first prompt answer is ‘my most controversial opinion: women shouldn’t vote.’"

You nearly choke on your wine. "Oh my god. I take it back."

"I’m telling you," she says, tossing the phone onto her stomach. "Dating apps are the worst. You should be glad you're off the market."

You laugh, shaking your head, ignoring the latter part of her sentence. Because you're not—not truly. "Well, at least you’re getting anecdotes out of it."

Olivia sighs dramatically and reaches for her purse on the coffee table, rummaging through it for her lip balm. "Oh—wait."

You glance over. "What?"

"I forgot." She pulls a small envelope out from under the pile and waves it. "I won these in a raffle earlier." She opens the envelope and pulls out four glossy tickets. "It’s for that game on Saturday. Baseball or whatever."

"Really?"

"Yep." She fans them out like playing cards.

You think for a second. "I think Jack was talking about watching it."

Olivia’s face lights up immediately. "Well," she says, grinning as she taps the stack of tickets against her palm, "we have just one problem then."

You tilt your head. "What?"

She holds up four fingers. "I have four tickets."

Jack’s key clicks in the lock, and the sound of laughter hits him before he even steps inside. He pauses in the hallway, leaning slightly against the doorframe, just listening for a moment.

Once he moves, he sees you draped across the couch with Olivia, blankets tangled around your legs, empty glasses and bottles on the table. You’re mid-giggle at something Olivia said, your head thrown back, and Jack can’t help the small, involuntary smile tugging at his lips.

He clears his throat softly. You glance up, still smiling, but your gaze is lazy, soft, and somehow magnetic even in your tipsy state. He wants you to look that happy to see him every time he comes home.

"Jack," you sit up, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, and Jack feels that familiar pull in his chest. He wants to step closer, to be part of this warmth, but he doesn’t. He just watches.

"Looks like you girls have had a good night," he says, nodding at the table.

"The best," you reply, smiling. "Come sit," you pat the cushion next to you, and Jack obliges quicker than he should. He can see Olivia grinning out of the corner of his eye. Sinking into the couch, your thigh brushes his as you lean back against the cushion. You don’t move your leg away. Neither does he.

"How was your night? 'Robby treat you well?" you ask.

"Plenty of beers and burgers. I can't complain."

"Good," you say, leaning onto his shoulder without thinking. Your cheek presses against him as you tell him about your evening—how you'd ended up watching some terrible horror movie. You try to tell him the plot, but you and Olivia are barely comprehensible through your giggles. Jack doesn't really care about the story; he’s too busy memorising the weight of your head on his shoulder, content with watching you being happy. It's what you deserve after these past weeks of trials—hell, after being doomed to stay in this marriage.

Your giggles eventually die down, and Olivia yawns loudly. "I’m going to bed," she announces, sliding off the couch and glancing at you, something incomprehensible glinting in her eyes. You seem to understand it, though, as you sit up straight again.

"Bedtime?" Jack asks, glancing over at you. He reaches over to brush a strand of hair off your shoulder before he seems to realise he did it.

You sigh, eyes closing briefly. "Yeah, I should probably go to bed, too. Can I use the bathroom first?"

Jack nods and watches as you disappear off into the hallway, listening for the bedroom door opening. The sound of running water reaches him shortly after, the faint clatter of bottles and brushes, and he leans back, trying not to overthink the way his heart is drumming. He follows you into the bedroom a moment later.

He's on the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone, though nothing's really exciting on it, as he waits for you. You emerge a few minutes later, wrapped in a soft, oversized t-shirt, bare legs peeking out. You saunter back toward him, but instead of getting into bed with him like usual, you head for the door again.

"I'm gonna sleep with Liv," you murmur. "Feel free to do your best Patrick impression."

"Patrick?"

"Starfish," you say like it's obvious, giggling.

Jack swallows, forcing a smile and nod. "Oh… yeah," he says, voice steady, though a flicker of disappointment flits across his features for a brief second. He tells himself it’s fine—he’s fine.

He always knew this part wouldn’t last forever. He just wasn't expecting it to hurt like this. He stays on the bed, staring at the door as if it might open again.

Seconds later, the door does creak open again, and there you are, sheepish and hesitant this time, eyes darting toward him. "Okay…" you say quietly, voice small. "…Olivia won’t let me in."

Jack can’t help the smile that curls at the corner of his lips. Relief and amusement swirl together. He watches you step in, shrugging helplessly, and internally, he blesses Olivia for intervening.

He gets up, leaning against the doorframe to the bathroom, arms crossed loosely, letting himself enjoy the moment. "Didn't take you long to come crawling back."

"Careful. I can still sleep on the couch," you counter, smiling at him, and you both know it's an empty threat. Especially, as you slide into bed, on your side, ducking under the covers.

"Uh-huh," Jack grins back.

Robby ends up being the lucky recipient of the fourth ticket. He’s practically vibrating with excitement when the four of you arrive at the stadium, weaving through the thick crowd of fans in jerseys and caps.

"Man, I can’t believe you actually won these," he says for what must be the fifth time, looking around like the place might vanish if he blinks too long. Olivia beams at him.

You climb the stairs toward your section, the roar of the stadium swelling louder with every step. The sun is warm, the sky perfectly clear, and the air smells like popcorn, hot dogs, and grass. Jack keeps glancing back over his shoulder as you climb, slowing just enough each time to make sure you’re still right behind him. Eventually, you press your fingers lightly against the back of his shirt so he’ll stop worrying and just keep walking.

When you reach your row, Robby slides in first, squeezing past the seats with practised ease. Jack follows, pausing long enough to hold the seat backs out of your way as you slip in behind him. Olivia brings up the rear, grinning at you when Jack looks back once more to make sure you made it through.

She’s decked out head to toe in baseball gear—team cap, oversized jersey, even eye black smudged under her eyes. She has absolutely no idea what’s going on, but she's more than happy to play the part.

You, on the other hand, are wearing one of Jack’s old baseball shirts. It’s a little big on you, the sleeves falling just past your elbows, the faded team logo soft from years of washing. Jack had dug it out that morning. "For luck," he said.

It smells faintly like his laundry detergent. It makes you feel things you really shouldn't.

Jack settles back in his seat beside you. A moment later, his arm lifts casually and rests along the back of your seat. Not quite around you. But close enough that if you leaned back even a little—

Olivia notices immediately. She glances from his arm to your face, then sends you a slow, knowing smile. You pointedly ignore her.

Jack leans slightly closer instead, voice lowering near your ear so he doesn’t have to shout over the crowd. "Okay," he says quietly. "So basically—" He gestures toward the field. "That guy’s the starting pitcher. If he does well tonight, it probably decides the series."

You nod like you understand. "What’s the series?"

Jack chuckles softly. "Long story." He starts explaining anyway, pointing out players, rules, and little moments happening on the field. His voice is calm and patient, the kind of tone someone uses when they’re excited to share something they love with someone they lo—

You find yourself listening more to him than the game. Heart fluttering when he reaches over to tuck the edge of your jacket closer around you when the wind picks up.

At the end of an inning, as Jack tells you, you get up. "I’m gonna go to the bathroom," you say.

Jack straightens beside you immediately. "I’ll come with you," he says, already pushing himself to his feet. "I could use something to drink anyway."

He leans forward, glancing past you toward Olivia and Robby. "You guys want anything?"

They don’t even hesitate. "A beer, please," they say in perfect chorus.

Jack chuckles, "Of course."

You step into the crowded concourse, the noise swelling again as people stream past. Someone brushes past you, and Jack’s hand briefly finds the small of your back, guiding you out of the way.

"How much money do you think it’d cost to bat once?" you ask as you walk.

"More than it’s worth," Jack says, falling into step beside you. "You actually have to hit the ball."

You lean toward him, nudging his shoulder. "Hey! You don’t know if I’m good."

He just levels you with a look, brow raised, "I had to explain the rules. That’s enough to know you’ll probably… miss."

You huff, "That proves nothing."

His hand lingers on your back for a second longer than necessary before he lets it fall away.

"Okay... Just so you know," you say quietly after a moment, tugging the edge of your jacket closer around you. "I still have absolutely no idea what’s happening in that game."

Jack grins. "I figured." A group of fans pushes past, and he shifts slightly closer again so they don’t bump into you.

"You did not," you say.

He laughs, "You clapped when someone stretched."

"It was a... a good stretch," you grin back.

Olivia and Robby are quiet for a moment after you and Jack head off, the crowd singing loudly around them. Then Olivia leans forward slightly in her seat, elbows on her knees, as she tilts her head toward Robby. "Do you see what I see?"

Robby doesn’t look confused, and a slow grin spreads across his face. "Two lovesick fools?"

Olivia points at him approvingly. "Good." She settles back into her seat again, crossing one leg over the other. "I’m doing my part," she says, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "You better be doing yours."

Robby snorts softly. "Oh, trust me, I am trying." He drags a hand through his hair. "It’s not easy."

Olivia glances sideways at him. "Tell me about it."

"We’re in the same boat then," Robby says. "You’d think two supposedly intelligent adults could figure this out."

Olivia gestures dramatically toward the empty seats beside them. "It’s so obvious."

"Love really makes you blind," he says with a small shrug.

"What makes who blind?"

Both of them jump slightly. You and Jack are suddenly standing beside the row again, squeezing past people to get back to your seat.

Olivia’s expression resets instantly. "Oh!" She waves a hand vaguely. "Robby was just telling me a work story."

Robby nods immediately, jumping in. "Yeah—uh, just a case we had the other day."

You settle halfway down, pausing to look at him past Jack. "What kind of case?"

Robby grimaces dramatically. "Someone thought rinsing their eyes with… cleaning solution… was a good idea."

Your face contorts in horror. "Oh—yikes."

"Yeah," Robby says quickly. "Not recommended."

Jack hands the beers over to them. "Two for the peanut gallery."

"Bless you," Robby says, taking the out that Jack probably doesn't know he's given him.

Olivia takes hers with a grin. "Your service is appreciated."

Jack places a drink in your cup holder before setting his own drink down. Without really thinking about it, his arm drapes back along the seat behind you again.

Olivia watches the motion with quiet satisfaction, then she takes a slow sip of her beer and turns back toward the field. Robby grins into his cup. The game resumes, and the two of them share a very small, very smug look over your heads.

You enjoy baseball much more than you'd imagined, though you probably have Jack to thank for that. His commentary plays a huge part in your enjoyment, though you're not sure you could explain anything about the game after—you're more focused on the way his breath brushes against your ear, how his gravelly voice somehow turns gruffer as the game goes on, and how it all pools in a low heat in your belly.

"Kiss cam’s coming up," Olivia whispers suddenly, leaning toward your other ear while Jack and Robby are deep in some very serious baseball discussion beside you.

"And why," you murmur back, not looking away from the field, "are you telling me this?"

Olivia’s grin is audible in her voice. "Just so you’re prepared."

You snort quietly. "There are thousands of people here. We’re not gonna get picked."

The giant screen above the stadium lights up as the music changes. The camera sweeps across the crowd as cheers ripple through the stands.

An older couple appears on the screen first—grey-haired and giggling as they lean in for a quick peck. The crowd applauds. Next, a younger pair who dramatically overdo it, laughing halfway through their kiss while the stadium roars. Then a pair of teenagers who look mortified as the camera lands on them. The boy kisses the girl’s cheek, and she hides her face while the crowd awws.

You’re smiling as you watch. The camera keeps moving and suddenly—it stops.

Your face appears on the massive screen. Right next to Jack’s. For a full second, you just stare. Your brain refuses to process what you’re seeing. The stadium erupts in cheers, egging you on.

"Oh my god," Olivia breathes beside you.

You’re still staring up at the screen in disbelief when Olivia nudges your shoulder sharply. Instinct kicks in. You turn toward Jack. He’s already looking at you.

For a split second, neither of you moves. The noise of the stadium fades behind the awareness of how close you’re sitting—his knee pressed lightly against yours, the familiar warmth of his shoulder against your arm, how he's close enough that you can feel his breath when he exhales. Your pulse thunders in your ears.

What if someone from the hospital is here? What if someone sees? You have to do it.

His eyes flick briefly to the giant screen and back to you. The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s about to laugh. He gives you a quick shrug.

So you lean in, intending for the kiss to be swift and chaste. Just enough to satisfy the camera and keep your covers. But the moment you get close, Jack’s hand comes up. His fingers slide gently along your jaw, cradling the side of your face, and your plan evaporates into thin air.

The kiss lands soft, warmer than you expected, and suddenly you’re leaning into it instead of pulling away, a quiet sigh escaping you before you can stop it. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer without thinking.

Jack’s lips are warm, tasting faintly of beer, slightly chapped from the sun and the dry stadium air, but still soft. He shifts closer, the heat of his body pressing into yours, and for a moment, the noise of the crowd feels miles away. All you can feel is him.

For a full second, it feels like you’re the only two people in the stadium, then the cheers hit. Loud. Whistles, shouting, the crowd going wild around you.

You blink, remembering where you are, and pull back quickly. Your chest rises in a quick, shaky breath you hope he doesn’t notice, face flushing as embarrassment creeps up your neck.

"Whooo!" Olivia leaps up, nearly tipping her cup, arms flailing in celebration. "Way to go!"

Robby is absolutely no help either. He lets out a long, piercing whistle from the other side.

"Fuck off," your voice comes out softer than you meant to, still a little breathless, shoving Olivia lightly. Jack huffs out a quiet laugh beside you.

You glance at him. He’s already looking at you again, a little flushed, his hand still half-raised like he forgot to put it down. Neither of you says anything, but for a moment it looks like he’s about to.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he lets out a slightly crooked smile, rolling his eyes at their antics. You can't help but grin back. And for the first time since Olivia said it, the thought slips into your head uninvited—maybe she’s right.

Next part

[s-writing-s]

Diagnosis: Married? | Part 11

Summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?

tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, fluff, period pain (i also just got mine, so i feel for trouble), , near-nakedness

word count: 5k

a/n: here we are! thank you all so much for still tuning in and interacting with every part. I'm trying my best to respond to you all but if i've missed you, i just want you to know that i'm very appreciative of your support and loooove reading all your responses (i see all you say in the tags, too) <333. hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome!

Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist The Pitt | Masterlist Main | Masterlist Previous part | Next part

For the last twenty minutes, you've done nothing but scroll mindlessly on your phone, trying to shake the funk you woke up in.

But the foul mood clings to your skin no matter how deep you breathe. Your jaw remains tight, your stomach uneasy, and your mind continues to churn with all the things you should have said to Smith yesterday.

You should've told her off earlier—made it clear that her assumption that you fucked your way into an attending position was so completely off base it was laughable. You should’ve told her how misogynistic it was—how fucking insulting it was after everything you’ve done on your own to get here.

If she steps out of line again, you won't hold back this time. You'll even let Jack get involved if it becomes necessary.

You shift, pressing a hand to your lower abdomen. A dull, persistent throb gnaws at you, but you tell yourself it’s just leftover tension.

Sitting on the couch only tightens your thoughts further, so you leave a note for Jack on the counter in case he wakes up, tug on a pair of shoes and head out the door, hoping some fresh air will do you good.

You’re not usually up before Jack, and under normal circumstances, you’d stay in bed, guiltily indulging in the warmth of his arms and drifting back to sleep. Today, when you woke, however, your body felt off, and Jack, who runs hot even when asleep, had been too warm for you to stay comfortable.

At least this way, you could surprise him with breakfast for a change.

It's early by your standards, but the sun is already high in the sky, and the city is buzzing with life. You walk at a slower pace than normal, your legs aching with each step—you probably overdid it on the yoga yesterday—weaving past houses, people coming home from work, and others heading back from lunch. The smell of coffee drifts from the corner café you've just left, and someone’s dog barks from behind a fence as you pass.

Your shoulders remain tense despite the fresh air and the sun shining down on you.

A soft pling sounds from your phone as a message from Olivia pops up.

OLIVIA: I have exciting news!

You don't even bother typing back, hitting call immediately instead.

She picks up on the second ring. "Hey! Didn’t think you were up yet," Olivia says, her voice bright and slightly muffled like she's walking somewhere.

"Couldn’t sleep," you reply, shifting the phone against your ear as you round the corner. "Is this a good time?"

"Yeah, definitely. I’m just grabbing lunch." She pauses. "But… you sound weird. What’s up?" she asks.

You huff a laugh. Of course, she noticed. She always does. Your stomach knots again, this time sharp enough to make you wince.

"Ugh," you groan. "Do you want the short version or the long version?"

"Long version," Olivia says instantly. "Obviously."

You let loose, spending a good five minutes venting all your frustrations—how annoyed you are, how Smith kept crossing lines, and how you wish you'd handled it differently. Olivia doesn’t interrupt. Just the occasional soft mm-hmm that tells you she’s listening. Finally, you sigh, exhaling harshly.

"…Sorry," you mutter, "I didn’t mean to dump all that on you."

"Don't be. I'm sorry that happened to you," she replies sympathetically. "That really sucks. I know you said you were gonna handle it, but you should consider telling Jack if it continues."

"Yeah," you say quietly. "Anyway—enough about me. What’s this exciting news?"

"Oh!" Her whole tone lifts. You can almost hear her grin through the phone. "I’m coming to Pittsburgh next week for a conference."

Your eyes widen mid-step. "Wait—what?" A grin breaks across your face before you can stop it. "You’re actually coming here?"

"Yes!" she laughs.

"You have to stay with us," you blurt. "I mean it. I’m sure Jack won’t mind."

"Maybe just check with him first," Olivia suggests, but then continues laughing, "But I definitely will, even if he says no. I'll just hide in a closet or something."

"You absolutely would," you snort.

God, it’s been too long. Ever since you moved for residency, seeing each other in person has become rare—holidays if you’re lucky, rushed weekends if schedules align. It sucks that money has also been a factor that has hindered you from seeing each other. Too much of your friendship has been reduced to late-night calls and voice notes.

The thought of her actually being here feels unreal.

"I can’t wait to see you," you say, the words coming out softer than you intended.

"Same," Olivia replies, and for a moment her voice loses its joking edge. "I miss you, idiot."

You laugh quietly. "I miss you too."

"Okay, now I really have to go before my food gets cold," she says. "Text me?"

"Yeah," you say. "See you soon."

Bag in hand, you make your way back, feeling slightly less irate and a little more like yourself. Your breath has steadied, your jaw has relaxed, and your shoulders feel lighter after talking to Olivia.

You’re almost at Jack’s house when a bright pink bouncy ball, sparkled with glimmer, rolls to a stop by your feet.

Furrowing your brows, you bend down to pick it up and look around for its owner. A few paces away, a little girl peeks shyly from behind her mother’s leg, only half of her face visible. One sneakered toe scrapes against the pavement nervously.

You smile at her and walk over, crouching down to her level. A dull pull flares across your lower back when you bend, and you shift slightly before settling.

"I think you might have dropped this," you say gently, extending your hand to show her the ball.

She studies you for a long moment before reaching out and taking it.

"Fank you."

"You're welcome." You tilt your head. "That's a pretty ball. Did you pick it out?"

She nods immediately, dark curls bouncing as she clutches the hem of her mother’s coat.

"I think we spent twenty minutes in the store," her mother laughs.

"Had to check every single one?" you guess.

"Exactly."

The girl edges a bit closer now, clutching the ball to her chest.

You smile at her. "What’s your name?"

"Lulu."

"Well, Lulu," you say, "that's a great name."

She beams.

"Louisa, technically, but Lulu's easier," her mother adds. "Sorry—hi. I don’t think we’ve met before, but I think we’re neighbours?"

She gestures toward the blue house next to Jack’s place. "We just moved in yesterday," she says. "I’m Katherine."

You stand up, introduce yourself, and give her hand a friendly shake. Katherine glances back at the house, where a stack of unopened boxes waits. "Still trying to figure out where everything goes," she says with a sheepish laugh.

"If you ever need anything, feel free to come by," you say. "Just a heads-up, though; Jack and I work the night shift, so we're gonna be home at strange hours."

"Thanks..." she pauses for a second. "If you’re ever getting rid of furniture or anything, we’d happily take it."

"Sure," you promise.

"Thank you so much. I really appreciate it." She glances over toward Jack’s house. "So you live with... Jack?"

"Yeah, he's my—" you hesitate for a split second, contemplating how to introduce Jack. Friend? Colleague? "My husband."

"Oh, that’s wonderful," Katherine replies easily. "It must be nice for you both to be working the night shift, then."

Before you can respond, Lulu tugs insistently on her mother’s sleeve. "Mama," she whispers loudly. "I'm hungry."

Katherine immediately looks flustered again. "Right! Food. I'm still trying to figure out where all the kitchen stuff ended up," she laughs at herself.

You glance down at Lulu. "Do you like apples?"

She nods so hard her curls bounce against her face.

"I think I might have some at home," you say casually. "Jack bought a whole bag, and there’s no way we’ll finish them all."

"Red apples?" Lulu asks seriously.

"Obviously, those are the best kind. Do you want one?"

Lulu nods again. Katherine shifts the tote bag on her shoulder, her grip loosening. "You don’t have to—"

"It’s no trouble," you assure her. "Just give me a moment, and I'll grab some for you."

Katherine smiles, the first relaxed one since you met her. "Thank you."

You step inside, grab a couple of apples from the bowl in the kitchen, and head back out.

Lulu accepts the apple with both hands, grinning from ear to ear, and takes a big bite, juice dripping down her chin.

"Actually," Katherine says, adjusting the tote bag on her shoulder as she slips the other apples inside, "would it be okay if I got your number? Just in case a package shows up at your place or something."

"Of course," you reply, pulling your phone out of your pocket to hand it over.

She types her number quickly, sending off a message, before giving it back. "Thanks. Moving’s been chaotic—it’s nice to know at least one neighbour. We’ll probably be that house for a while. Boxes everywhere, toddler meltdowns, the works. I hope we’re not too loud. Just shoot me a text if we are."

"Don't worry about it," you reassure her. "I'll see you around."

Lulu lifts the apple and gives you a small sticky wave.

The house is still quiet when you step inside again. The bag lands softly on the kitchen counter, and the note is still right where you left it.

Good. Jack must still be asleep. You're not sure how much sleep he gets, but you doubt it's enough with the way he's always up before your alarm clock rings.

You sit down at the table, breakfast and coffee in front of you. Might as well get some studying done while you eat. You glance at the bookshelf, then the couch. Nothing. Oh—right, you left the book in the bedroom the other day. Shoot. You’ll just sneak in—two seconds in, two seconds out—without waking him. You ease the door open slowly, the hinges barely making a sound.

And then you freeze.

Jack is not asleep. He’s standing near the bed, back half-turned toward the door, one hand rubbing through his damp hair.

And he is very, very naked.

Well. Almost.

A white towel hangs low on his hips, knotted loosely enough that you can see a hint of dark hair disappearing beneath it. Droplets of water still cling to his shoulders, trailing slowly down the broad plane of his chest.

Your brain, unfortunately, stops working. You just… stare. Your breath hitches for a second, fast and shallow, before you clamp down and force it back to normal.

Stop. He doesn’t want you looking at him like that.

You force yourself to straighten and blink, forcing your attention elsewhere, but your eyes drift back to him.

His shoulders are broader than you remembered. As he reaches for something on the dresser, his biceps flex and chest shifts with the movement. Freckles trail down the curve of his back, catching the light as he moves.

God... Are you drooling?

Jack turns and catches you staring. For half a second, surprise flashes across his face, then embarrassment, before it vanishes as a slow, amused smirk takes over.

"See anything interesting?" he says, voice rougher than usual.

Your eyes snap up to his face, cheeks immediately flushing. "Sorry? Oh—"

Your brain scrambles wildly for something, anything, that isn’t 'I was absolutely staring at your chest like a starving person looking at food'.

You gesture vaguely toward him, face folding into something more concerned. "Do you need help? I can call your nurse for you?"

Jack blinks. "My nurse?"

"Yeah," you say, nodding like the answer is obvious. "You seem a little lost. I know the nurses are busy in retirement homes, but I can go find one."

There's a pause as Jack processes your words, then his mouth slowly curls. "Retirement homes."

"Mm." You fold your arms, leaning casually against the doorframe like you weren’t just caught ogling him. "Figured you might need help finding your clothes."

"Oh?"

"Don’t they usually do that for you?" you continue sweetly. "Bring them in with your medication and your little plastic cup of water?"

Jack huffs out a laugh. "I'm not that old."

"Of course not," you reply lightly. "You know," you add thoughtfully, "I didn’t realise men your age could still—"

"Still what?" Jack raises an eyebrow.

"Build muscle like that," you continue and shrug. "I’m impressed, that’s all."

"Impressed," he echoes dryly.

"Medically speaking." Your gaze flicks down his chest again.

Jack lets out a quiet laugh. "Whatever you say, sweetheart."

You push off the doorframe and grab your book. "So do you need me to call someone? Maybe bring you a robe? Some slippers?"

Jack steps a little closer. "You know," he says, voice amused, "most people who walk in on other people just say sorry and leave."

"Where’s the fun in that?" you say with a grin, backing out of the room. "Breakfast is in the kitchen. It's from that place you like around the corner."

Jack crosses his arms. Great. Now everything you’re trying not to notice is impossible to ignore.

"Oh, now you’re bribing me to forget you were checking me out?"

"Checking you out implies intent," you reply calmly. "This was more… accidental observation."

"Right."

You slip out the door before he can see the heat creeping up your neck. The door closes behind you with a soft click, and only then do you let out a breath. You press a hand briefly to your face, scrubbing harshly like that might erase the image.

It won’t.

Jack's been watching you all day. Nothing about you screams that he needs to, but there's something off about the way you’re acting.

You'd been fine at home. Maybe moving a little slower than normal, but nothing concerning, though you hadn't been laughing as much as you usually do at his jokes. But by mid-shift, the smiles you force don’t reach your eyes. Your laughter is softer and delayed. It's not noticeable to others, but he sees it.

You’re trying to hide it—he can tell that much. Smiling, nodding along while Lena talks to you at the nurse’s station, like everything’s normal. But your shoulders are hunched in on yourself, one hand absently twisting the hem of your scrub top.

You lean against the counter like you’re tired. Like you're hurting.

Jack’s brow furrows.

You’re still sharp, still working cases like nothing’s wrong. But something about the way you keep shifting your weight, the way your hand keeps pressing briefly against your abdomen when you think no one’s looking, the way your tone isn't as warm as it usually is—he doesn’t like it.

"Dr. Abbot?" Smith steps up beside him, bright smile in place.

Jack barely registers her, his eyes remaining fixed on you.

Bridget had filled him in earlier about the nonsense Smith had been saying. Not the exact details, but enough for Jack to know something was going on. If it were up to him, the woman would already have a write-up sitting on HR’s desk. Not because of the fake husband thing, but because he’s the attending in this ER and doesn’t tolerate bullshit in his department.

No one needs to know it bothers him even more because it's about you.

But you’d told him to leave it alone, said you had it handled. So he has, even if he doesn’t like it. He will take care of it if it continues, though. No matter what you say.

But right now he’s more focused on the way you’re rubbing the back of your neck and trying not to lean too hard on the counter. Are you getting sick again?

Smith keeps talking, unaware of his split attention. "I just wanted to say—you were amazing in there earlier." She tilts her head toward the trauma bay. "That thoracotomy? So badass."

Jack gives a distracted hum, barely glancing her way.

Across the room, you shift again, wincing slightly but putting on a smile when Lena glances your way.

"Maybe," Smith continues, stepping a little closer so her shoulder brushes his, "after hours, maybe I could… get some one-on-one tips?"

Jack’s jaw tightens. He turns toward her, sharp, stepping back. "If you need extra practice, I can get you a spot in the skills lab or schedule time in the simulation center."

Her smile falters. "Oh… that's not what I meant—"

"I'm already here too much—After hours are reserved for spending time with my wife," he says, voice light but firm.

Smith takes a step back, visibly deflated. "Oh… right. Of course. I just thought—"

"Let me know if you need me to schedule it for you," Jack interrupts, turning back to look at you again.

Her confident smile wavers, lips pressing thin. She takes a half-step back, shoulders tense. "Sure."

Jack doesn’t even notice the embarrassment colouring her face. He’s too busy watching you push yourself upright, forcing another smile at something Lena says.

Yeah. Something’s definitely wrong.

You lean against the wall outside South 4, shoulders hunched just slightly, wishing someone else were free for this presentation.

As the day had dragged on, the tightness in your shoulders, the dull throb in your lower back, and the nagging twist in your stomach all clicked together. Of course, your period picked today to make everything extra annoying.

And now, you're stuck listening to Smith because you were the only one available.

She stands beside you, tablet in hand, and her chin lifted. So far, she's been cordial, nice even, but you're not naive enough to think that one conversation will change her opinion of you.

"Harper—68, presenting with abdominal pain and nausea."

You glance at the chart. "History?"

"She had a gallstone removed five years ago," Smith replies. "Otherwise healthy. Vitals stable." She pauses, then adds, "Pain started last night, constant, radiating to the back. No fever."

You nod, jaw tight. "Good. What’s your differential?"

Smith taps her tablet. "I’m thinking recurrence in the common bile duct, biliary colic from a residual stone, or peptic ulcer. Pancreatitis is possible, but labs and imaging should clarify."

She meets your eyes with an almost sweet smile, but there’s something rehearsed about it. You can tell she’s trying—too hard—to make this pleasant after yesterday.

You suppress a sigh, pressing your fingers lightly against the chart as you keep your voice neutral. "What would you do first?"

She lists labs, imaging, and supportive care.

You nod curtly, masking the irritation crawling under your skin, and open the door, dragging the curtain away. You force a smile. "Hello Harper. I hear you've been having some stomach pain. Let’s take a look and see if we can sort this out."

Bridget rolls the ultrasound machine into position. You glance at the screen, noting a shadow. "What do you see, Smith?" you ask.

"A gallstone," she says, pointing. "She’ll need a laparoscopic cholecystectomy or possibly ERCP, depending on surgical consult"

"Correct," you say, voice slightly clipped. Turning to Harper, you make an effort to soften it, "You have a gallstone and will need surgery to take care of it. We’ll keep you comfortable with fluids and pain medication while we get the team ready."

You log the plan in the chart, then check on Harper again. "Let us know if your pain worsens."

You nod once at Smith before you leave. "Come get me if anything changes. Good job." The words scratch your throat on their way out, but you're a professional. You have to be. Have to show Smith that her words don't bother you.

Smith beams, nodding again. "Absolutely. Will do. Thank you so much!"

"Uh-huh," you mutter under your breath as you leave. "Suck up."

Your footsteps echo softly as you head back to the hub, fingers pressing lightly into your lower back. You glance up at the board, scanning your next case, trying to shake off the tension from Smith.

Jack steps up beside you quietly, talking to Lena. His hand nudges yours away and takes its place, warm against your lower back. You glance at him, surprised, but he doesn't look at you, doesn't mention anything about it, just keeps talking.

You stiffen for a heartbeat, then lean into the touch without thinking, letting your shoulders drop slightly. His hand lingers just long enough to steady you before he steps back, and you straighten with a quiet exhale, readying yourself for the next patient.

It's a quarter to midnight when you finally get to take a small break. Parker's already in the break room, scrolling through her phone as she sips her coffee. You stomp inside and flop into the chair opposite her, folding your arms on the table and resting your forehead on them.

"Rough night?" Parker lifts an eyebrow at you, glancing up from her phone.

"Ugh, the worst," you groan. "Had a patient question everything I did, and I just got my period—" You lift your head to look at her. "—which does explain why I've been in such a shitty mood all day—but it also couldn't have come at a worse time."

Parker grimaces, nodding knowingly. She knows all too well what it’s like to soldier through a shift with cramps. "I've got Ibuprofen in my locker, if you need some. Chocolate, too." She nudges her granola bar toward you. "You look like you could use this more than me."

"Thanks." You lean back, letting out a long exhale.

She's quiet for a second, just watching you. "So… What's going on with you and that Smith girl?"

You let out a soft hum, making a face at her. "Bridget tell you?"

"Yeah," she says, shifting forward to look you directly in the eyes. "I'll kick her ass if you need me to."

You snort. "I'm sure you will. Thanks." You exhale again and roll your eyes. "She's being so fake nice to me today as if that will make me forget everything she said yesterday."

Parker chuckles, leaning back in her chair. "I’d tell her exactly what I think if she dared try that with me."

You grin, relieved to vent with someone who gets it. "Honestly, I almost wish you were there when she tried it with me earlier. I’m pretty sure I muttered something under my breath that would’ve gotten me written up."

She laughs, shaking her head. "You? Written up? Impossible." Then her expression softens. "But seriously… you don’t have to deal with it alone. You’ve got me in your corner."

You smile back. "Thanks, Parker. I really mean it."

Bridget pops her head in the door, interrupting your conversation. "Ellis, Jackson's dad is here."

Parker chugs the rest of her coffee. "See you out there, soldier. I've gotta go tell a parent his son crashed his car and broke his coccyx."

"Good luck!"

You sigh deeply after Parker leaves, shoulders still stiff, and you know they'll only get worse as the night goes on. You can't stop tensing them as you try to hide your cramps. You sink into the chair, fingers absently twisting the hem of your scrub top.

The door clicks open again, and this time it's Jack who steps inside. His eyes find you, and he exhales softly, closing the door behind him. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just tired."

He nods, keeping his distance and scanning your appearance, then, slowly, he crosses the short gap and rests his hands lightly on your shoulders.

"You're tense," he mutters. His fingers are light, like he's expecting you to shrug him off. You don’t. Instead, you lean into his touch. His fingers press gently at the base of your neck, kneading softly.

Your hands drop to your lap, fingers loosening around the fabric of your scrubs. Jack stays there for a moment, not saying another word, just easing some of the tension.

When he finally moves away, he does it slowly as if he’s making sure you’re stable enough before he steps back.

You blink a few times, shoulders slackening slightly.

He gives a small nod, eyes lingering on you. "Eat your granola," he says before he turns and heads out again.

Jack’s done after you, slowed down by hand-off, so by the time he’s at the locker, grabbing his bag, you’re already waiting at the hub. He sees you leaning against the counter, one hand briefly pressed into your abdomen, before you straighten when you see him.

There it is again. That stiffness he’s been noticing all night.

He’s been trying not to hover, trying to respect the fact that you clearly didn’t want to talk about whatever was going on. Every time he asked if you were okay, you’d brushed it off with that easy smile. Just tired, Jack.

He didn’t believe you, but he let it go. For now.

You meet him by the exit, feet dragging behind you. "Ready?"

"Yeah," he says, studying you. "You sure you’re—"

"Abbot!" Ellis’s voice cuts over both of you. She slips past you on the way out.

Jack pauses. "What?"

Ellis jerks her chin toward you. "You'd better treat her nice today."

Jack blinks. "I treat her nicely every day."

You groan softly beside him. "Parker—"

But Ellis just talks louder. "I’m serious," she says. "Take her home, tuck her into bed, and stop somewhere on the way for chocolate."

Jack frowns. "…Chocolate?"

Ellis wiggles her eyebrows. "Some cuddling. Heat helps. I've even heard that fu—"

Your hand flies to your face. "Parker," you cut in, mortified.

Ellis just laughs, winking at you as she heads out.

Jack watches her go, then glances back at you, pieces clicking together. The hunched shoulders. The way you kept shifting your weight. The hand on your stomach. The stubborn refusal to explain.

His head slowly turns toward you, gaze softening. "…You’re on your period?"

You stare at the floor as if you might actually dissolve into it. "I hate her," you mumble.

Jack exhales a quiet laugh, the tension that’s been sitting in his chest all night finally loosening. Jesus. He thought you were getting sick again. Thought something was really wrong. Instead, you'd just spent twelve hours in the ER while dealing with cramps.

He drags a hand down his face, then opens the door and steps into the cold morning air. "Why didn’t you just say that?"

You glare at him tiredly. "Because I’m not twelve, Jack. I didn’t think I needed to file a medical report about it."

"Yeah, well," he says dryly, sliding his phone out of his pocket, "when you spend the whole night looking like you’re about to collapse, I’m going to assume something worse than normal biology."

You shuffle out beside him.

He taps his notes app. "Parker said chocolate."

You shake your head. "You don't have to—"

"Anything else?"

"Jack."

"Sweetheart."

You glance over at him, and a tiny exhale escapes.

He stares back, completely serious. "You worked a full shift like that. You deserve something sweet."

"...Ice cream." The corner of your mouth twitches upward despite yourself. He grins when you bump him lightly with your shoulder.

Jack dropped you off, muttering that he’d be back before you knew it, and to take a long, hot shower in his absence.

You obey, slipping into your softest pyjamas after and collapsing onto the couch. Your body folds in on itself instinctively—still sore, still cramping with no heating pad in sight. You'd given up on finding it after spending a few minutes rifling through your things.

The door clicks open again, and Jack steps inside, bags in hand. "Got your favorites," he says, once he steps into the kitchen. "And pads, and tampons. Not sure what you like, so I got a bit of everything." He drops the bags on the counter and fiddles with something in the kitchen.

You blink at him, a flutter of tears pressing at your waterline as gratitude tightens your throat. "You shouldn’t have," you murmur. You can't remember the last time someone did something this nice for you.

"Nonsense," he says, then sets a bowl on the table. "Eat it before it melts. I'm gonna go shower."

You don't move from your place, just stare up at him with wet eyes.

"You’re supposed to eat the ice cream, sweetheart," he mutters softly, then he smirks, "not stare at me again."

You huff a breath into your shoulder, half-grinning despite the cramps and exhaustion. He leaves once you pick up the spoon, letting the cold sweetness hit your tongue.

Jack returns a few minutes later, hair damp, settling at the other end of the couch.

"You okay?" he asks quietly, voice softer now.

"Mm," you murmur, eyes half-closed, folding into yourself a little more. "Just…cramps."

Jack’s gaze softens. "Do you want me to get your heating pad?"

You shake your head, frowning. "I can’t find it. Must’ve left it at my old place."

He hesitates, chewing on his lower lip. "I can…use my hand? It's not the same, but it might help a little?"

Normally, you would have hesitated, but you’re too tired, too sore, too worn down. You don't think twice before you slump against his chest, cheek pressing into the damp cotton of his t-shirt, warmth seeping into your skin.

Jack shifts slightly, making sure you’re comfortable. His arm winds over you, palm settling on your abdomen. "Better?"

You hum, dissatisfied, not really able to feel the heat through your shirt. You shift for a second, then lift your shirt and put his hand directly on your skin. "Better."

Jack’s fingers tense for half a second in surprise before relaxing again. His hand covers more of you than you expected, warm and broad against your stomach. After a moment, his thumb shifts, tracing a slow arc over your skin.

You exhale slowly against his chest. For the first time all day, the ache starts to ease.

Next part

[s-writing-s]

Diagnosis: Married? | Part 10

Summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?

tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, fluff, sexual tension, aggravating comments

word count: 6.7k

a/n: thank you all so much for still tuning in and interacting with every part. I'm trying my best to respond to you all but if i've missed you, i just want you to know that i'm very appreciative of your support and loooove reading all your responses (i see all you say in the tags, too) <333. hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome!

Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist The Pitt | Masterlist Main | Masterlist Previous part | Next part

Jack wakes up alone, and for a brief, fractured second, his heart nearly stops.

Panic claws up his spine, sharp and irrational. There’s a dizzying thought that he’s lost time somehow—that weeks or months have slipped past him unnoticed, that he’s woken up in a version of his life where you aren’t here anymore. The fear is so vivid it almost feels real.

Then his vision clears.

Your hoodie hangs over the armchair, one sleeve brushing the floor. The sheets beside him are still rumpled from where you slept. Your perfume still sits on the dresser, and when he inhales, your scent lingers on the pillow, cutting through the panic like a tether.

You’re still here.

Relief washes through him so hard it leaves him breathless. His chest aches with the quiet, humiliating knowledge of how easily his world tilts when you aren’t within reach. He can’t remember the last time he slept longer than you. He usually wakes early just to watch you, curled up, hair a mess, and with lashes fanned against your cheek. He likes those quiet minutes where he can pretend you’re already his in all the ways that matter. That you’ve chosen him. That you’re staying.

He hates that he’s missed it today.

With a small, frustrated huff at himself, he pushes himself upright. His body protests as he reaches for his crutches, but he brushes off the discomfort. The house is quiet, save for the faint sounds of movement from the living room. He makes his way out, expecting to find you scrolling through your phone or buried in a textbook.

He stops short instead.

You’re in the middle of the room on a yoga mat, sunlight spilling across your back. You’re bent into a stretch—hips lifted, hands pressing into the mat, leggings hugging your every curve.

It’s innocent. It’s just exercise.

Jack doesn't think he's ever gotten aroused so quickly before. The reaction is immediate. Inconvenient. Undeniable. For a second, he stands there frozen, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat, blood rushing down. The room feels too warm. Too bright. He becomes acutely aware of the space between you and how easily he could close it.

“Oh, hey,” you say, twisting slightly to glance at him.

The movement only makes it worse. He looks away immediately, heat flooding his face as he hobbles toward the kitchen with more urgency than dignity. He feels seventeen again—awkward, hopelessly smitten, painfully obvious—trying to hide his lower half behind the counter.

“Hey,” he manages, attempting to sound casual but probably missing the mark entirely. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah,” you exhale, the sound dragging as you change position. His cock twitches in his shorts, and he grips the counter harder than necessary. “You?”

“Mm.” He focuses on the coffee machine as if it requires his full concentration, desperate for distraction. The sputter and drip are absurdly loud in the quiet room. “Want some?”

“Yes, please.”

He risks a glance from the corner of his eye and instantly regrets it when you shift again. His hand slips down to adjust himself. He feels perverted.

“Any plans today?” he asks, because if he doesn’t talk, he might just stare.

“Just some studying before work.”

“Okay. Let me know if you need help.” He sets two mugs on the counter, fingers steady even if the rest of him isn’t. “We could cook dinner together later? If you're up for it? We can make enough so you can bring it with you.”

The offer is casual. He tries to make it sound that way. But underneath it is something else. Please choose to spend time with me.

You light up at his suggestion, the smile hitting him harder than anything else. It always does. “Sure.”

He sits down just as you stand up, tugging his shirt down to cover his lap. He hopes you can’t see how easily you affect him—not just physically, but entirely. He doesn’t want you to know how much space you occupy in his thoughts or how often he lies awake dreaming about a future he’s too afraid to mention. Not after you've made it clear where you stand with each other.

You step into the kitchen, close enough that your arm brushes his shoulder. You pause. “You’re being weird,” you say lightly.

His pulse spikes. “Am not.”

You tilt your head slightly, studying him for half a beat too long. His stomach flips under the scrutiny—terrified you’ll see everything, desperate that you will.

“Uh-huh,” you hum, but there’s a small smile there. You take the seat next to him. "What are you thinking of making?"

He looks down at his coffee just to steady himself before he begins speaking. "I was thinking—"

After you’ve showered and spent some time studying, you find yourself in the kitchen again with Jack. You've pulled his hoodie back on, the one that's just somehow become yours without any discussion. Jack hasn't asked for it back, and you can't bring yourself to ask him, in case he actually does.

The late afternoon light filters in softer now, warmer—a sign that spring is here to stay. There’s music playing quietly from his phone on the counter, something low and familiar, blending with the steady hum of the fridge and the faint simmer of water heating on the stove.

“Think you can handle cutting the onion?” he asks, leaning casually against the counter as if he isn’t absolutely baiting you.

You pause mid-reach for the onions, slowly turning to meet his gaze. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs, playing innocent. “Just checking.”

Your eyes narrow. “What makes you doubt my onion-cutting skills?”

“Maybe the fact that you cry a river every single time?” Jack grins as he bumps your shoulder and squeezes past to grab the pasta from the cupboard.

“I do not,” you retort, but a smile is already creeping onto your face as you take your place at the counter. With dramatic determination, you pick up the onions. “I have a refined tear-duct system. It’s highly resilient.”

“Do too,” he counters easily, setting the pasta down beside the stove. “Last time you were blinking so hard I thought you were sending Morse code.”

You scoff, peeling an onion with exaggerated vigour. “It’s not like you’re immune either. I heard you sniffling the other day.”

Jack freezes mid-step. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” you insist, glancing back at him. “I heard it from the bedroom.”

“I had a cold.”

“You did not.”

“I did.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

He moves closer, reaching for the garlic this time. His arm brushes against yours as he does, and he halts when he sees your cutting technique. His fingers barely touch your wrist as he takes the knife from your hand. “Like this,” he murmurs, adjusting your grip. His hand covers yours, warm and steady. “You’re holding it like you’re about to duel someone.”

Your breath catches for a moment before you recover. “Maybe I am. Maybe the onion has insulted me.”

“It probably did. Onions can be quite the instigators. But you also don’t have the best track record here, Trouble.”

You let out a laugh, but neither of you pulls away right away. His hand remains over yours, guiding the first slice through the onion. He could let go. He doesn’t.

“See?” he says quietly. “No tears yet.”

“That’s because I’m strong.”

“That’s because I’m supervising.”

“You can’t stop tears with fancy cutting techniques.” You nudge him with your hip; he shoves back, laughing, and the knife wobbles dangerously.

“Careful,” he warns, though he’s grinning. “I’m attached to those fingers.”

“Oh?” you arch a brow. “Why’s that?”

“They’re handy. For stirring, chopping, and pointing dramatically when you’re wrong.”

“I’m never wrong.”

“You thought coriander and parsley were the same thing.”

“They look the same!” you mutter.

“They absolutely do not.”

You elbow him lightly, and he pretends to stumble back, placing a hand on your waist to steady himself. Neither of you comments on it. The small kitchen makes it easy to blame it on the closeness and pretend the warmth of his palm is accidental.

Clearing your throat, you say, “So, about the crying…”

He groans softly. “We’re not going back there.”

“Oh, but we are. I distinctly heard sniffling.”

“You imagined it,” he nudges your shoulder again.

“I did not. It was very dramatic.” Rolling your eyes, you lean your shoulder into his. “I’ve got a new nickname for you.”

“Oh no.”

“Sniffles.”

He pulls back just enough to stare at you, affronted. “Absolutely not.”

“Yes! Sniffles!

“You are not calling me that.”

“I think it’s cute.”

He smirks, leaning in to catch your eye. “You think I’m cute?”

You nearly drop the knife. “That’s not what I said!”

“Sure sounded like it.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he repeats softly, thumb brushing against your side before he finally steps away, “you’re still here.” This time, there’s no grin behind it.

The air feels warmer than it did a minute ago. You go back to chopping, this time actually blinking a little harder.

“Are you crying?” he asks immediately, far too pleased with himself.

“No,” you snap.

“Sure.”

“Just shut up and boil the pasta, Sniffles.”

He laughs under his breath, shaking his head as he turns to the stove, but he’s smiling the whole time, and when he reaches for the pasta, his arm brushes yours again like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

When the pasta is done, you eat it straight from bowls balanced on your knees while some terrible reality show hums in the background.

You change into your scrubs, and Jack disappears into the bathroom, grumbling something about not wanting to smell like garlic. A moment later, the pipes creak, and the shower starts running.

There's still an hour until you have to be at work, so you begin transferring the leftover pasta into Tupperware containers, sealing the lids one by one. Hopefully, you have time to eat something later, but that entirely depends on the type of night it is.

Suddenly, three sharp knocks break through the sound of the shower and your packing.

You pause, frowning at the door. “Who could that be?” you mutter, wiping your hands on a dish towel. Maybe the bed legs have finally arrived. You swing the door open.

It's not a deliveryman.

It's Robby.

He stands there like he owns the place, a six-pack dangling from his fingers, stepping in before you’ve processed his face.

“Hey—” you begin.

He barges right in.

“Sure,” you mutter, pressing yourself against the wall to avoid getting knocked over, “come right in, why don’t you?”

Robby makes it a few steps down the hallway before his brain catches up to his eyes. He screeches to a halt so suddenly that he almost drops the beer. Slowly, he turns around.

He looks you up and down like you’re a ghost. “What are you doing here?”

You blink. “I could ask the same of you.”

“I’m here to watch the game,” he says, brows knitting together. “What are you doing here?”

Your head tilts to the side. “Are you fucking with me?”

“No?” He genuinely looks confused. “Why would I be—” His eyes narrow slightly.

You cross your arms. “Jack didn’t tell you?” you ask.

Robby’s confusion deepens, and it becomes clear that Jack did not tell him anything.

From the bathroom, Jack’s voice carries out, “Tell who what?”

He steps into the living room mid-sentence, towel in hand, and freezes when he sees the imposing silhouette blocking the light. “Robby?”

“Jack,” Robby replies in an unnervingly calm tone. There’s a whole conversation happening in the silence that ensues. Robby’s eyebrows shoot up, Jack’s shoulders tense, and Robby glances at you, then back at Jack. His gaze shifts toward the wall where your coats hang and returns to Jack once more.

Jack glares at him with a look that clearly says do not start. Robby’s grin only widens.

You take one look at the silent exchange and decide you want no part of it. “I’m just gonna grab my food and leave you guys to watch the game,” you say, lifting your brows at Jack in a pointed look, brushing past them to get to the kitchen.

His expression shifts immediately, brows twitching with apology. A silent " I'm sorry, I forgot. It wasn't like him to forget things, but the plans had been made at shift change, a brief mutter by Robby that Jack had simply nodded at, desperate to go home to see you. Now, he's cursing his past self.

“No, I can still drive you,” Jack says quickly, already stepping toward you.

Robby makes a small, exaggerated cough behind him. “Drive you?”

Jack doesn’t even glance back. “Shut up.”

You slip a container into your bag before heading back to the hallway. “It’s fine. I can walk.”

“No,” Jack insists, his tone firmer this time. He follows you, lowering his voice. “I don’t want you walking alone.”

From the living room, Robby calls out as he notices your trinkets scattered around. “Did you get new things, man?”

Jack closes his eyes for a moment.

“Did you?” Robby continues, now leaning against the doorway, watching you two like it’s more entertaining than the pregame show. “Or is this just another ploy to fool HR?”

You zip your backpack slowly, looking over at Jack with a grin. You don't know why he hasn't told Robby, but it's not something you mind. It's been nice having this for yourself, and now you know you can look forward to more teasing. “Jack can explain his secrets.”

Robby lets out a low whistle. “Secrets, huh. Wow.”

Jack finally turns around. “You done?”

“Oh, I’m just getting started,” Robby replies with a grin. "Didn’t know I was interrupting something.”

Jack’s ears redden. He motions for Robby to return to the living room, a quick shooing motion that Robby actually abides by.  

You try very hard not to smile. “It’s really fine,” you say gently, turning to Jack. “I don’t mind walking. It’s nice out.”

He still looks unconvinced, his jaw tightening as his eyes flick to the door, calculating the distance, the time, the risk.

“The game can wait,” he says quietly.

“Honestly,” you add softly, stepping closer so Robby can’t hear as clearly. “Go have fun. I’ll be fine."

His brows crinkle with worry anyway.

Without thinking, you reach out to smooth the wrinkle between them with your thumb. “You can still come pick me up in the morning,” you say, trying to ease the last of Jack’s hesitation. “Bright and early.”

He studies your face for a second longer than necessary. "Text me when you’re there,” he says, acquiescing.

“Of course.”

There’s a moment where neither of you moves. It feels strange suddenly—leaving without the usual routine. Without him grabbing his keys automatically. Without him picking up your bag as well as his. Without leaving together.

You hesitate, uncertain of the rules now. A hug seems too obvious, and a kiss on the cheek feels too intimate.

So you settle for reaching out and squeezing his arm gently. “I’ll see you later.”

His hand instinctively comes up, fingertips brushing against yours before you pull away. “Yeah,” he replies quietly. “Later.”

The door clicks shut behind you. Jack stands there for a second longer than necessary, staring at the door as if it might open again.

There’s exactly half a second of silence. Then—

“Dude.”

Jack lets out a slow breath.

“You’re living together?” Robby presses, his voice climbing an octave. “And you didn’t say anything?”

“We don’t—”

“You so do.”

“It’s temporary," Jack says, sinking onto the couch. His shoulders are tense, and his eyes are glued to the TV, though his mind is clearly elsewhere. His hands clench into fists on his knees, thumbs tapping an impatient rhythm.

“Uh-huh.” Robby studies his friend closely, noting how Jack’s gaze is still locked on the hallway. “Temporary.”

Jack drags a hand down his face and pulls out his phone, already waiting for your text.

Robby claps him on the shoulder. “You’re done for, man.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “Shut up. Just watch the game.”

“Oh, I am watching,” Robby replies, leaning back with an arm slung over the couch, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Totally focused. Very much so.”

Jack groans and covers his face with his hand. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Me? No way,” Robby says, shifting on the couch to get more comfortable. He props his chin in his hand, eyes flicking between Jack and the TV screen. "She likes you, too, you know."

Jack’s jaw tightens. He doesn't want to have this conversation again. You don’t like him; he knows it. You’re just friends, you made that very clear the other night.

Jack shoots him a look that could melt steel. "Seriously, shut up. Just. Watch. The. Game.” There's a soft pling from his phone, and Robby can't help but grin wider when Jack's body relaxes blatantly.

An hour passes without any more comments. Robby is stretched out on the couch, a beer in his hand, and leaning back with that infuriating smirk that always makes Jack feel like he’s under a microscope. “So… how’s she finding it? Living in your spare room?”

Caught off guard, Jack blinks. “Uh… well…” He scratches the back of his neck as he searches for a neutral response. “She’s… settled in fine.”

Robby raises an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of his beer. “Mhm. Okay."

Jack shifts on the couch, aware that Robby isn’t just letting it go. “I mean, the spare room’s decent. Lots of space.”

Robby hums thoughtfully, tilting his head, repeating Jack's words. “Lots of space, huh?” He leans forward slightly, peering toward Jack. “So she’s… uh, sleeping there?”

Jack stares back, “Did you suddenly lose your hearing?”

Robby doesn't respond, just raises both eyebrows, silently prompting him to stop lying.

Jack opens his mouth, closes it. Tries again. Sighs. He knows when the fight is lost. “Actually… she… doesn’t sleep there.”

Robby blinks, then smirks. “Ah. Didn’t think so.”

“What do you mean?”

Robby sets his beer on the coffee table and leans back, clearly enjoying the moment. “I mean… I went to the bathroom earlier, you know, just taking a piss, and the spare room was wide open—and there’s… nothing. No bed. Just boxes. Pretty minimal.”

Jack feels his face heat.

"So where exactly does she sleep? Don't tell me you made her sleep on the couch.”

Jack groans and leans deeper into the couch cushions. “No, of course not. She sleeps... in my bed… obviously.” Jack doesn’t say that most nights you're curled up on his chest. Robby doesn't need more ammo.

Robby whistles low. “That explains a lot.” He props an elbow on the back of the couch, resting his chin in his hand, his eyes glimmering with mischief. “Sharing a bed… living together… and you still don't believe she likes you, huh?”

Jack huffs, running a hand down his face, trying to hide his embarrassment, but Robby’s gaze is too sharp. “Shut up. Just… shut up. Watch the game.”

Robby chuckles, shaking his head. “Whatever you say, man."

Ignoring him, Jack stares at the TV, knowing he’s lost this round. Robby’s smirk stays firmly planted on his face. Jack glances at his phone again, just to reread your 'I’m here :)' text.

You arrive early, Robby's fault really, so you settle behind the counter in the hub after putting your food in the break room fridge. Dropping into the chair, you spin around once before stretching your legs out.

“Look who decided to grace us with her presence,” Dana calls without looking up from her work.

“Missing me already?” you shoot back with a smile.

“Like a rash,” she replies dryly, finally peering over her glasses at you. “Hey, sweets,” she says, her tone softening. Dana's one of the people you've missed the most since moving to the night shift. She'd been your rock through most of your residency, making sure you'd been okay and also occasionally telling you off for being too rash and hotheaded.

“Hey, how’s your day been?” you ask. This small moment together is worth being here early.

“Same circus, different clowns," she replies. “Two codes, but we got them back.”

You sit up a little straighter. “Both?”

“Yep,” she confirms. “The second one was chaos. You would’ve loved it.”

You grin. “I do love a good disaster.”

“I know you do, which is why I can’t wrap my head around why you moved to the night shift.” She spins around to face you fully now. “Ever think about coming back to days? We all miss you.”

You offer her an apologetic smile, but she rolls her eyes in response. “Don’t you dare give me that look,” she warns.

“What look?”

“That look.”

You busy your hands before your face gives you away. "I don't have a look."

“You do,” she corrects. “Doesn't matter how much I ask anyway, not as long as Jack's holding down nights. Where he is, you'll be.”

The corner of your mouth betrays you before you can stop it, a smile you can't suppress at the mention of him.

“I didn’t move for him,” you say, a little too quickly. “Nights suit me.” They do. The pace. The autonomy. The way it forces you to trust your instincts. But you’d be lying if you said it didn’t matter that he’s there.

Dana hums knowingly, glasses sliding down her nose. “Mhm. How are things between you two?”

You shift in your chair, suddenly aware of how intently she’s observing you. Dana has always had an uncanny ability to see right through you, and you can’t let anything slip now.

“We’re good,” you reply. “Busy. My exam is right around the corner, so I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed. But Jack is... great at keeping me grounded.” He's been a great support when you find yourself spiralling at home, always there to bring you right back to reality, and assure you that you can do it.

She nods, satisfied. “You two balance each other well."

“You mean I now have someone to stop me from picking fights with cardiology?”

“Exactly.” She nods, turning back to her computer, prepping for the shift change, but there’s a lingering warmth in her demeanour. Her approval means more than you’d like to admit.

“Trouble,” a well-known voice sings. You don’t even need to look to know who it is. Princess steps into your line of sight, bumping her hip against your shoulder.

“How’s it going?” she asks.

“Good. Just missing my favourite nurse,” you pout dramatically. “Wanna join me on the night shift?”

She snorts. “Not in a million years. I love sunlight and my sanity too much.”

“Coward.”

“Please, I’ve worked with you for years. I've earned the right to protect my peace.”

“And what about me?” Perlah chimes in from your other side, feigning offence, as she leans over the counter. “I see how it is.”

“My favourite nurses,” you amend quickly, holding up both hands. “A very elite club, just so you know.”

Perlah grins. “That’s better.”

“Come join the dark side,” you add, grin widening.

“Hard pass,” Perlah replies.

They laugh, easy and familiar, the sound filling the hub the way it always used to when you were all on days together. Then their expressions shift. It’s subtle at first. Princess’s smile drops a fraction. Perlah’s eyes narrow.

You follow their gaze to two fresh-faced med students, just scrubbed and clearly very eager.

“The new med students are joining the night shift today,” Perlah says carefully.

“And?” you prompt, sensing the tone.

“Young and Smith,” Princess supplies, nodding toward the man. “Young’s fine—nervous, polite, and actually listens to feedback.”

“And Smith?” you ask, eyes flitting over to the woman.

They exchange a look.

“Gunner,” Perlah states flatly. "Trying her best to get a residency spot here."

Ah. You exhale slowly. “How bad is she?”

Princess tilts her head. “On day one, she corrected an attending.”

“That's confident," you say, raising your eyebrows.

Perlah continues, “Keeps name-dropping research. Asked how quickly she could get into procedures.”

Princess crosses her arms. “Didn’t introduce herself to half of us nurses or trust our judgments.”

You hum thoughtfully. “Okay, then we educate. She’ll learn real quick that nurses keep this place standing.”

Dana looks over at you, clearly having heard everything. “Alright. Go collect your children. Teach them some manners.”

You wonder, just for a moment, whether Jack is having fun with Robby—whether he’s already halfway through a beer, whether he’d laugh at that. Then you push yourself up from the chair, brush off imaginary lint, and shake the thoughts away.

“Don’t forget to miss me while I’m gone.”

Rounds pass without incident. Young stays close to Shen, soaking up everything like a sponge. He asks insightful questions, takes a moment before responding, and double-checks dosages. You like him immediately.

In contrast, Smith has a habit of answering questions that aren’t directed at her. She finishes Shen’s sentences and casually references studies that nobody in the room asked about. It’s not overly troubling—yet. Just a bit abrasive around the edges.

You end up with her for minor cases while Shen pulls Young into a trauma.

Lucky you.

“Hello, Mrs. Jones,” you greet warmly as you step into the room, Smith at your shoulder. “I’m your doctor tonight, one of the residents on duty."

She’s perched on the bed, a towel wrapped around her hand, blood seeping through in uneven patches.

“This is Smith, one of our medical students,” you add, nodding for her to introduce herself.

Smith steps forward with confidence. “Hi, Mrs. Jones. I’ll be helping take care of you today.”

Mrs Jones' smile is easy, despite the pain. “Nice to meet you, dears.”

You log onto the computer while Smith starts to gently unwrap the towel.

“That looks like a pretty deep cut,” she observes as she examines it. “How did this happen?”

“Oh, I was cooking dinner for my husband and the knife slipped,” Mrs. Jones laughs lightly. “Twenty years, and I still can’t chop onions properly!”

“Twenty years?” you echo from behind the computer, glancing over with a grin. “That’s quite an achievement!”

“It feels like five,” she beams back.

Smith carefully irrigates the wound. “That’s wonderful. Not many marriages last that long anymore.”

Mrs. Jones nods, adding, “That’s because people give up too easily,” with a playful shrug. She then notices your hand as you turn toward the bed.

“Oh!” Her eyes light up. “Are you married?”

You glance down at the simple rubber band. “Yeah. I’m a newlywed.” The word still feels strange in your mouth.

“Oh, how lovely,” she sighs, looking warmly at you. “You have that glow. What does he do?”

“He’s a doctor, too.”

Smith’s tone shifts slightly. “An attending, right? Dr. Abbot?” She doesn’t ask it like a question, but more like a confirmation.

“Yes,” you reply evenly.

“How sweet. You must understand each other so well. My husband and I met at work—I was his secretary,” Mrs. Jones reminisces fondly. “He’s a CEO and is about to retire, so I wanted to prepare his favourite dinner.”

Smith pauses for a moment during the irrigation. “A CEO? That’s impressive.”

“He works very hard,” she replies with pride.

Smith continues lightly, “Well, it must be nice having a husband who can take care of you.”

The comment lingers awkwardly in the air.

Mrs. Jones gives a polite smile but frowns just a bit. “Oh, I’ve always taken care of myself, too.”

“Of course,” Smith quickly corrects herself. “I just mean—it’s reassuring, you know? Having someone higher up on your side.” Her eyes dart briefly to you, to your badge, then to your ring.

You keep your expression steady, but your jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, “We take care of each other in different ways,” you say lightly, smiling at Mrs Jones. "Alright, let’s get some lidocaine in there before we close this up. I'll do the first stitch. Smith, you can do the rest."

“We could probably get away with three sutures,” Smith says, glancing down.

“We close based on tension and alignment, not convenience.”

"Oh, sure," she says, looking at you briefly. "Of course."

You push through the heavy exam room door and let it swing shut behind you, the muffled hum of monitors and distant pages filling the hallway. You’re already halfway to the hub when Smith falls into step beside you.

“So,” she says lightly, almost too casually, “is Dr. Shen single?”

You blink, unsure if you heard her correctly. The fluorescent lights cast sharp shadows under her eyes, but her expression is perfectly serious.

“I’m sorry—what?”

“Dr. Shen,” she repeats. “Or… any of the attendings, really.”

You stop in your tracks. The corridor smells faintly of antiseptic and burnt coffee. Bridget squeezes past you with a vitals cart. You stare at Smith.

“Why?” you ask slowly.

She shrugs, adjusting her stethoscope. “I was just thinking about doing what you did.” Her eyes flick briefly to your ring.

“What I did?” You repeat, glancing up at the board. The names blur together.

“Yeah.” She lowers her voice, as if she’s sharing a clever study tip. “Having a relationship with an attending here could seriously boost my chances of landing a residency. Medicine’s political,” she adds. “Might as well play it properly.”

For a moment, you simply stare at her. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, it worked out pretty well for you, didn’t it?” She gives you a small, knowing nod.

A hollow rush of disbelief floods your ears. You can't help the incredulous snort that escapes you. “That’s—”

She doesn’t seem to register your reaction. “It’s strategic,” she continues, unfazed. “Programs like people, they already trust. If you’re close with someone influential—”

“Strategic?” you repeat, your voice sharpening. “You think I—” You break off, disbelief tangling with irritation. The idea is so absurd you almost laugh again, but the heat creeping up your neck keeps it from being funny. “You think I’m here because I’m sleeping with an attending?”

Smith shrugs her shoulders noncommittally. “I’m just saying, it doesn’t hurt. So, is Shen single?"

“That’s not how you get a residency.”

Her gaze sharpens. “Right. Different rules for different people. I get it.”

For a heartbeat, you consider unloading on her—telling her exactly how hard you worked, how many nights you slept in the call room, how many weekends you missed, how insulting it is to reduce everything to gossip and shortcuts. Jack's never once used his position to shield you. If it hadn't been for that stupid glitch, the two of you would never even have been connected.

But before you can gather your thoughts, Lena’s voice calls out across the department. “Trauma incoming! ETA two minutes!”

Shen's voice calls out next, finding your eyes. "You're with me. Smith, too."

The energy shifts instantly. Chairs scrape. Smith is already turning toward the trauma bay, expression sharpening into focus.

You swallow whatever you were about to say. There will be time to address her ridiculous assumption later.

Right now, she’ll see exactly why you’re here.

Time ticks by, and each comment from Smith comes off as harmless and polite—a mere observation or a passing remark. Yet, when piled together, they create an unmistakable pattern, a constant undercurrent. Every look, every phrase circles back to the same insinuation: that you haven’t earned your place here on your own, that your impending attending job offer isn’t due to your skill but rather because Jack interfered.

You suppress a sigh, clenching your jaw just a bit, determined not to let her get under your skin. The night stretches on, and patience is part of the job, both with patients and with colleagues like her.

Now, you sit beside the bed of your current patient, preparing to administer a shot of lidocaine to his arm. Bridget stands off to the side, watching silently. He'd fallen off his bike and gotten a nasty case of road rash. Luckily, he was wearing a helmet. He flinches slightly at the needle, and you gently steady his arm. “Just a small pinch,” you tell him reassuringly. “Almost done."

He nods, visibly relaxing under your calm, steady presence. “You’re… very skilled,” he says, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I feel like I’m in good hands.”

You look up and return his smile warmly. “Thank you. We’ll make sure you’re comfortable and clean your wound so you can get out of here.”

Nearby, Smith stands casually, one hand resting on the bed rail. She turns to the patient, all charm and politeness, a perfectly timed smile on her face. “You can trust her,” she says smoothly, “She’s… soon to be an attending.”

To the patient, her words seem like praise, a note of admiration. He beams at you. “That’s incredible! Congratulations.”

You don’t need to face Smith to catch the subtext. Her eyes dip to your ring, her smile tightens, her chin lifts a fraction, every gesture precise. It isn’t pride; it’s judgment edged with resentment, a quiet suggestion that you haven’t earned your place—and that you’re standing in the way of hers.

Bridget notices, too, a small glance your way, confirming you’re not imagining it. It’s not the first remark she's heard since you asked her to stay close, just to be sure Smith wasn’t crossing a line. Now, you're more than certain.

You keep your expression neutral and your voice steady as you stand up.  “Thank you. Smith, the floor is all yours.”

As she passes you to reach the patient, you catch a soft murmur under her breath, just audible enough to register in your mind. “Must be nice having connections.”

“Smith,” you say evenly, voice calm but firm. That's it. “A word, please.” You gesture toward the door. Bridget stays behind, sending you an encouraging nod.

For a split second, she looks surprised, but she follows you outside. “Sure,” she replies carefully as you close the door behind you, stepping a few paces away.

You step closer, lowering your voice. “I’ve kept my focus on the patients, letting your comments slide. That ends now. I won’t tolerate disrespect toward me or my work.”

Her smirk falters, replaced by a polite but defensive posture. “I… I wasn’t being disrespectful. I was just making observations.”

“Observations?” you echo, maintaining a calm yet pointed tone. “Observations about my marriage to Jack? My incoming attending offer? How I got my spot here?”

She opens her mouth, but hesitates.

“Let me be very clear,” you continue. “Jack and I only recently got together. I’d already earned my reputation long before that, and my attending offer is the result of my work alone.”

For a moment, her eyes flick to the floor, and then back up. “I… I see.”

“Good,” you say. “Because if there’s even a hint of you or anyone else implying otherwise, I won’t stand for it. I’ve earned my spot here. It’s my skills, my work, my hours—that’s what got me this far, not who I’m married to.”

She opens her mouth again, but then closes it, realising there’s nothing more to say. The smirk is gone, replaced by a stiff nod. “Understood.” She enters the room again.

You release the tension in your shoulders, trying to shake it off, but as you sink into your chair, the thoughts start creeping in.

Did anyone else think the same way?

You glance at the computer, screen still blank, badge still clipped to your shirt. Even with years of experience, Smith’s words prick at the edges of your confidence. You take a deep breath, steadying yourself, forcing the doubt back down. You've earned your place here. You did that. Not Jack.

Shen, who had been standing quietly off to the side while you confronted Smith, leans casually against the desk next to your computer.

“You’re doing great,” he says simply. “Every patient you've worked with tonight? Your assessments were thorough, and your procedures were spot on. You’ve handled everything exactly as you should.”

You try to nod, but the knot in your stomach refuses to loosen. “I… I know,” you murmur. “It’s just... all those little comments she made, the things she muttered under her breath. Even after I… after I stood up to her, I can't help but wonder if—”

Shen shifts slightly, tilting his head, showing he’s listening without interrupting. “Bridget mentioned that she was crossing the line,” he admits. “I didn’t step in because I trusted you to manage it on your own. And you did. You calmly and professionally made it clear that her behaviour wasn’t acceptable.”

You glance up at him.

“You’ve earned your place here. Don’t let Smith, or anyone else, shake that. I also recommended you for the attending position because I’ve seen your work. I’ve got your back.” Shen smirks. “And if she tries again, I’ll… let’s just say, I’ve got a few creative ways to make interns regret their life choices.”

You take a slow, deep breath, letting his words wash away the doubts that have been creeping in all night. It’s a quiet reassurance, yet enough to remind you: you are skilled. You belong here. Jack’s name doesn’t define your worth.

Shen leans back a bit, easing the tension in his posture. “Besides, if Smith thought she could push you around tonight, she clearly misjudged you." He grins at you. "Still, it's probably good that Abbot wasn’t around. That wouldn’t have ended well.”

You can’t help the small, tight smile that finally surfaces. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Definitely not.”

Shen gives you a small nod before he walks off. You rub your hands together, shake out your shoulders, and finally let yourself breathe. Then you scan your badge and open your chart.

You step out into the cool morning air, the hospital quiet behind you. Jack’s car idles out front. He leans casually against the hood, a thermocup in his hand, steam rising in thin curls.

“Hey,” he says as you approach, his voice easy. You press yourself into his open arms, aware that it's just in case people are watching, but you need the comfort. His arms close over your body, holding you close for a moment longer than you usually let yourself linger.

You give him a small smile when you move back, grab the cup, and slide into the passenger seat. Your shoulders are looser than they were an hour ago, your breathing even, but Jack doesn’t miss the subtle tension—the faint set of your jaw, the way your fingers wrap around your bag just a little too tightly.

“Someone said something,” he says quietly, almost more to himself than to you, leaning on the door.

You shake your head lightly. “Just an intern pushing boundaries,” you murmur, shrugging, voice calm. “But I got it covered.”

He studies you, frowning. “Hm,” he says, not pressing, just letting the pause linger. “You sure?"

You glance at the thermocup, the warmth seeping into your hands, and nod at him. “I’m fine. Really. Nothing you need to worry about.”

Jack’s gaze lingers a moment longer, sharp and intuitive, then he climbs into the driver’s seat. “Alright,” he says slowly, still worried, but deferring. “Just… if it pops back up, I want to know. Okay?” He wordlessly switches the music to something softer.

You nod, giving him a reassuring smile. “You survive the evening with Robby?”

Jack laughs quietly as he starts the car. “Barely,” he admits, glancing at you. “That guy’s like a walking commentary on my life… and apparently yours too.”

You chuckle, feeling the last of the night’s tension slip away. “Did he actually watch the game, or just annoy you?”

“Half of him watched,” Jack replies, eyes on the road, “the other half kept commenting on every play and asking questions about… well… everything.” He shakes his head again, a fond grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "He really liked your blanket."

"Of course, he did," you laugh. "It's unique."

"That's one way to put it," Jack smirks, looking over at you briefly.

You let out a small sigh, letting the warmth of the car, the quiet streets, and Jack’s presence settle over you. All the worry Smith had stirred earlier slips away. Shen had eased most of it, but being here with Jack, close and safe, eases it like nothing else could.

Next part

[s-writing-s]

Diagnosis: Married? | Part 9

Summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?

tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, fluff, jack's leg makes an appearance

word count: 4.9k

a/n: thank you all so much for still tuning in and interacting with every part. I'm trying my best to respond to you all but if i've missed you, i just want you to know that i'm very appreciative of your support and loooove reading all your responses (i see all you say in the tags, too) <333. hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome!

Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist The Pitt | Masterlist Main | Masterlist Previous part | Next part

Living with Jack is infinitely easier than you ever imagined it would be. You knew he would make a good roommate—he’s thoughtful and respectful—but you still braced yourself for the usual bumps in the road. You anticipated those awkward silences in the kitchen and the "you ate the last of my cereal" arguments you used to have with Talia. The discomfort of you not being quite sure where to place yourself in his home when it’s just a temporary move.

Instead, you get mornings where you both come home from the night shift, take one look at each other, and just know who needs the shower first. He had a rough night? You wave him through. You’ve had a bad shift? He’s already stepping back, surrendering the shower with a sleepy smile. No debates. Just a quiet understanding and adjustment.

There are days when he starts chopping vegetables without asking, sensing that you're too exhausted to cook. On other days, you’ll warm the pan and season the sauce just the way he likes it. You take care of the dishes when he cooks; he dries them without needing a reminder.

No negotiations. No discussions. Just... this effortless, almost eerie rhythm.

Jack has always been better at taking action than providing explanations. You know this from work. When the ER is drowning, he doesn’t give long pep talks; he orders pizza, extra garlic knots included.

You just had no idea this quality would carry over into your home life. You casually mention that you’re almost out of that ridiculously expensive conditioner—the one you only splurge on when you’re feeling indulgent—and three days later it’s in the shower caddy. Same brand, same scent. He doesn’t say anything about it. You don’t either. You just stand there under the water, fingers wrapped around the bottle, heart beating messily.

It’s the specific brand of oat milk you love, even though he still sticks to his regular kind, appearing in the fridge. Your favourite chocolate, the one with sea salt, tucked into the pantry. The phone charger you keep meaning to replace, with its frayed wire, mysteriously disappearing, and a new one coiled neatly sitting on the counter.

He never hands these things to you outright. Never frames them as gifts. They simply integrate into your life as if they’ve always been there. And he’s careful about it. That’s the part that gets you. He doesn’t act like you owe him anything. If you thank him, he just shrugs it off, saying, “I was at the store anyway.”

You have to assume that this is just what Jack does—things he would do for others, too. This is simply life when there’s no burden of medical debt on your shoulders. You'd probably be the same way if you could.

You can't read into it because he never lingers when he brushes past you in the hallway. He never lets his hand rest too long at your waist when he helps steady you in the ER. He avoids doing anything that could be misconstrued. He’d act this way for anyone he shared a home with. It doesn’t mean anything.

It can’t. If he had feelings for you, real feelings, he wouldn’t be this careful.

So you do what you can. You tidy up and ensure the house is liveable. You tackle the laundry, folding his shirts just the way he likes. You refill his coffee supply before it runs low. You have food ready for him when he comes home drained from a shift after you've had a day off.

It’s so easy living with Jack that it's hard. Each time you find yourselves moving around each other like this, as if it’s been the routine for years, your chest tightens. This wasn’t meant to feel so natural. It wasn't meant to feel like home.

The bed situation doesn’t help. Delays keep piling up—shipping errors and warehouse issues. One email after another that sounds vaguely apologetic but not nearly enough. When it finally arrives, you’re almost giddy (and sad, but you don't linger on that). This is it. This is your way of establishing a boundary—a much-needed one if you’re gonna survive this.

You’re halfway through putting it together, the Allen key clenched between your teeth, hair sticking to your forehead, when you realise two of the legs are missing. You stare blankly at the assembly instructions. You count the parts again, emptying the box like the legs might magically appear from underneath a flap of cardboard.

Nothing. It feels almost cosmic, as if the universe itself wants to keep you in his bed.

Jack finds you sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by wooden slats and frustration. He pauses in the doorway, takes in the chaos—the half-built frame, and the screwdriver clutched too tightly in your hand. He takes off his running shoes without a word.

“What’s wrong?” he asks gently.

“It's missing two legs,” you reply flatly, holding up the useless bracket as if it could explain the whole situation. Your hands tremble more than they should over something so trivial. “I can't believe this keeps happening.”

He takes a look, counts the pieces. “We can call them for replacements.”

“Which are gonna be here in three to five business weeks,” you mutter, scrubbing your eyes hard. "Why does this keep happening to me?" Your laugh sounds thin, barely masking your irritation.

He sits down beside you among the remnants of your thwarted project, bumping his shoulder against yours. “I don’t mind sharing,” he says softly, trying to lighten the mood. “I’ve gotten used to you stealing the duvet, anyway.” His tone is light.

You roll your eyes. “That’s not the point.”

He smiles. “It’s kind of the point.”

And maybe for him, it’s sweet. Maybe for him, it’s easy in a comforting way. He's just being kind, trying to prevent you from having an obvious breakdown over a fucking bed.

For you, though, it’s a crisis. Three more weeks in his bed feels like playing with fire. Most mornings, you wake up wrapped in his arms—not just close by, not just sharing a mattress, but firmly in his hold. Like, sometime in the night, your body decides for you, like it gravitates towards him. Your back tucked against his chest, his arm heavy and warm around your waist, and his breath slow against the back of your neck. Sometimes your fingers are tangled in his shirt. Sometimes his nose is buried in your hair.

You don’t remember crossing the distance. You just wake up there. And the worst part? You sleep better like that. You hate that you sleep better like that.

You need a bed of your own. You need a place where you don’t wake up already intertwined. Where your heart doesn’t trip over itself before you’re even fully conscious. Where domesticity doesn’t sneak up on you in the shape of shared blankets and cuddles.

Because this—this quiet, effortless merging of lives—is more intimate than anything loud or dramatic. It’s folding his laundry without thinking and knowing which shirts he wants air-dried. It’s him automatically setting aside the corner piece of lasagna because he knows you like the crispy edge. It’s your shampoo tucked away in his shower caddy, your favourite tea stashed in his pantry, and a spare toothbrush that no longer feels temporary. It's getting to watch him with bed hair sitting at the kitchen island with a coffee, after working out with sweat dripping down his neck, and curled up on the couch pretending not to watch your show.

It’s terrifying how easy it is. How natural. How dangerously close to permanent it feels. And the worst part is you can’t tell if he feels it too or if he’s just being kind, just honouring the terms of something that was never supposed to matter this much.

The house smells faintly of coffee and your microwaved lunch from earlier. You’re hunched over your textbook at the table, highlighter in hand, surrounded by a chaotic spread of notebooks. Your eyes blink more slowly as you attempt to take in what you’re reading.

But you’re distracted because across from you, Jack is seated, deeply engrossed in a crossword puzzle. His pencil taps rhythmically against the paper, brows knitted in concentration. For a moment, you can’t help but admire him—the way his neck curves, the muscles in his forearms flexing with each word he writes.

You clear your throat and glance back at your notes, pretending you’re entirely focused. You need to stop daydreaming and get your shit together.

Suddenly, you hear the scrape of a chair as he gets up and heads into the kitchen. A few moments later, the rich scent of brewing coffee wafts over to you.

“Thought you might need a refill,” he says, sliding a steaming mug across the table, just the way you like it.

“Thanks,” you reply softly, your hands brushing against his as you reach for the mug.

He sits back down, pencil ready again. You watch him take a careful sip, a faint smile tugging at the edge of his mouth as he looks at you. You try to refocus, but the warmth of his hand brushing yours on the mug lingers longer than it should.

“Need help?” he asks softly, leaning just a little closer across the table, and you jump slightly, though only your pen moves. You swear you can feel his leg moving closer, feel the heat through your pants, but you don’t dare look down.

“No, I’ve got it,” you reply, and he just watches you for a moment, then nods, turning back to his paper.

The house is quiet, filled only with the sounds of your scribbling, the tap of his pencil, and the occasional sip of coffee. For a moment, you forget about the exam and all the stress. It’s just the two of you in this space.

You glance up at him after not hearing his pen for a while. He’s focused on the crossword, his jaw tight with concentration. But his pencil hovers over a word he’s been stuck on for ages.

“Yearning,” you whisper quietly, taking a sip of your coffee to mask the flutter in your chest. Is that another sign from the universe?

In the little pause before he writes it in, he glances at you, just briefly, sending you a quick smile. You take another sip of coffee. He taps the pencil against the table.

You do your best to refocus on your notes.

It's another typical night at PTMC. Same scrubs. Same scuffed shoes. Same stale coffee.

Jack stands in front of the board, stethoscope draped around his neck, scanning through the list of patients. As usual, nothing seems out of the ordinary. Nausea. Chest pain. Two psych holds.

Just as he’s about to step over to a computer, he feels it—the prickling sense that someone is watching him. He pauses, scanning the hub with his eyes.

Ellis is hovering just off to his left, pretending to review labs on the computer. He can see her biting the inside of her cheek, her shoulders twitching as if she’s holding back a comment. Further down the hub, Shen leans against the counter, taking a deliberately casual sip of his coffee. Lena, however, isn’t hiding her interest at all. She’s openly watching him with raised eyebrows, a slow grin spreading across her face.

Jack exhales sharply through his nose. “Whatever it is,” he mutters, turning toward the computer, “I’m not interested.”

“Oof,” Lena replies, clearly amused. “Someone’s feeling feisty tonight.”

Ellis mumbles under her breath, "Happens every time his missus isn't here." He can hear Shen snicker in response.

Normally, Jack doesn't mind them goofing off. Because normally you're right beside him, laughing along. But tonight's different, all thanks to Ellis. Because you're not here. She'd sent you a text asking to switch shifts, which means that instead of enjoying a day off together tomorrow, you're at home now, and Jack’s left to deal with his team on his own.

You were on the couch when he left, all snuggled up under that silly kitten-patterned blanket you brought over. One knee bent, with a socked foot peeking out. The TV was glowing with that show you insist is good, though he’d caught your eyes closing multiple times during it.

That could have been your evening together tomorrow, and that’s what’s really bugging him. Your days off had finally lined up after weeks of barely getting to see each other during shifts. And yes, he might still have those few uninterrupted hours before work but they just aren't cutting it anymore. Plus, there's the fact that you're studying for an exam he knows you'll ace, which eats up more of your time together.

And Jack knows he is being greedy, but he can also already hear the ticking clock—you're moving out again soon, and he's not taking advantage of you being there enough.

It’s getting a little scary how quickly he’s adjusted to you living with him. It feels so natural to walk into the house and expect to see your shoes by the door, to hear your laughter coming from the kitchen, or to catch a hint of your shampoo drifting from the bathroom.

Weeks have passed. Weeks where the blessed Amazon gods have seen fit to delay your bed delivery at every possible turn. Shipping error. Weather delay. Warehouse backlog. And now, apparently, the exact replacement legs you need are out of stock. He had nodded sympathetically when you showed him the email, but inside, he’d felt something dangerously close to relief.

He’s taking what he can get. Because every night you’re still in his bed is another night he gets to wake up with you tucked against him like you moved there on purpose. Another morning where he pretends he doesn’t notice that you always end up with your back to his chest or that your hand finds the fabric of his shirt in your sleep.

He never moves first, but he doesn’t move away either.

He’s trying to figure out how he’s supposed to convince you to drop the whole separate-bed idea without sounding like a lunatic, without breaking whatever fragile rules you’ve both built around this fake marriage.

Because that’s what it is. Paperwork. A solution. A practical arrangement that somehow turned into shared groceries, inside jokes and your conditioner in his shower.

Because if you wanted him, really wanted him, you wouldn’t be trying so hard to get your own bed.

You weren’t supposed to feel like home. And he definitely wasn’t supposed to be standing in the middle of the Pitt, pretending he’s annoyed his coworkers are goofing off, when deep down he’s just frustrated about not being able to spend his day off with you tomorrow.

It’s only when he swipes his badge at the counter and a name flashes across the screen that’s definitely not his that the laughter finally bursts free behind him.

He closes his eyes for half a second, opens them again and sees the exact same thing as he did before. Your name glows back at him in bright hospital-blue letters.

“Hey, Trouble,” Ellis calls out. “Looking good tonight.”

Shen leans over the counter, pointing his cup at Jack’s head. “Yeah! Did you change your hairstyle or something?”

“Very funny,” Jack replies dryly, pinning his badge back onto his shirt. Well, your badge.

He doesn’t even need to think twice about how this happened. This morning, you had come in, worn out, and carelessly dropped your badge on the counter by the door. He had tossed his on top of yours, not thinking much of it. Later, he’d stayed longer than intended, lingering by the TV before eventually joining you when you shifted your legs to make space for him without looking away from the screen.

"Thought you didn't like this," you'd mumbled, a playful grin tugging at your lips.

“I don’t,” he shot back automatically. And honestly, he isn't quite sure he knows what the show's about, but he likes watching it with you. Likes seeing how you react—how you smile, laugh, and frown at scenes.

He left later than he’d meant to because your feet were brushing against his thigh, because you were so warm and cosy, curled up on the couch, and it felt stupidly easy to stay. And he hadn't thought about grabbing the right badge in his rush to leave, just swiped one before he hurried out the door.

And now he’s standing in the Pitt holding your badge instead of his.

“Well,” Lena says, folding her arms and flashing a knowing grin. “Looks like you need to call the missus. You won’t make it through the shift without your badge.”

A chorus of exaggerated “oooohs” erupts behind him. Jack tries to drown them out and pulls out his phone. He takes two steps toward the break room, ready to call you, and hopefully not ruin your evening, but Lena interrupts with news of an incoming trauma. All he manages to do is shoot off a few quick messages.

Jack: Can you bring me my badge? Accidentally took yours. Sorry! Jack: Take an Uber. I'll pay.

He felt his phone buzz moments later, just as he has his hands deep in a guy's chest trying to clip an artery. Bridget offers to check for him, but he declines; he doesn't want her accidentally seeing something that could be misinterpreted. So he can't look, no matter how much he wants to. He really hopes you’re not mad.

He sees the moment you arrive, having shifted responsibility of the case over to Ellis by then. He sees the way your eyes scan the ER automatically for him before you even step fully into the Pitt. He turns his back before your gaze can land on him. He needs to stay focused.

The moment he's free, he removes his gown and gloves quickly, heading straight for where you're chatting with Lena.

He takes you in as he walks over. The tilt of your head as you laugh, the hoodie that slouches down your figure. His hoodie. He really needs to stop getting so worked up seeing you in that.

"Hey," you greet him, leaning into his side with a casualness that floors him before he remembers that you're acting. His arm comes up automatically before his brain catches up, settling around your waist, his thumb brushing against you unconsciously.

"I'm sorry," he says. He presses a kiss to the crown of your head—softer than he intends. Slower. He hopes you don't think he's overdoing it. You don’t show it if you do.

"Don't worry about it. It's good for me to get out of the house on days off, or I might just end up glued to the couch," you say with a bright laugh.

Reaching into your bag, you pull out his badge first. Before he can take it, you step closer, close enough for him to feel your warmth even through his scrubs. Your fingers lightly brush against his chest as you unclip your badge from where it rests on him. Jack's breath catches for a moment before he can steady himself.

You don’t look up at him at first. Your focus is on the plastic, on the small metal clasp. But he sees the way your lashes lower, the faint press of your lips together like you’re concentrating too hard for something so simple. Then you clip his badge back onto him, your knuckles grazing his sternum softly.

“Here you go,” you murmur softly now, smoothing the fabric of his scrub top afterwards—an unnecessary, lingering pat over the place where his heart is trying very hard not to give him away.

Jack swallows hard. Finally, you meet his gaze, and there's a warmth in your expression, almost shy, that feels out of place against the easy grin you're trying to put on for the crowd.

“…and something to get you through the shift,” you add quickly, like you need to break whatever that moment just was. You step back half an inch and reach behind you for the bag he hadn’t noticed. "Lena mentioned you were stuck in trauma, so I took the chance to make something quick for you."

Make. The word strikes him harder than it should. You hand over the bag, and as he opens it, he finds a Tupperware container inside, still faintly warm to the touch.

Fried rice. You made this for him. His heart stumbles, then starts pounding harder, heat blooming slow and steady in his chest.

“Thought you might be starving,” you say lightly. “I know you didn’t bring anything to eat.” You give him a pointed look, and he’s aware of the hypocrisy—how he’d be after you if you did the same. He just didn't know you'd noticed when it came to him.

His fingers tighten slightly around the container. “You… made this?” he asks, and it comes out quieter than he means it to.

You shrug, a little bashful now. “It’s just fried rice. Nothing special.”

Nothing special. He thinks about you standing in the kitchen, hair tied back, probably in his hoodie, chopping vegetables, waiting for the pan to heat up, and taking the time to do something so small yet so thoughtful for him.

He wants to say something, thank you, you didn’t have to, something that acknowledges just how much this means to him. But the words stick, stubborn and inadequate. Instead, he just moves closer, his fingers brushing against the edge of the counter as if to anchor himself.

“You didn’t have to,” he finally manages to say, his voice low and rough around the edges.

You shrug, brushing a lock of hair from your face, your smile softening. “I wanted to.”

That one sentence, simple, unassuming, strikes him harder than anything else. His throat tightens. He can’t remember the last time someone had done something so quietly, so deliberately for him. His usual defences—his control, even the careful lines he draws (or tries to draw) around his feelings for you—start to crumble under the weight of your kindness.

He steps closer without thinking, crowding into your space. Close enough that he can see the faint crease between your brows when you’re trying not to smile too hard. Close enough that if he tilted his head an inch, he could kiss you.

He doesn’t, even if he desperately wants to.  

“I… I really appreciate it,” he says, though it sounds thinner than he intends. He wants to do something more, say something more to show you just how much this means to him.

But then he remembers where you are, and that you people are watching, as Lena cuts in.

"Wow. Where do I find a wife like that?" she grins. "You're one lucky man."

“I know,” he replies instantly, his gaze locked on you. It’s the most genuine thing he’s said all day. You can’t help but smile back at him, amused by the situation rather than feeling awkward like you used to.

"Where's our stuff, mama?" Ellis interjects, pulling your attention away from him.

“Husband privileges,” you tease, your eyes flickering back to Jack for just a moment. "Gotta live with me to earn this," you grin.

"Hey, Abbot," Ellis spins around, eyes wide. "Looking for a roommate?"

"No," he says flatly, but he can't help the twitch that tugs at his mouth when you lean back into his side, laughing loudly.

The key turns in the lock with a soft click, and Jack lets out a breath before the door even swings open. His right leg is aching. It’s a dull, deep pain that starts at the end of the bone and spreads up into his thigh—phantom nerves misfiring, scar tissue pulling tight after a long shift. All he wants is to sit down.

What he doesn’t expect is the lamp still being on. You’re curled up on the couch, your hands lost in the oversized sleeves of your hoodie. You blink slowly when you hear him come in.

“You’re still up?” he asks, voice softening.

You rub at your eyes, words coming out mumbled. “Was waiting f'you. You want something to eat?”

His heart does something it shouldn’t when it hears that. Like that means something, it absolutely does not.

“Nah, I’m not hungry.” He pauses for a second. “I’m gonna go shower.” He tries to downplay his movements—shifting his weight carefully, avoiding the subtle hitch in his gait as he makes his way to the bathroom. He hates it when you see it on the bad days. He hates that you can tell the difference between a manageable ache and the kind that crawls up his spine and sits there all night. Hates that flicker of worry in your face. This is not something that will ever make you want him.

The shower helps a little. Warm water loosens the tight pull of the muscle. He washes it carefully, using mild soap and gentle hands, and rinses thoroughly, before patting it completely dry afterwards.

By the time he steps out, shorts hanging low on his hips, you’ve moved to the bed. He hobbles his way into bed, trying to hide just how much it hurts.

Your gaze sharpens instantly, taking in everything he tries to conceal. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he grunts, easing himself down onto the mattress. “Leg’s just acting up today.”

He keeps his voice level, trying not to let you see how much it’s bothering him.

“Anything I can do?” you ask, genuinely concerned.

He instinctively shakes his head. “No, sweetheart,” he replies, reaching for the lotion on the nightstand. It's unscented and thick. Rolling up the leg of his shorts, he reveals the strong thigh that narrows to a rounded end below his knee.

You sit up straight. “Let me.”

Before he can resist, you gently take the bottle from his hand. There’s no pity in your face. No flinching. Just focus. You warm the lotion between your palms first.

“Tell me if I’m doing it wrong,” you say, serious in a way that makes his chest tighten. He almost says he’s fine, almost insists, but you’re already there, already warm, already undoing him.

Your hands settle against his skin, and he inhales sharply. The lotion feels cool at first, but as your palms begin to spread it slowly and deliberately, warmth follows. You instinctively avoid the scar seam, circling it instead of pressing directly on it. Your thumbs work their way upward along the muscle, applying firm, careful pressure.

“Is the pressure okay?” you murmur.

“Yeah,” he replies, his voice rough.

You massage from the end upwards, promoting circulation, the way his physical therapist taught him. With gentle compression, you stroke slowly toward the knee, pressing into the tight muscles, easing the knots that have developed from compensating all day.

Jack lets his head fall back against the headboard. He didn’t realise how much it hurt until it started to feel better.

You shift closer without thinking, one leg tucking under you as you focus. Your brow furrows slightly when you reach a sensitive spot. “Here?” you ask quietly.

“Little to the left,” he breathes.

You adjust immediately. The intimacy of it nearly undoes him. You’ve seen this before, of course, it's hard not to when you're living together, but you've never done it for him. Still, your hands move with intention, almost as if you’ve memorised every spot that brings him relief.

After a minute, you shift to a gentle tapping along the edge, desensitisation, something the physical therapist suggested to soothe the overactive nerve endings.

“You read up on that,” he realises quietly.

You shrug, keeping your gaze down. “Thought if it’s gonna hurt you, I might as well know how to help.”

That’s when his throat tightens. You didn’t have to learn this. His hand moves without thinking, settling over your wrist, not to stop you—just to feel you there.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

You look up, and in this moment, there’s no performance, no audience, no sterile hospital corridor—just the gentle glow of the lamp and the calming rhythm of your hands against his skin.

“You really don’t have to take care of me like this,” he adds.

Your expression softens. “I know," you say, and then look down, shrugging. "…It's what friends do, right?" Your mouth opens like you’re about to say something else. Just long enough that he almost thinks—but then you nod.

He forces a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and nods in return. “Right,” he says. “Friends.”

You continue the massage, as if the shift in the air never happened. He remains still, aware that in a few minutes you’ll wipe your hands on the towel waiting on his side of the bed. He knows you’ll turn off the lamp before he can reach it. He knows you’ll curl up on your side of the mattress first. And somewhere around ten a.m., as always, you’ll drift toward him.

Not on purpose. Never on purpose.

But you will. And when he wakes, he'll pretend he doesn't like it.

He'll pretend what he’s feeling is just what a friend feels. He’ll pretend like his every move doesn’t carry more weight than you'd ever know, if that's what you want. He'll take friends any day.

Friends are better than nothing.

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