Who Did This To You?
15,000 ft
At First Sight
The Fool Outranks the Golden Boy
Best Friend Blindness
Marrying a Stranger
From Friends to Forever
Maybe We Can Be Friends
Oil & Honor
that was me blue (26.7k) [angst] [hurt/comfort] [smut]
did i do it to myself? (6.3k) [angst] [hurt/comfort]
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compromise (3.1k) [angst] [hurt/comfort] [fluff]
by @abbotly
CALL ME HOME (4k) [angst] [hurt/comfort]
TOUCH AND GO (2k) [fluff] [hurt/comfort]
THAT FUNNY FEELING (7k) [angst] [hurt/comfort]
DOCTOR BARKER (3k) [fluff] [with tension]
OFF-DAY (6.4k) [angst] [hurt/comfort]
by @lovebugism
paying up (2.4k) [fluff]
it's a little bit messy (7.9k) [smut] [soft angst]
sprains and refrains (4.7k) [fluff] [soft angst]
by @alinathinkstoomuch
old man charm (3.3k) [fluff]
secret santa (5.5k) [fluff] (ik it's not christmas but this was too cute)
the terrible date (5.5k) [soft angst] [fluff]
by @fromsil
things a man provides (4.3k) [fluff] [angst] [hurt/comfort]
that's what i'm here for (3.8k) [angsty] [fluff]
Summary: Jack finally meets the pretty baker everyone’s been talking about.
Warnings: 18+ (MDNI). Dry humping. I got inspiration from “Yes, Chef.” Jack Abbot having some dirty fantasies about reader. Making out (not too bad, but it’s Jack, so…). Soft!Dom!Jack? I dunno, maybe. You guys are in charge of your media consumption. Slow burn. Language. Older man x younger woman trope (unspecified age gap). No use of Y/N. There may be a few pet-names sprinkled in. Pining. Soft!Jack. Insecure!Jack. Loss of limb mention. Loss of a spouse mention. Some hurt/comfort. Some angst. Some fluff. The story switches POV (I’ll try and make it mostly Jack’s POV, but we’ll see). Medical inaccuracies. Whatever else I failed to mention.
Author’s Note: I do not own The Pitt in any capacity. The franchise and its characters belong to their rightful owner(s). Similarly, I don’t own any the gifs or pictures used for my fics. All I own are the fic ideas.
I decided to do some changes. Instead of this being one, long fic, it’s probably going to be a two-parter, maybe more. I’ll see how the next part goes! Hopefully you guys like it.
Word Count: 9,258(ish)
Masterlist
Next Part ->
Jack liked getting in to work early. It gave him time to settle into the rhythm of the place before it fully woke up—or, more accurately, before it tipped into the strange, electric chaos that came with nights at the Pitt. He thrived on that rhythm, even if it was unpredictable by nature. There was still a pattern to it, something he could anticipate, something he could brace himself for.
Routine mattered. It was one of the few things that kept everything else from slipping too far out of his grasp.
His therapist had called it grounding. Jack just knew it worked.
So he walked in like he always did—backpack slung over one shoulder, coffee half-finished, running on too little sleep but already feeling that familiar, steady rise of adrenaline. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. The air smelled like antiseptic and something faintly metallic. Normal. Expected.
Until it wasn’t.
Jack slowed as he approached the nurses’ station, something in the atmosphere just…off enough to snag his attention. Shen, Crus, and Ellis were clustered together—but so were a handful of day shifters. Santos. Whitaker. Perlah. Princess. Even Dana.
That alone was unusual.
What made him stop entirely, though, was you.
You stood at the center of it all like you belonged there—like you’d always been there. Simple outfit, nothing flashy, but it suited you in a way that made it hard to look anywhere else. You were smiling, laughing at something Santos had said, the sound easy and unguarded, like you weren’t trying to impress anyone.
Jack frowned, just slightly.
You weren’t staff. He would’ve known.
And yet—everyone else clearly did.
His steps slowed without him meaning them to, his usual beeline to the back room faltering as his attention snagged, held. He watched the way your expression shifted when Whitaker spoke, attentive and warm, like you were genuinely listening. The way you nodded when Shen jumped in, a soft laugh following like it had been pulled from you without effort. The way your features gentled at something Dana added, something quieter, more grounded.
Comfortable.
Familiar.
You fit.
That was what threw him.
Jack’s grip tightened slightly on the strap of his backpack. This—this wasn’t part of the routine. This wasn’t something he could immediately categorize or file away or prepare for. You were a variable, dropped right into the middle of a system he relied on staying at least somewhat predictable.
And still—
You were pretty.
The thought came uninvited, blunt and immediate, and Jack exhaled quietly through his nose like he could dismiss it just as easily.
He couldn’t.
He took another step forward, slower this time, his attention still fixed in a way that felt…inconvenient. Unnecessary. He didn’t do this—didn’t linger, didn’t get caught up watching strangers like he had nothing better to do.
But then he caught it.
Something soft threaded through the sharp, sterile scent of the hospital—warm, faintly sweet. Subtle enough that he might’ve missed it if he hadn’t already been paying too much attention.
It lingered in the air around the nurses’ station.
Around you.
Jack paused again, just for a second, his brow furrowing as something in his chest shifted—not dramatic, not overwhelming, just enough to register. Enough to feel like something had…clicked slightly out of place.
Or maybe into place.
He wasn’t sure which bothered him more.
His jaw set as he finally stepped closer, pulling himself back into motion, back into something resembling normal.
Still, his gaze flicked back to you—brief, measured, like he could get one last look without it meaning anything.
It didn’t work.
Because now you weren’t just a disruption.
You were a question.
And Jack had never been very good at leaving those alone.
Shen noticed him first.
“Hey—there he is,” he called, lifting his ever-present Dunkin’ cup in greeting, a grin already forming as he waved Jack over. There was something almost knowing in it, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.
Jack resisted the urge to hesitate.
He stepped forward anyway, adjusting the strap of his backpack, posture instinctively straightening as he slipped into something more professional, more contained. Whatever this was—whoever you were—he could handle a simple introduction.
He always could.
“Jack,” Shen said easily, gesturing between the two of you. “This is—”
But Jack barely registered the rest of it.
Because you turned.
And for a second—just a second—everything in him hit a quiet, abrupt pause.
Up close, it was worse.
Or better.
He couldn’t decide.
Pretty had been an understatement. An oversimplification. Something convenient he’d told himself so he could move on. But there was nothing convenient about this—the way your expression softened as your eyes met his, the faint trace of exhaustion beneath it that didn’t dull anything, only made it more real. More human.
More—
Jack swallowed, grounding himself before his thoughts could drift any further off course.
“Nice to meet you,” you said, your voice gentle, a little worn around the edges but still warm. The kind of voice that didn’t demand attention, but held it anyway.
Your smile followed—small, almost tentative, but genuine.
It did something to him. Something subtle and immediate, like a shift in pressure he couldn’t quite adjust to.
Jack nodded once, a little sharper than he intended. “Jack Abbot.”
It came out steady. Good. Normal.
You didn’t seem put off by the brevity.
“I hope you don’t mind,” you continued, your tone softening just slightly, like you were easing into something you’d said before, “but I brought some goodies for everyone.”
Jack blinked, the words taking a second longer than they should to settle.
“Goodies?” he echoed, faintly, like he needed to hear it again to place it properly.
You nodded, and there it was again—that easy, unforced warmth. “I run a bakery not far from here. Whatever we don’t sell for the day, I bring here for the night shift.”
For a moment, Jack just…looked at you.
A bakery.
Of course you did.
It made an odd kind of sense—the softness he’d already associated with you, the faint sweetness in the air he hadn’t imagined, the way everyone here seemed just a little more at ease around you. Like your presence smoothed something over without trying.
God.
You were nice, too.
The realization landed heavier than it should have, settling somewhere just behind his ribs in a way that felt inconveniently permanent. Pretty was one thing. Pretty was easy to dismiss, to file away as a passing observation.
This wasn’t.
This had weight to it.
Jack shifted slightly, his grip tightening again on his backpack strap before he forced himself to let go, flexing his fingers like he could shake off the feeling.
“You do this often?” he asked, his voice quieter now, more measured—not out of disinterest, but the opposite. Like he was being careful with something he didn’t fully understand yet.
Didn’t want to mishandle.
His gaze flicked over your face again, quick but deliberate, like he was trying to memorize something without being obvious about it.
It didn’t work.
Because even as he stood there, trying to keep everything in its proper place—routine, distance, control—he could already feel it shifting.
Just slightly.
Just enough to notice.
And enough to know that whatever this was—
It wasn’t going to stay simple.
Your smile widened—just a fraction, but enough that he noticed.
“You guys are my best customers.”
“She’s a godsend, Abbott,” Ellis chimed in, already halfway through a muffin, crumbs catching at the corner of her mouth.
“I can’t get through my shift without her,” Santos added, nodding with exaggerated seriousness. “Truly.”
Jack barely acknowledged them.
His attention had already drifted—first to the boxes scattered across the station, then to the contents inside. Muffins, cupcakes, croissants, all in varying states of being picked over, like the staff had descended on them the second they’d appeared.
They did look good.
Better than good.
His gaze shifted back to you, almost automatically—and found you already looking at him.
That same soft expression. That same quiet, knowing smile, like you were waiting to see what he’d say.
Or maybe just…waiting.
Jack held your gaze a second too long.
Long enough for his eyes to dip—brief, involuntary—to your lips.
And then he caught himself.
His jaw tightened slightly as he looked away, clearing his throat under the guise of casual thought.
“You could just save them to sell tomorrow,” he said, his tone measured, bordering on practical. Safe.
You shrugged, easy, unbothered. “I could,” you agreed, tilting your head just slightly. “Except I know how you doctors and nurses are.”
That pulled his attention back.
Jack arched a brow, something faintly skeptical threading through his expression. “Do you?”
There was a challenge in it. Mild. Curious.
You didn’t miss it.
“My mom was one,” you said, and just like that, something in your tone softened—not heavier, not sad, just…grounded. Real. “A doctor. Emergency department. I grew up seeing how exhausted her shifts made her. I grew up knowing she barely ate anything, if anything at all.”
The answer settled over him, quieting that instinct to question—at least a little.
Still.
“So you opened a bakery?” Jack asked, his voice lower now, more intent. Like he was trying to trace the line between then and now, find the logic in it.
Find you in it.
You met his gaze without hesitation.
“I like feeding people.”
Simple. Direct. No performance, no over-explanation.
And then, just slightly, your smile returned—warmer this time, edged with something that felt almost playful.
“Especially my favorite hospital.”
Jack huffed a quiet breath through his nose, something close to amusement flickering across his face before he could stop it.
“Your favorite, huh?” he echoed, tilting his head just a fraction. “That sounds like bias.”
“Maybe,” you said easily. “Or maybe you just make it easy.”
There it was again—that subtle shift. Not overt. Not enough for anyone else to call it out.
But enough.
Jack’s gaze lingered on you, sharper now, more assessing—not in a clinical way, but something quieter. More personal. Like he was trying to figure out if you meant it, or if this was just part of your charm, something you offered to everyone who walked through these doors.
“Do you say that to all your customers?” he asked.
It could’ve come off dismissive.
It didn’t.
Not with the way he was looking at you.
You didn’t answer right away.
Instead, you held his gaze, that same soft expression settling in again—but this time, there was something more deliberate beneath it. Something that made the moment stretch just a beat longer than necessary.
“Only the ones I like,” you said finally.
Jack stilled.
Just slightly.
Something in his chest shifted again—that same subtle, inconvenient pull from before, only stronger now. Harder to ignore.
Around you, the station carried on—Ellis talking, Santos laughing, someone opening another box—but it all blurred at the edges, dulled by the quiet focus settling between the two of you.
Jack exhaled slowly, like he was steadying himself against something he hadn’t planned for.
“Dangerous business model,” he muttered, though there was no real bite to it.
If anything, it sounded…almost like a warning.
Whether it was for you—or for himself…even he wasn’t entirely sure.
You laughed softly—and it did something to him.
It was subtle, but immediate. His eyes fluttered once, his shoulders tightening just slightly as something prickled along his skin, like his body had reacted before his mind could catch up. It was ridiculous. Over nothing. Over a sound.
And yet—
“Good night, Doctor Abbot,” you said, your voice gentler now, like you were easing him out of the moment rather than ending it. “I hope you have a good shift.”
Jack nodded, slower this time. “Yeah. You too.”
It didn’t make sense. You weren’t even staying. You weren’t even a doctor.
But the words came out anyway.
He watched you leave.
Didn’t mean to—but he did. His gaze followed the line of your movement, the easy way you slipped out of the controlled chaos of the station like you’d never disrupted it at all. Like you hadn’t just…shifted something.
His throat felt oddly tight as he swallowed, forcing himself to look away, to move, to do something normal—like putting his bag away, like starting his shift.
Like you hadn’t lingered.
“She’s cute,” Shen said, entirely too pleased with himself, taking a long sip of his coffee as he shot Jack a look.
Jack didn’t respond.
Didn’t need to.
“I wonder if she’s single,” Ellis added with a cackle.
That earned them both a look—flat, unimpressed, just shy of a warning.
“Don’t you guys have work to do?”
They laughed it off, of course.
But Jack was already gone—mentally, at least—dragging himself back into the structure of the night.
* * *
The shift unfolded the way they always did.
A steady rotation of the expected and the completely unexplainable. Minor injuries patched up and sent out. Major ones that demanded everything he had. And then the strange ones—the ones that made you pause, made you wonder what kind of night had led someone here in the first place.
Night crawlers, he called them.
You had to be a little strange yourself to thrive in it. Or at least comfortable with it.
Jack had learned to be.
Still, somewhere between cases, between the noise and the movement and the constant pull of responsibility, his mind wandered—briefly, inconveniently.
A flash of a smile.
A voice, soft but steady.
I like feeding people.
He pushed it aside every time.
It didn’t stick.
* * *
By the time day shift started filtering in, Jack felt it.
The exhaustion. The dull, persistent ache in his leg, in his shoulders, in places he didn’t have the energy to name. He’d made it through on caffeine, a granola bar, and one short breath of fresh air that hadn’t been nearly enough.
Routine kicked in again.
Handovers. Notes. Mentally mapping out the next few hours—food, shower, maybe yoga if he could convince his body to cooperate. Check the police monitor. Sleep, if it came.
“Anyone want to do a Sugar run?” Shen called out, already halfway to grabbing his things.
Jack shot him a dry look. “You guys cleared out all those boxes and you’re going back for more?”
“This is for day shift,” Shen said easily. “Sug’s opening around this time.”
“We’re not total monsters, Abbot,” Ellis added, giving him a look of mock offense.
Jack’s nose crinkled slightly. “‘Sug’?”
“We call her Sugar,” Robby said, leaning casually against the nurses’ station. “I think Santos or Whitaker came up with it. Maybe Javadi—I don’t remember.”
“She’s sweet and brings us sweets,” Crus added, like that explained everything.
Jack huffed quietly. “That’s…”
“Corny? Yeah,” Robby cut in with a grin. “We know. She hasn’t told us to stop.”
Sugar.
Jack glanced down at the edge of the station where a few crumbs still lingered, remnants of what you’d brought. His thumb brushed absently against the surface, like he was checking for something that wasn’t there anymore.
“She’s not even on shift,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
“She doesn’t need to be,” Shen said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Her place is, like, ten minutes out. You could walk it if you really wanted to.”
Jack didn’t look at him.
Didn’t take the bait.
But something in his expression shifted—just slightly, just enough to give him away if anyone had been paying close attention.
Ten minutes.
Close.
Convenient.
Too convenient.
He exhaled slowly, straightening, already turning back toward the work he still needed to finish.
“Yeah,” he said, flat, dismissive. “I’m good.”
Shen hummed like he didn’t believe him for a second.
Jack ignored it.
But later—when the station quieted, when his hands finally stilled, when the weight of the night settled into something heavier and harder to shake—
His thoughts drifted again.
Uninvited.
A bakery not far from here.
Warm. Sweet. Familiar in a way the hospital never was.
Jack’s jaw tightened faintly as he grabbed his things, pushing the thought down as he headed out.
He had a routine.
And he wasn’t about to start changing it now.
Even if, for the first time in a while…
…he was actually considering it.
* * *
After handovers, Jack should’ve gone home.
That had been the plan—always the plan. Food. Shower. Maybe yoga if his leg cooperated. Sleep, if his mind allowed it.
Instead, he found himself walking in the opposite direction.
Shen had given him the name. Directions, too—casual, offhand, like it meant nothing. Like Jack wouldn’t actually use them.
And yet.
By the time Jack fully registered what he was doing, he was already halfway there, moving on instinct more than intention. Like something in him had already decided, and the rest of him was just catching up.
It was…irritating.
That lack of control.
Or maybe just unfamiliar.
When he finally found the place, he slowed to a stop just outside.
The bakery was simple, but thoughtfully put together—clean lines, warm light spilling through the windows, a display case near the front already half-filled with pastries. Not overly polished. Not trying too hard.
It felt…real.
Lived-in.
Like you.
Jack exhaled quietly, running a hand briefly over the back of his neck before stepping inside.
The soft chime of a bell rang overhead.
“Good morning,” you called, your voice carrying easily through the space as you finished packaging something for an older woman at the register. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Jack nodded, even though you weren’t looking at him, and moved toward the display case.
Up close, it was worse.
The smell hit him first—warm, sweet, layered. Sugar, butter, fresh bread, something faintly citrus underneath it all. It settled around him, softer than the sterile sharpness of the hospital, and for a moment, he just…stood there.
Taking it in.
Letting it settle.
He scanned the pastries, more out of obligation than anything else, his attention already drifting.
Because he could feel it.
That awareness again.
And sure enough—when he glanced up—
Your eyes met his.
Recognition sparked instantly.
“Jack Abbot,” you said, your smile coming easy, like it had been waiting for him.
Something in his chest tightened—subtle, but definite.
“Yeah.” He nodded once, shifting his weight slightly.
“I’m surprised to see you here.”
There was no accusation in it. Just curiosity. Maybe a hint of something else.
Jack held your gaze a second longer than necessary before answering.
“You were highly recommended.”
Your laugh was soft, familiar already in a way that didn’t make sense.
“That’s very nice,” you said, brushing your hands lightly together. “But I should be thanking you guys. I’ve no doubt I’d be out of business if it wasn’t for your hospital.”
“I doubt it,” Jack replied, quieter now.
There was a certainty in it that made your smile shift—just slightly, just enough to show you noticed.
“You seem pretty sure,” you said. “Did you try any of the goodies I left last night?”
Jack hesitated.
Not visibly—not enough for most people to catch—but you were watching him, and that made it harder to hide.
A faint warmth crept up the back of his neck.
“I—” He cleared his throat. “Didn’t get the chance.”
Not entirely a lie.
You didn’t call him on it.
Instead, your expression softened again, like you understood more than he’d said.
That did something to him.
More than it should have.
Because it wasn’t just that you remembered him. It wasn’t just the way you were looking at him, like he was worth remembering.
It was the way it felt.
Easy.
Too easy.
Like something in him had been…quiet for a long time, and you’d somehow found it without trying.
Jack shifted, grounding himself before his thoughts could spiral into something he wasn’t ready to examine.
“What can I get for you today?” you asked.
He let out a slow breath, forcing his focus back to something tangible.
“What do you recommend?”
You hummed, brows knitting slightly as you considered, your attention fully on him in a way that felt…deliberate.
“I just made some almond-paste croissants and chocolate chip muffins,” you began. “But if you’re not looking for anything sweet, I’ve got regular croissants, lemon poppyseed muffins, bagels if you want something practical—”
“Practical?” Jack echoed, one brow lifting.
You looked at him then—really looked at him.
Not quick. Not surface-level.
Assessing.
“You seem like the practical kind,” you said softly.
It wasn’t judgmental.
If anything, it sounded…thoughtful.
Jack tilted his head slightly, something almost curious flickering in his expression. “Is that bad?”
Your lips curved faintly. “No. Not necessarily. Practical can be good.”
A beat.
“It can be comfortable.”
Jack’s gaze sharpened just slightly. “What’s wrong with comfort?”
“Nothing,” you said easily. “But sometimes it’s good to mix things up. Spice of life and all that.”
For a moment, he just looked at you.
There was something in the way you said it—not pushy, not trying to convince him. Just…offering the idea. Letting it exist between you.
Like you were testing the edges of him.
Jack felt it again—that quiet pull, stronger now. Not overwhelming, not reckless. Just…persistent. Curious.
Inconveniently compelling.
The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile but close.
“You pick,” he said, his voice lower now, roughened slightly by exhaustion—and something else.
Something warmer.
Your eyes flickered, catching the shift.
A soft laugh slipped out of you, quieter this time.
“Risky choice, Doctor,” you murmured.
Jack didn’t look away.
“Yeah,” he said, just as quietly. “I’m starting to get that.”
He didn’t sound like he minded.
* * *
It became a routine.
Not all at once—nothing with Jack ever did—but gradually, in the way habits formed when you stopped questioning them.
You showed up at the Pitt like clockwork, boxes in hand, a familiar warmth threading through the sterile air as you made your rounds. You never stayed too long—just enough to greet everyone, to exchange a few words, to catch Jack’s eye across the station.
Just enough to find him.
And he always noticed.
Even on the busiest nights, even when he was elbow-deep in something complicated, there’d be a moment—a flicker of awareness, like something settling into place—right before he’d look up and see you there.
Like he’d been expecting it.
Like he’d been waiting.
“Morning, Abbot,” you’d say sometimes, soft and easy, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Morning,” he’d return, just as steady—but there was something different in it now. Less clipped. Less distant.
Your name came easier to him, too.
He used it.
Often.
More than he needed to.
And then there were the mornings.
Jack told himself that part was about convenience.
Your bakery was on the way. The food was good. Better than good. It made sense to stop in after a long shift, to grab something warm before heading home.
It made sense.
What didn’t make sense was how long he stayed.
At first, it had been quick—an order, a nod, a quiet thank you before he left.
Then it turned into a few extra minutes. A question about what was fresh. A comment about something he’d tried the day before.
Now? Now he lingered.
Leaning against the counter, coffee in hand, watching you move through the space with practiced ease. Taking orders, remembering names, slipping into conversations like you belonged to all of them and none of them at the same time.
And still—
You always came back to him.
“What’s good today?” he asked one morning, voice rough from a long shift, though there was something lighter underneath it now.
You glanced at him over your shoulder, already smiling. “Depends. Are you feeling practical, or are you finally ready to take my advice?”
Jack huffed softly, shaking his head as he stepped closer to the counter. “You’re not letting that go, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
There was something in your tone—playful, but pointed. Like you meant more than just pastries.
Jack’s gaze lingered on you a second longer than it should have.
“You always this persistent?” he asked.
“Only when I think I’m right,” you shot back, setting something down in front of him. A cupcake. “Try this.”
He glanced down. Not what he usually ordered.
“Thought I didn’t get a say,” he muttered.
“You said ‘you pick,’” you reminded him lightly. “I’m just honoring your wishes.”
Jack almost smiled.
Almost.
“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “Starting to think that was a mistake.”
Your eyes met his then—steady, searching, like you were trying to read something beneath the surface.
“Is it?” you asked.
It should’ve been an easy answer.
It wasn’t.
Because somewhere between the routine, the conversations, the way you looked at him like you saw more than just what was in front of you—
It didn’t feel like one.
And that was the problem.
* * *
Jack noticed things.
He couldn’t help it.
The way your smile shifted when he walked in—just slightly, but different than it was with anyone else. The way you remembered his order before he said it, but still asked sometimes, like you were giving him an excuse to stay longer.
The way you stood a little closer than necessary when you handed him his coffee.
Small things.
Easy to dismiss.
Except they kept happening.
And Jack—
Jack didn’t trust easy.
Didn’t trust things that felt good without a clear reason.
Because he knew better.
Knew what it meant to get used to something—to someone—and then lose it.
Knew what it meant to carry things that didn’t just…go away.
He was older than you. That much was obvious. Worn in ways that didn’t show at first glance but settled in if you looked long enough. A widower. A veteran. A man who woke up some nights with his heart racing and no clear reason why.
A man who had learned how to function around the absence of a limb like it was just another part of his routine.
You—
You were light. Not naive, not untouched by life—but lighter. Softer around the edges in a way he hadn’t been in a long time.
You had options.
You had time.
You had no reason to look at him the way you did.
And yet—
“You’re staring again.”
Jack blinked, pulled from his thoughts as your voice cut through them, gentle but amused.
“I’m not,” he replied automatically.
You hummed, unconvinced, leaning your elbows lightly against the counter. “You do that, you know. Get this look on your face like you’re trying to solve a problem that doesn’t exist.”
His jaw tightened faintly. “Habit.”
“Dangerous one.”
Jack exhaled through his nose, studying you now instead of pretending he wasn’t. “You always this observant?”
“Only when I care enough to be.”
There it was again.
That subtle shift.
Not a confession. Not anything he could call out.
But enough.
Jack’s grip tightened slightly around his coffee cup.
“You don’t know me well enough for that,” he said, quieter now—not harsh, but firm. Grounding. Drawing a line before something crossed it.
You didn’t pull back.
Didn’t get offended.
If anything, your expression softened.
“I know enough,” you said.
Simple.
Certain.
And somehow, that unsettled him more than anything else.
Because a part of him—one he didn’t like acknowledging—wanted to believe you.
Wanted to lean into it. Into you.
Into something that felt…dangerously close to hope.
Jack looked away first, shaking his head faintly like he could clear the thought.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “That makes one of us.”
But when he reached for the bag you’d packed for him, his fingers brushed yours—
And neither of you pulled away right away.
Just a second too long.
Just enough to feel it.
That quiet, steady tension that had been building for weeks now—
No longer easy to ignore.
And definitely not as one-sided as Jack kept trying to convince himself it was.
* * *
Jack avoided you.
Not by accident. Not because he was too busy or too tired or because something had come up.
It was deliberate.
Two weeks of adjusting his route home so he didn’t pass your bakery. Two weeks of ignoring the instinct to turn down that street anyway. Two weeks of telling himself it didn’t matter—that you didn’t matter, not like that.
It was easier this way.
Cleaner.
Familiar.
Because this—whatever this had been becoming—wasn’t.
Jack flirted. That was nothing new. It was easy, automatic. A deflection more than anything else, something to keep things light, to keep people at a distance while making it seem like he wasn’t.
No one expected anything from it.
No one looked too closely.
Except you did.
That was the problem.
With you, it hadn’t felt like deflection. It hadn’t felt like a game he could step out of whenever he wanted. You met him there. Pushed back. Paid attention in a way that made it harder to keep things surface-level.
You saw him.
And Jack didn’t know what to do with that.
So he did what he always did when something edged too close to something real. Something familiar.
He pulled away.
* * *
“You’re being weird.”
Jack didn’t look up from the chart in his hands. “I’m always weird.”
“Not like this,” Shen shot back easily, leaning against the counter. “This is…broody weird. It’s different.”
Ellis snorted from beside him. “He’s been like this all week. It’s depressing.”
“I’m right here,” Jack muttered.
“Yeah, and you’re killing the vibe,” Ellis replied without missing a beat.
Jack flipped a page a little harder than necessary. “Don’t you two have patients?”
“Don’t deflect,” Shen said, pointing his coffee at him like an accusation. “You haven’t done a Sugar run in, what, two weeks?”
Jack stilled—just for a second.
Barely noticeable.
Ellis caught it immediately. “Oh, it’s about her.”
“It’s not about her.”
“Mm,” Shen hummed, unconvinced. “So you just…what? Forgot where the bakery is?”
Jack exhaled sharply through his nose. “I’ve been busy.”
“You’re always busy,” Ellis said. “You still went before.”
“That was different.”
“How?” Shen pressed.
Jack finally looked up, his expression flat, edged with something that made it clear the conversation was over.
“Drop it.”
There was a beat.
Ellis and Shen exchanged a look.
“Okay,” Ellis said slowly, hands lifting in mock surrender. “But for the record? You’re being a downer.”
“Truly tragic,” Shen added. “We miss the version of you that brought back pastries.”
Jack didn’t respond.
Didn’t need to.
Because they weren’t entirely wrong.
* * *
The shift dragged.
Not because it was particularly bad—but because everything felt…off. Like he was moving through it a step behind where he should be.
Distracted.
Which wasn’t like him.
Jack prided himself on control. On focus.
On not letting things bleed into places they didn’t belong.
But his mind kept circling back anyway.
A voice. A smile.
The way you’d said, I know enough.
He hadn’t gone back.
And you hadn’t come in.
That shouldn’t have bothered him.
It did.
* * *
It was late—technically early morning—when he stepped outside for air.
The cool hit his skin, grounding, familiar. He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders, trying to shake the restless energy sitting under his skin.
“You’re avoiding me.”
Jack froze.
Your voice.
He knew it instantly.
He turned, slower this time—and there you were, standing a few feet away, arms crossed lightly, not angry but not exactly casual either.
You looked…tired.
Not in the same way he did. Not physical.
Something quieter.
Jack’s jaw tightened faintly. “I’ve been working.”
You raised a brow. “So have I.”
A beat.
“You stopped coming by.”
There was no accusation in it. Just fact.
Which somehow made it worse.
Jack looked away briefly, dragging a hand down the back of his neck. “Been busy.”
You didn’t let it go.
“Jack.”
Just his name.
Soft.
But firm enough that it pulled his attention back to you.
“You don’t seem like the type to just disappear on people,” you said. “Not without a reason.”
Something in his chest tightened.
“That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
He didn’t answer.
Couldn’t—not without saying something he wasn’t sure he was ready to put into words.
You stepped a little closer—not crowding him, just enough to close the distance.
“If I said something,” you continued, quieter now, “or did something that made you uncomfortable, you can just tell me.”
That stopped him.
Because that wasn’t it.
Not even close.
Jack let out a low breath, something heavier sitting behind it as he finally met your gaze again.
“You didn’t,” he said.
“Then why—”
“Because you’re—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening as he looked away again, frustrated now. With himself more than anything.
You waited.
Didn’t push.
Just…stayed.
That made it harder.
Jack exhaled sharply, like he was forcing the words out before he could stop himself.
“Because you’re young,” he said finally. “And you’re…you.”
That didn’t explain anything.
He knew it.
Your brows knit slightly. “Okay…”
“And I’m not,” he added, quieter now.
There it was.
The edge of it.
Jack let out a humorless huff, shaking his head. “I’m not what you think I am.”
You didn’t respond right away.
Which, somehow, gave him just enough space to keep going.
“I’m older,” he continued, voice rougher now. “I’ve got…baggage. More than you probably realize.” A pause. “More than you should have to deal with.”
His gaze dropped briefly—toward his leg, then away again like it was nothing. Like it was everything.
“I’m not—” He stopped, jaw tightening. “I’m not the kind of guy you build something easy with.”
The words sat heavy between you.
Honest.
Uncomfortable.
Real.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then—
“You think I’m looking for easy?”
Your voice was softer now, but steadier than he expected.
Jack looked up.
Really looked at you.
There was no hesitation in your expression. No awkwardness. No polite backing off.
Just…you.
“I think,” he said slowly, “you could have it.”
“And you think that means I should want it?”
That caught him off guard.
Just enough.
You stepped closer again—not enough to overwhelm, just enough that he couldn’t pretend there was distance anymore.
“I noticed you pulling away,” you said. “I noticed you thinking too hard every time I said something even a little personal.” A faint, almost teasing edge slipped in. “You’re not as subtle as you think you are.”
Jack huffed quietly despite himself.
Then you softened again.
“But I also noticed you kept coming back,” you added. “Until you didn’t.”
A beat.
“I didn’t imagine that, right?”
Jack’s throat felt tight again.
“No,” he admitted.
You held his gaze.
“Then don’t decide for me what I can or can’t handle,” you said gently.
It wasn’t a challenge.
It wasn’t pressure.
Just…truth.
And somehow, that made it harder to argue with.
Jack exhaled slowly, something in his shoulders easing—not completely, not even close—but enough to feel it.
“You don’t make this easy,” he muttered.
A small smile touched your lips. “I thought you didn’t want easy.”
Jack almost smiled back.
Almost.
This time, he didn’t look away.
“I wanted to see everyone first,” you said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Let them know I didn’t forget them.”
Jack watched you for a moment, something cautious settling back into his expression—familiar, instinctive. “Then what?” he asked, quieter now.
There was a part of him that already knew he wasn’t going to like the answer.
Your smile shifted—just slightly, just enough to give you away.
His mouth closed, the rest of his protest catching in his throat before it could fully form. His jaw tightened faintly, more out of habit than resistance.
“I’m not asking,” you said, softer than your words implied. “I need some outside perspective.”
Jack exhaled slowly through his nose, studying you.
You looked…hopeful.
Not pushy. Not expecting him to give in.
Just waiting.
There was a flicker of something in your eyes—something that edged close to uncertainty, like this mattered more than you were letting on. And paired with that quiet excitement underneath it, it did something dangerous to his resolve.
Because Jack was good at saying no.
He just wasn’t good at saying no to you.
Not when you looked at him like that.
Not when it felt like he’d already taken enough steps back.
His shoulders dropped slightly, the tension easing out of them in a way that felt almost involuntary.
He gave a small, wordless nod.
Your smile softened immediately—warmer now, relieved in a way that settled somewhere low in his chest.
“Thank you,” you said, and before he could think too hard about it, your hand came to rest on his forearm.
It was brief.
Light.
But it lingered just long enough to register.
Warm.
Intentional.
Jack stilled, his breath catching just slightly before he forced it back into something steady.
Then you were gone again—slipping back inside, drawn immediately into the orbit of the station.
And just like that, the space you’d occupied felt…different.
Quieter.
Jack stayed where he was, leaning back against the wall, his gaze following you despite himself.
He watched the way you moved through the nurses’ station, like you belonged there—like you always had. The easy familiarity, the way people lit up when they saw you. The quick hugs, the laughter, the effortless way you folded yourself into their conversations without ever taking too much space.
You fit.
Not just in the hospital—but in his world.
That realization settled in deeper than he expected.
Because it wasn’t just that you were welcome there.
It was that he liked that you were.
Liked the way you softened the edges of a place that rarely allowed for it. Liked the way people relaxed around you. Liked the way you’d somehow carved out a space that was entirely yours—without forcing it.
And…he liked the way you looked at him.
Even if it still unsettled him.
Even if part of him kept waiting for the moment it would change.
Jack dragged a hand over his jaw, exhaling slowly as he tried to shake the thought.
Didn’t work.
Because when you turned back toward him, smiling like you knew he’d still be there—
He felt it again.
That pull.
Stronger now. Harder to ignore.
You stepped back outside, the door swinging shut behind you with a soft chime, and for a second, you just looked at him.
And Jack smiled back.
Not guarded.
Not forced.
Just…real.
Small, but there.
Like something in him had finally stopped fighting it.
The walk to the bakery was quiet.
Not awkward—never that—but easy. The kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled, that settled naturally between steps and breaths. Jack stayed half a pace beside you, aware of you in that quiet, steady way he hadn’t quite learned how to ignore.
When you reached the door, you unlocked it and pushed it open, stepping aside slightly.
Jack gestured for you to go in first.
You did—of course you did—but not without that small, knowing smile, like you’d clocked the instinct behind it.
He followed, slower, taking in the space again as the door shut softly behind him.
“So why do you need my perspective?” Jack asked, his voice low in the quiet.
“I came up with some new recipes,” you said, moving to flip on the lights. Warmth filled the space almost immediately, chasing away the dim early-morning gray. “Sundays I start later than usual. I just wanted someone’s opinion…”
“And you asked me.”
It wasn’t disbelief.
Just…something close to it.
You turned to him then, meeting his gaze without hesitation. “I trust you.”
The words landed heavier than they should have.
Jack nodded, but something in his chest tightened—just slightly, just enough to notice. Trust wasn’t something he handled lightly. Not from anyone.
Especially not from you.
He followed when you motioned him back, setting his bag down where you suggested, his movements more deliberate now—aware of himself, of the space, of you.
“You got anywhere I can sit?” he asked.
You paused, like the thought hadn’t fully clicked until that moment. “Here—” You disappeared briefly, returning with a chair from the small office off to the side. “You’ve been on your feet all night,” you murmured, almost to yourself. “Didn’t think about that…”
Jack watched you for a second before sitting, careful as he extended his leg. The familiar ache pulsed up from the prosthetic, dull but insistent. Taking the pressure off eased it almost immediately, and he exhaled quietly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.
A few minutes later, you came back with plates.
More than a few.
Jack blinked at the spread, a quiet huff leaving him as he leaned back slightly. “Sweetheart, I don’t think I can taste all of this.”
The word slipped out easily.
Too easily.
And the reaction it pulled from you—immediate, visible—didn’t go unnoticed.
Your cheeks warmed, your gaze dipping as you shifted your weight. “I know, I just…” You exhaled, a little self-conscious now. “I got this urge to bake last night. I usually bake when I’ve got a lot on my mind, and I got carried away.”
Jack studied you for a moment.
There was something there—something you weren’t saying—but he didn’t push.
Instead, his attention dropped to the desserts, then back to you.
“You pick,” he said softly.
Your lips curved faintly, like you’d expected that answer.
You handed him a plate and a fork, fingers brushing briefly against his again. This time, neither of you commented on it.
“It’s caramel apple cake,” you said, leaning back against the counter, watching him.
Jack took a bite.
And for a second—just a second—everything else dropped away.
A low sound slipped out of him before he could stop it, something instinctive, unfiltered. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes closing briefly as the flavor settled.
It was—
“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath.
“You like it?” you asked, quieter now.
He opened his eyes, looking at you like the answer should’ve been obvious.
“It’s delicious, sweetheart.”
There it was again.
And this time, you reacted even more.
A subtle shift. A breath you didn’t quite hide. Your gaze dipping for half a second before returning to him.
Jack noticed.
Of course he did.
He took another bite, slower this time, more deliberate—and didn’t miss the way you watched him.
Not just casually.
Intently.
Like his reaction mattered.
“I’ve—uh, got some more if you’d like to…” you offered, your voice just slightly uneven now.
“I’d love to.”
The next plate was a blueberry cream cheese cinnamon roll.
Messier.
Softer.
Jack barely got through the first few bites before you tilted your head slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction.
“You’ve got—” You gestured vaguely toward your own mouth. “Right there.”
Jack paused, glancing at you. “Where?”
“Corner,” you said, stepping just a little closer. “Here—”
You didn’t touch him.
But you got close enough that he could feel it.
Your presence. Your warmth.
Jack held your gaze for a second longer than necessary—then, slowly, deliberately, he lifted his thumb to the corner of his mouth.
Wiped.
Not rushed. Not careless.
Measured.
His tongue flicked out briefly, catching the smear of frosting from his thumb, and he didn’t look away from you when he did it.
The shift in the air was immediate.
Subtle.
But unmistakable.
Your breath caught—just slightly—and your gaze dropped, then lifted again, something different in it now. Something heavier.
Jack’s chest tightened.
Not with hesitation.
With awareness.
Of you.
Of how close you were.
Of the way the moment had shifted into something neither of you had named—but both of you felt.
He set the fork down slowly, his hand lingering near yours on the counter.
“You gonna tell me how it is,” he murmured, voice lower now, roughened by something that had nothing to do with exhaustion, “or just watch me eat it?”
A small, breathy laugh escaped you, but it didn’t break the tension.
“It's good,” you said. “Really good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Neither of you moved.
Not away.
If anything, closer.
Just slightly.
Jack’s gaze dropped—briefly, unmistakably—to your lips.
Then back up.
A question.
A warning.
Or maybe both.
Your fingers shifted against the counter, just brushing his.
That was all it took.
Jack leaned in—slow, careful, giving you time to stop him.
Plenty of time.
He didn’t rush it.
Didn’t assume.
But he didn’t pull back, either.
Not until the space between you narrowed to almost nothing—your breath mingling, your presence overwhelming in the quiet of the bakery.
And there—
Right there—
He paused.
Held.
Like he was giving you the choice.
Even if every part of him already knew—
He didn’t want to stop.
You were the one who closed the distance.
It wasn’t rushed—wasn’t reckless. Just a quiet decision, made in the space he’d left open for you. Your lips brushed his, soft, testing, like you were asking a question without words.
For a split second, Jack didn’t move.
Then you pulled back—barely an inch—and that was all it took.
His hand came up instinctively, steady and sure as it found your jaw, and he pulled you back in.
The kiss wasn’t careful anymore.
It was still controlled—because Jack was always controlled—but there was something underneath it now. Something that had been building for weeks, pushing against restraint. His lips moved against yours with a quiet kind of hunger, tempered by hesitation, like he was still trying to be sure this was real.
You could taste the sweetness of the frosting, the lingering blueberry on his lips, but it was the way he kissed you that made your chest tighten—grounded, present, like he was anchoring himself in the moment.
When you tilted your head, deepening it just slightly, the sound that left him was low—rough, pulled from somewhere deeper than he meant to let you hear.
It sent a shiver down your spine.
His grip tightened—just a fraction—before easing again, like he was catching himself even as he leaned into you.
Weeks of tension folded into it. The teasing, the distance, the way he’d pulled away just when things had started to feel too close—all of it surfaced in the way he held you now.
Like he didn’t quite know what to do with it—
Except this.
When you finally pulled back, it wasn’t far.
Your foreheads rested together, your breaths uneven, mingling in the quiet space of the bakery.
“You okay?” you asked softly.
Jack nodded, but it wasn’t immediate. Like he had to come back to himself first.
“Yeah,” he murmured, voice low, a little rougher than before.
You hesitated, searching his face.
“Why did you think I wouldn’t want you?”
The question settled between you, heavier than anything that had come before it.
You pulled back just enough to really look at him—to catch the shift in his expression, the flicker of something guarded slipping back into place.
“I don’t care that you’re older,” you added, your voice quieter now, but steady. “I don’t care if it isn’t easy. I just…want to know why.”
Jack swallowed.
His hand came up again, slower this time, more deliberate as it cupped your face. His thumb brushed along your cheek, rough against soft, grounding himself in the contact.
For a moment, he didn’t say anything.
Then—
“I was married.”
The words were simple.
But they carried weight.
You felt it immediately, your throat tightening as his gaze dropped briefly—not away from you, but inward, like he was seeing something else entirely.
“For a while,” he continued, quieter now. “She died…not that long ago. A few years.”
A pause.
“I didn’t handle it well.”
There was no self-pity in it. Just fact.
Honest. Unvarnished.
Your chest ached.
“You built a life with someone,” you said softly.
Jack nodded once.
“Yeah.”
Another pause.
His thumb kept moving, absent, like it was the only thing keeping him steady.
“I was in the military before all this,” he added after a moment, like it was part of the same story—because to him, it was. “That’s where I lost it.”
His gaze flicked down, briefly, to his leg before returning to you.
“Not exactly a clean exit.”
There was a faint edge of dry humor there—but it didn’t hide anything.
“After that… it’s not just physical,” he went on, voice lower now. “Some things stick. You learn how to function around them, but they don’t just go away.”
You didn’t interrupt.
Didn’t try to soften it.
You just listened.
Jack exhaled slowly, his hand still warm against your face, though his grip had loosened slightly—like he wasn’t sure how much of himself to hold there anymore.
“So yeah,” he said finally. “Older. Widower. Missing a leg. Doesn’t always sleep through the night.” A faint, humorless huff. “Not exactly a great pitch.”
Your brows pulled together, something almost pained crossing your expression.
“That’s what you think this is?” you asked quietly.
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
It was all there.
In the way he looked at you—steady, but guarded. Like he was bracing for the moment you’d see it the way he did.
Like something that came with too much weight.
Too much history.
Too much to ask.
Still. His hand hadn’t left your face.
And he hadn’t stepped away.
Jack leaned in again.
This time there was no hesitation.
The kiss deepened immediately—messier, fuller, everything that had been held back finally slipping loose. It wasn’t just want anymore; it was relief, tension unraveling, something like acceptance woven through it. His hand tightened at your jaw, anchoring you there as your lips moved against his with growing urgency.
When your tongue brushed along his bottom lip, Jack exhaled sharply—something low and rough escaping him before he could stop it. His mouth opened, and the kiss shifted again, slower in some moments, then suddenly hungry the next, like neither of you quite knew how to pace it.
At some point, the distance between you disappeared entirely.
You were in his lap—he didn’t even register when it happened—just the sudden awareness of your weight, your warmth, the way you fit against him like you’d been there all along.
Jack’s hands found your hips instinctively, gripping, grounding himself as your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath hitch. The sensation sent a sharp line of heat down his spine, something electric sparking under his skin.
He felt it everywhere.
Too much and not enough all at once.
Your body pressed to his, warm through layers of clothing, but it still wasn’t close enough. Not for what was building, not for the way his pulse had started to pound, not for the way every nerve in him seemed to light up at once.
Jack broke the kiss just long enough to catch his breath—only to trail lower, his mouth brushing along your jaw, slower now but no less intense. His grip shifted, one hand steady at your side as the other pressed more firmly at your hip, keeping you right where he wanted you.
A soft sound slipped from you—barely there, but it hit him like a spark.
Jack stilled for half a second.
Then he leaned in again, his lips finding your neck, slower, more deliberate this time. Not rushed—focused. Like he was learning you through touch alone.
“Jack—” you breathed, his name soft, unsteady.
That did something to him.
Something dangerous.
His jaw tightened faintly as he exhaled against your skin, his forehead briefly pressing to your shoulder like he needed a second to steady himself.
Because this—
This was exactly what he’d been trying to avoid.
Not just the attraction. Not just the pull.
But how fast it escalated. How easily it got under his skin. How quickly it stopped feeling casual and started feeling like something he couldn’t just step away from.
His hands flexed at your hips, grounding, but not pulling you closer—not yet.
Like he was holding himself right at the edge.
“You’re not making this easy,” he muttered, voice low, rougher now.
But he didn’t move you away.
Didn’t let go.
If anything, his grip lingered—firm, certain—like he was still deciding how far he was willing to fall into this.
And not entirely convinced he hadn’t already started.
Jack’s mind started to slip the longer he held onto you.
The more he kissed you, the more he let himself feel it—the warmth of your body, the way you responded to him so easily—it became harder to keep things contained. His hands moved almost without permission, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, fingertips brushing against bare skin.
Soft.
Warm.
Real.
His breath hitched quietly at the contact, like even that was enough to undo him.
You arched into him instinctively, and Jack’s hands spread along your sides, palms firm now, grounding himself in the feel of you. Like if he focused on that—on something tangible—he wouldn’t drift too far into everything else pressing at the edges of his mind.
“Jack—” you breathed, your voice unsteady, pulling his name from him in a way that went straight to his core.
It wasn’t just the sound.
It was the need in it.
The trust.
The way you said his name like you wanted him there.
Jack exhaled shakily, his forehead pressing briefly against your shoulder, his lips dragging along the curve of your neck again—slower now, but no less intense. His nose brushed your skin, his breath warm, uneven.
This was dangerous.
Not just because of how badly he wanted you—
But because of how fast it was becoming more than that.
His grip tightened slightly at your sides when you shifted against him, your body pressing closer, seeking friction, seeking him. A low sound rumbled up from his chest before he could stop it, his control slipping another inch.
He wasn’t used to this.
To wanting something this quickly. This strongly.
To not being able to shut it off.
Jack dragged in a breath, trying to steady himself, but it did nothing. If anything, it made him more aware—of the heat between you, of the way your bodies fit together, of how easy it would be to keep going.
Too easy.
His eyes squeezed shut for a second, his jaw tightening as his hands flexed against your skin.
He could feel the edge of it—the point where this stopped being something he could pull back from cleanly.
And the worst part?
He wasn’t sure he wanted to.
Jack pulled back just enough to look at you, his breathing uneven, his gaze darker now—heavy with everything he wasn’t saying.
“Hey,” he murmured, quieter than before, but no less intense. “Look at me.”
His thumb brushed lightly along your side, grounding, steadying—more for himself than for you.
Because this—
This wasn’t just heat.
It wasn’t just want.
It was something deeper. Something that had been building since the moment he first saw you at the nurses’ station, smiling like you belonged in a place that rarely allowed for softness.
And now you were here.
In his arms.
Looking at him like you chose to be.
Jack let out a slow breath, something shifting in his expression—less frantic, but no less intense. If anything, more certain.
Blood in the Water | Brendon Park x Lawyer! Reader
Chapter One: Our Topic Is...
Summary: As an associate lawyer, you're relegated to consults, researching case law, and generally doing the work that the partnered attorneys take credit for. Now, as a high-profile case threatens PTMC's reputation, you're tasked with handling their most difficult client yet, Park the Shark.
CW: Canon-typical depictions of death, medical terminology, and medical procedures. Alcohol drinking, general mentions of SA--think Trinity's experiences from Season 1. Horniness. Please let me know if I forget anything!
A/N: Woah, my first multi-chaptered fic since... forever? (I don't want to say high school that feels wrong). Extra special shout out to: @f1uffysplace for the inspiration and @rr-after-dark for your general encouragement. This was the most fun I've had with writing in a while!
WC: 4k
It’s 7:05am when Brendon Park finally walks onto the surgical floor, passing Shirley–the secretary–before arriving at the door to his office where you’re standing.
“You’re late,” you don’t even spare him a glance, only addressing him when the soft clack of his leather shoes grows closer.
“Excuse me,” he brushes past, his broad shoulders checking yours to scoot you out of the way, like he knows his presence alone takes up space. He moves swift and efficient, into his office, shutting the door behind him without a care when a perfectly shiny black heel catches in the doorway.
“I don’t think you’ve understood me but I’m your 7 o’clock,” you smile at him tightly and feel your patience wearing down slowly, his energy almost caustic as his eyes meet yours for the first time.
“Get your foot out of the door,” he grumbles, drawing it back slightly. He may be mean, a bit arrogant, and even cruel at times–but Brendon Park was raised to respect women and he wasn’t about to crush your perfectly heeled foot in the doorway.
You take the opportunity to push past, into the small office devoid of many personal affects. There’s a small framed picture of him with two women–perhaps his mother and grandmother– alongside a small shark figurine that makes you frown.
“Thank you for holding the door open for me,” you turn on your heel to face him, beginning to speak when you’re met with his perfectly sculpted pectorals at your eyeline. Clearing your throat and tilting your head up, you continue, “I’m here on behalf of Callahan, Moynihan, and Associates. We’re the legal firm that represents PTMC–and you’re being named in a medical malpractice lawsuit for a total knee arthroplasty you performed about a month ago.”
Brendon huffs as he moves about his office in an attempt to ignore your presence so that he can go ahead with his morning routine of checking all the unnecessary emails he’s been cc’ed in before the actual medicine begins. “I’m a orthopedic surgeon, I’m probably named in at least one lawsuit a year. I know the drill, so please leave my office before I remove you.”
“Dr. Park, I don’t think you understand the severity of–”
“Leave. Now.”
He finally spares a glance your way once he’s seated in his perfectly ergonomic blue Herman Miller office chair, staring with a face he only reserves for the most ignorant residents. Although he doesn’t show it, he’s slightly surprised at the way you meet his eyes with an equally stoney gaze.
“You’re being named in a multi-million dollar lawsuit where the Pennsylvania board of medicine is acting as an amicus curiae. Your license to practice is being threatened. And, the media is involved because it’s about the now deceased former quarterback of the Pittsburgh Steelers,” you take a pause for dramatic effect, but to also relish in the shock on this 6’2 beast of a man’s face. “So, apologies if I was trying to help. I will take my leave now.”
Brendon watches as you turn and begin to exit his office and he can barely stomach the churning he feels in his gut as you leave. It’s an uphill battle as he fights his pride, ego, and ebs of anxiety to chase after you.
“Wait!” his voice bellows out, breaking through the relative quiet of the orthopedic offices. You refuse to pause your gait, but it isn’t hard when he has the longest legs known to man. A hand grabs your wrist roughly and on instinct, you wrench it out of his grasp.
“Don’t touch me,” you hiss.
“I’m sorry.”
The words are regurgitated out, leaving an acidic taste in his mouth. It’s not often that Brendon Park, Park the Shark, apologises–and to a stranger at that–but it’s the candor in his voice that makes you pause.
“Take a seat in my office,” he begs.
You look at him coyly, lifting a perfectly sculpted eyebrow to see if you can drag the groveling out as long as possible
“Please.”
It’s only then when you crack a smile, a true smile, because you’ve won.
“No hard feelings, Dr. Park. I’m looking forward to working with you.”
Once the verbal joust had ceased, Park was perfectly reasonable and listened intently to what the case was about. Rob Berger, the former starting quarterback of the Pittsburg Steelers had finally retired from the sport after a career-ending knee injury that completely atrophied the muscle and bone. After several years of attempted rehabilitation, it was clear that he needed a completely new knee to continue comfortably. Dr. Park knew the rest from here. Berger consulted with UPMC and was referred to Brendan for his expertise and specialty in sports medicine, having been a football player in his youth. The shock only showed when you described the only known details of his death.
The death was kept private until recently when the lawsuit was leveed. You and your fellow attorneys only knew what the media was told. Rob Berger was found dead when his wife, Andrea woke and saw that he was not breathing. She then called the police. Andrea then claimed that he had died due to a hospital aquired infection when a piece of gauze was left inside her husband–found only once the autopsy was conducted afterwards. Rob had been scheduled to see his physician and go to rehab that day because they noticed some swelling at home.
You watched Brendon carefully whilst telling him the details of the case. Surprisingly, he listened intently, leaned forward in a way that accentuated the biceps threatening to burst out of his scrub top. There were several moments when words stuttered briefly because you had to reprimand your internal desires. This was a client. You were at work. This was the first time you had been trusted with handling part of the case. Your career, everything you had suffered was for this moment–to finally practice law in a way that felt authentic, or at least as authentic as representing a medical institution could be.
The discussions had lasted about thirty minutes before a pager went off, garnering much more important attention and so the two of you adjourned for the day with promises to schedule a meeting as soon as possible in his busy schedule.
Throughout the day, you found your mind drifting off to him. It felt childish to develop a minute crush on a man you had met that day and spoken to for less than an hour, but the sincerity of it all was refreshing in an industry where it felt everyone was out for blood. You’d guess that maybe the rumors about sharks were wrong. They weren’t deadly at all, they just wanted to live–the same as anyone.
At the end of the day, after trudging through endless paperwork, you sink back into your couch with a groan. You elevate your swollen feet, stretching out the achilles tendon after spending all day in pinpoint heels. You can’t even be angry at the pain, the heels did their job in making you feel like a bad ass bitch on the first real day of being an attorney after doing legal consults with employees for month, but you can still relish in the relief of finally being able to relax. No longer having to put up the mask of being a perfectly competent associate attorney, the tension in your shoulders melts and you bask in the silence. Until Trinity bursts through the front door, Dennis scurrying behind like a herding farm dog.
“I’m moving to night shift. I know Dr. Robby and I share the cynical world view that makes us kindred spirits but I don’t think I can handle facing both Langdon and Garcia during day shift.”
You hear the familiar thud of a backpack as the couch sinks down besides you. Your eyes flicker open slightly, taking in the face of Trinity Santos, your best friend.
“Can you believe Langdon had the audacity to single me out during a trauma just because I didn’t forgive him? I mean c’mon, there was a man dying on the table,” her rambling is almost a comfort. There’s no exposition, no explanation, only true Trinity in all of her glory.
“You did tell him that he shouldn’t be at the hospital, Trin. So he might be a little peeved because of that,” you tell her, briefly muttering a ‘thank you’ to Dennis when he picks up Trinity’s backpack and hangs it up.
“Well you of all people should understand that he shouldn’t be at the hospital at all! He stole medication. That’s a felony,” she harrumphs and crosses her arms, sinking into the couch like a shield from the reality that this is more about emotions than it is about laws. You’re more than familiar with her temperament, and you love her for it, but her attitude is just cresting into grating and you feel a mean and meaningless insult at the tip of your tongue.
“Trin, I love you but I’m like the Snickers commercial right now–I’m hungry and irritable, and I’ve already had to deal with one of your annoying coworkers today so we have to continue this conversation once I’ve had the wonderful pasta that I’m hoping and praying Huckleberry will make for us.”
Dennis’ eyes widen as you silently plead in his direction. It always makes you smile when he realizes you’ve accepted him as part of this rag tag group. If buttering him up also gets you your favorite pasta, well. That’s for only you to know.
“Coming right up,” he beams and ducks into the kitchen, the clanging of pots and pans beginning to sound out like a beautiful food orchestra.
Trinity turns to face you. “Wait who? Was it Ogilvie? Technically not my coworker, he’s just a student. Not in the way Tori’s my coworker but in another way because I’ve known him for only a couple months–sorry, word vomit.”
“Don’t worry, I love your vomit.”
That cracks a laugh out of her and you even get a rare Trinity snort. “I didn’t know you were kinky like that.”
“Gross,” you playfully shove her shoulder and lean back on the couch. “It was Dr. Park. He’s a grade A asshole, honestly. But at least once he realized the severity of his situation he apologized. Like c’mon, if someone as tenured as you is being called on to talk about a lawsuit you should at least–”
“Wait, what? Lawsuit? And he apologized?”
“Yeah. He was probably scared once I started talking about the board of medicine.”
Trinity sits up, eyes wide when she makes eye contact with you.
“Wait what’s the lawsuit about? And why did he need to apologize to you?”
You shrug. “It’s a high brow medical malpractice lawsuit. I can’t tell you all the details, confidentiality and all, but when I went to go talk to him he pushed me aside and I had to check his ego.”
“I should have expected it, I mean. For all that,” you hum and pause, trying to find the right words. “Mass, he must have like a huge ego to match.”
“Dr. Park, ‘Park the Shark,’ apologized to you?” she asks incredulously.
“Yeah, what’s so surprising about that? I mean you’d probably apologize if you rebuffed someone who was trying to talk to you about a career-threatening lawsuit too,” Trinity stares in silence a milisecond too long for it to be just about dramatics. “What is he like super mean?”
“He’s like a mega-asshole, yeah. He refuses to work with Huckleberry because he hesitated during a saline flush. Garcia stays quiet when he’s around and you know she’s a certified yapper. He commands and demands attention. He’s not nice to anyone, let alone admits fault by apologizing,” she rakes a hand through her post-work hair when it falls in her face. “You must be working some incredible feminine wiles for him to apologize to you.”
“Trinity!”
“What? I’m serious. I’ve never once seen that man do anything remotely nice,” she settles back crosses her arms, ignoring the storm of emotions evident on your face. “Must mean you’re special or something.”
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
You sigh and your body deflates. “Don’t give me false hope like that.”
“What false hope, babe? You’re a catch. If anyone can melt the heart of that frost giant, it’d be you. In your weird lawyer-y way where arguments are actually foreplay,” Trinity reaches over and intertwines your hands together. It’s an intimate gesture. The both of you don’t like being touched very much after what happened when you were in high school on the gymnastics team. There are playful touches, things that happen between peers–but this right here? It was a reminder that the two of you had survived hell together and shared a bond stronger than most.
“You are beautiful and attractive. You’re a lawyer for fucks sake, I mean you’re basically the real life Elle Woods without all the pink,” that makes you smile. “At least until you break out the pink pantsuit I know is collecting cobwebs in your closet.”
You pull Trinity close and lay your head on her shoulder, hers dropping atop yours. “I’m saving it for an important case. The day I go to court when I’ve finally made partner or something. I don’t know, I’m just afraid that people won’t take me seriously if I wear it in the hospital or around the office.”
“I know that. But know that you deserve love the same as any other person. You’re beautiful and smart. Don’t forget that.”
You sniffle and wipe a tear from your cheek. “When did you become philosophical?”
“I don’t know, I think I’ve been hanging around Robby too much.”
The two of you erupt into a fit of laughter, only ceasing once Dennis brings dinner out to find his roommates in a heap of joy on the couch. The night dissolves into post-work shenanigans and somehow you and Trinity end up on the balcony of your town house, a little wine drunk and sappy staring into the flickering skyline of Pittsburgh.
“I mean it, y’know. You deserve a good thing,” you frown and look over at her.
“I know, sweets,” she smiles at the nickname and takes another long drink of wine. “I don’t even know if that’s what this is. I talked to him for thirty minutes, max. It’s just another job.”
She hums, pensive, and looks away. “Even if it’s small, I just feel the need to remind you that you are allowed to like people and to want love back. If it’s just a flirtation or if you hookup with him and Dennis and I are pulling a double, I just want to tell you.”
Tears sting in your eyes. You and Trinity had talked extensively about this before, about the disgust that fills you when it comes to matters of the heart. You’re both hot headed and overly confident to cover up the insecurity stemming from your shared trauma. It affected you both differently, but every so often nagging intrusive thoughts invite in a horror house of anxiety and depression.
“You can’t say stuff like that,” you sniffle and wipe the tears away with the back of your hand. “It makes me think you like me or something.”
She laughs and the two of you lean into each other, staring out at the life you’ve made for yourselves. “I love you, babe. You’re stuck with me.”
You didn’t mean to fall asleep in the cafeteria, it just happened. After a long night of focused research on different malpractice cases and establishing precedent, you had said fuck it to sleep and went to work a bit early to catch some of the other nurses, anesthesiologists, and doctors involved in the case before they started their day.
Now, at six in the morning, your eyes were barely open and staring blankly at a report that seemed like it was a foreign language while sinking deeper and deeper into the loud vinyl seat. You would drift off for a second, eyes opening only once it was clear your head was headed straight for the hard cork table. You may be a lawyer, but a trip to the emergency room to treat concussion would have anyone clutching their pearls about their financial situation.
The chair in front of you shifts slightly, jolting you back to reality. At first, it seems like a sleep deprived hallucination. Broad shoulders that stretch the confines of navy blue scrubs so much that you might even spot a popped thread. A five o’clock shadow that accentuates the sharp bone structure of his jaw and all centers around his nose. God, his nose. You want to sit on his face to see if what they say about big noses is really true. When you finally make eye contact with piercing blue eyes, it’s only then that the cold sweat of fear washes over.
You blink to clear the haze of sleep from your eyes and sit up, trying not to shrink under his gaze. “Dr. Park. What are you doing here?”
“I work here,” he cocks an eyebrow.
“So do I,” you fire back and reach desperately for the cold cup of coffee to take a sip of something to help wake you up. “I mean what are you doing sitting across from me?”
You squint your eyes to read the small print describing the time in the corner of your computer screen. “It’s 6:30am, surely you must have a surgery or something to be getting ready for.”
“I do,” he says and lifts a hospital-branded paper cup to his lips. “Stopped for a cup of tea.”
“Coffee doesn’t do it for you?”
“Hard to be a surgeon with shaky hands,” he hums and there’s a disquieting silence that makes you want to melt down into your seat. The cafeteria is essentially empty this early in the morning, perhaps the stray night-shifter catching some breakfast or a family member who needed a snack but other than that–it was just the two of you.
You offer a cordial smile. “Well, I should get back to work and I’m sure you would much rather be reading emails than entertaining me so I hope you have a good rest of your day.”
“Actually, I wanted to apologize,” a flicker of doubt runs through Dr. Park’s eyes. You can see it in the brief second it takes for him to break eye contact, seeking comfort elsewhere, before meeting your gaze once more. “I shouldn’t have grabbed you and I shouldn’t have brushed you off. And I wanted to thank you for taking the time to talk to me about the case after I disrespected you.”
Your jaw could have dropped to the floor. After telling Trinity about your encounter with Park, all she could tell you was about how rude he was to Whitaker or how he made Mel cry one time. He did apologize to Mel, but from what Trinity said, it was dry at best and happened briefly in the stairwell.
It’s in staring at Park that you realize you have two options: accept his apology at face value and continue to work normally as work colleagues or do what Trinity keeps telling you to do and actually act on the thoughts and feelings that had been budding since your first meeting. For once, you hate to say it, but she was right.
“I accept your apology, don’t worry about it,” you begin and watch as his shoulders physically drop down from his ears. “Although, I should have expected a little bark–or should I say bite? I know your reputation.”
Even in the washed out fluorescent lights, you see a flush spread atop his cheeks that makes your smile grow even wider across your face.
“What can I say, I’m only here for the medicine. And if people get in my way, well, they should see it coming.”
“Remind me to not talk to you before your morning tea then,” you take another sip of your cold coffee and wince at the bitter taste. “Can’t relate. Even after a cup of coffee I feel like i can’t be sociable until I’ve had my second one.”
“Me? Sociable?” he asks, false shock written all over his face. “I’m always mean, some people just handle it better than others.”
He makes firm, direct eye contact this time as he takes another swig of his tea. This time, its your turn for the flush to warm your cheeks as you break eye contact to stare at the tea bag–trying to discern what tea he prefers? Perhaps a black tea for the energy benefits. Or, does he enjoy an herbal tea to help him focus? The sleep deprivation catches up to you slowly and then all at once when you have to blink to refocus his figure in your vision. This makes him take pause.
“As a doctor–an orthopedic one at that–I have to tell you that cracking your skull open is not at all pleasant and should be avoided at all costs. Can’t have a lawyer defending me im court with a concussion.”
You roll your eyes and prop your head up with your hand, refusing to let him win by showing obvious fatigue. “I’m fine. I’m more than capable of defending anyone in court even without a cup of coffee.”
Leaning in, you lower your voice as if telling him a secret only between the two of you. “I’ll have you know that I once won a mock trial after getting black out drunk and waking up with just enough time to pull my pantsuit on.”
A lazy smirk crosses your face as Brendon pushes away thoughts of you, dressed up in the tallest stilettos and perfectly pressed suit and still having to look up at him just to meet his gaze.
“I don’t think I should encourage that behavior.”
“It’s fine. The only black out nights I have are between me, my black out curtains, red wine, and a really good nap. And besides,” you sigh, sinking a little. “I’m not going to be the one defending you in court. I’m just here to help.”
Brendon pauses thoughtfully, eyes roving over your body. There was something he couldn’t place–not hostility, but a guardedness that reminded him of a dog that barred its teeth to warn everyone to stay away. A defense mechanism showing that you were ready to bite back at any moment, regardless of the situation.
A beep on his watch makes him curse under his breath as he stands from the table. “I have to go prep for a surgery but–” he scrawls something quickly in doctor handwriting on your yellow memo pad. “Text me so we can go over the specifics of the case. I want to help provide as much information as possible.”
He offers the barest hint of a smile before walking off toward the elevators and you watch him walk away, taking advantage of being out of his eyesight to relish in the way his scrubs cling to his ass and thighs.
Once he turns the corner you can only sigh and lean your head back on the plush backing of the booth, shutting your eyes in an effort to solve the puzzle of what just happened.
You wake up in a puddle of your own drool, your face cushioned only by your arm which also sticks to the table from sleep-induced perspiration. The caocophany of voices disorients you for a second when you check the time to see you’ve slept for an hour or two since Brendon has left. The breakfast rush is in high gear, the smell of bacon and eggs making your stomach grumble and churn with hunger.
It’s confusing for a moment because in the frigid hospital air, you’re incredibly warm. The smell of mahogany, lake water, and fresh laundry fills your senses. You pull the fabric around your shoulders closer unconsciously when you look down at the track jacket and frown, seeing an unfamiliar piece of clothing. Looking around, the only indication that someone’s messed with you is a small cup of coffee with a note scrawled on the side, accompanied by a small doodle of a shark.
Summary: In the middle of a night shift, a hula hoop code changes everything.
Warnings: weapons, hostages, hula hoop code, feelings, angst with fluff, happy ending. (I dreamed this, so I wrote it in a hurry, so it might not be that good, sorry)
The night shift was something difficult to describe.
The chaos of the day was nothing compared to the chaos of the night.
As if during the day, people were a little more sensible, had a little more patience. But the night? The night was an abomination. It was as if every night was a night of crime, of despair, of bad choices and just the right amount of bad luck.
Who better to deal with that than Jack Abbott?
Jack Abbot, ex-military, SWAT volunteer, terrible at golf and (for some reason he refused to explain) had a flight attendant costume in his closet.
He was the best on the night shift.
And every best person needs a helper as good as they are. In Jack's case, it was Nurse yn.
They met recently, about six months ago, when she started working there.
And as if written by someone up there, the two simply… clicked.
They met amidst trauma. Literally.
Jack was assessing a patient when a new face appeared in his peripheral vision. Hair hastily tied back, eyes already scanning the room as if looking for something to do.
"I don't know you yet," he commented, without taking his eyes off what he was doing on the stretcher.
"Same here," she replied, handing him the intubation cannula before he could even reach out. "Yn. It's my first day… night, actually."
"Welcome, Yn. Jack."
"Just don't make me yell 'HUU-AAH' every night, okay?" she teased, placing the IV in the patient's arm while he checked the intubation.
Jack paused for a second. He raised his head.
"What? Why not? It's fun!"
She laughed, a low, dry sound that somehow echoed in his chest.
"Jesus… I must have been practicing medicine longer than you've been alive."
" It's okay" she shrugged, still smiling. "I like older guys."
This time, it was he who laughed. It had been a while.
On her second shift, a forty-year-old man was admitted with a stab wound to the abdomen. Internal bleeding. Jack went into autopilot: firm voice command, hands busy, eyes scanning the room for anything that could go wrong.
"I need a 14-gauge IV. Now."
She was already there. No need to repeat. The needle went into the patient's vein as if it had been born there.
"Norepinephrine."
The syringe was already in her hand.
"Two liters of Ringer's solution."
The IV tubing was already connected.
When he finally looked up from the wound, she already had the next step ready. As if she could read his mind.
Later, in the hallway, he stopped her.
"Where did you learn to do that?"
She shrugged.
"Training."
"No. That's not training. That's…" he searched for the word. "Intuition."
"Or maybe you're just very predictable, Dr. Abbot."
He laughed. A light laugh. A laugh he hadn't given in years.
But all synchronicity had its price.
Jack's price was a burden too heavy for any relationship to carry.
Depression came like a tide, ebb and flow. The nightmares of PTSD woke him sweating, screaming, confused. On bad nights, he relived the explosion that took part of his leg. On worse nights, he relived his wife in his arms, cold skin, glazed eyes.
Therapy. Medication. Support groups. He tried everything. He was still trying. But some mornings, putting on his prosthesis, he looked in the mirror and saw a man too broken for someone like her.
She's young. She has her whole life ahead of her. She doesn't deserve to carry his baggage crate.
That's why his flirtations never went beyond that.
Even though his feelings, those had already crossed all boundaries.
"You know I can see you looking at me, right?" she said one night, while they were restocking the gauze in the trauma room. It wasn't a job he was supposed to do, but he did it. Because it kept him close to her.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied, feeling her hip bump against his in a teasing gesture.
He responded with another bump.
Outside, technician Mateo whispered to nurse Lena:
"How long until they take over?"
Lena smiled without taking her eyes off the monitor.
"Want to bet?"
That shift started like any other. Three low-complexity calls, an elderly man with shortness of breath, two cases of alcohol poisoning. Jack was already in his fourth hour of work when the phone rang.
"Arriving in five minutes. Car accident, female victim, thirty-something, conscious but with multiple traumas. The police are on the scene," Lena said, looking at Jack.
"Where's Yn?"
Lena could barely contain her smile.
"Attending to a little boy in central station four. When she's finished, I'll have her meet you, Romeo."
Jack rolled his eyes, but didn't deny it.
The victim was a woman with glazed, shocked eyes, her right leg at an impossible angle. Jack plunged into the work. Chest, abdomen, pelvis. Primary assessment. Gasping for breath. Weak pulse. He ordered tests, blood, CT scan. The team moved like gears.
But it felt wrong.
Without Yn by his side, the gears turned slower.
Central Four
"Hi, dear. My name is Yn. What's yours?"
The dark-haired boy in superhero pajamas answered with a hoarse, wheezing voice.
"Thiago," he replied grumpy.
"Thiago? What a nice name. You know I have a nephew with that name? He's not as grumpy as you."
The boy almost smiled. Almost.
"He has asthma," the man by his side interrupted, his voice gruff and impatient. "We should have started the procedure already."
She looked up at the man. Thirty-something, sweat on his brow, stained shirt, messy hair. The tension on his face was familiar, she had seen that desperation in thousands of caregivers. But there, in that desperation, there was something more. As if a piece was missing.
"I'll start right now," she said, turning on the nebulizer. "Thiago, this is going to release a magic cloud, okay? You just need to breathe deeply."
The boy obeyed. While the device hissed, she quickly took his vital signs. Saturation 89%. Heart rate 120. Altered auscultation, but expected.
"How long will this take?" the man asked, now pacing back and forth.
"About ten more minutes. Then we'll assess again."
"Ten minutes? And we can go home after that?"
"Let's see how he responds to the treatment. If you want, I can ask the doctor to come talk to you."
She smiled at Thiago.
"Relax, warrior. You're in the best place." The man didn't relax.
He stopped beside the door, looking at the glass, the hallway, the ceiling. She noticed he kept one hand on his hip, under his shirt. Style, she thought. Many people dress like that.
"You can sit down," she offered. "It'll be a little while longer. Would you like some coffee?"
"I don't want coffee. I want to know when my son is leaving here."
My son. So it was the father.
"As soon as he's better, we'll let him go. I promise."
The man grunted.
She turned her attention back to Thiago, humming a children's song softly. The boy began to relax. His oxygen saturation rose to 92%. The wheezing subsided.
That's when the two police officers passed through the glass door.
The man saw them.
His face changed. It wasn't fright. It was recognition, as if a piece he'd been waiting for hours had finally fallen into place.
He pulled the gun from his waist.
"DID YOU CALL THEM?" The black barrel pointed at her face. "ANSWER ME!"
Yn's world stopped.
The revolver trembled against her head. The man's voice echoed like thunder in the small room.
"I didn't call anyone!" Her voice came out strangely, as if it were someone else's. Her hands trembled above her head. She didn't even realize when she raised them.
"Liar! I saw them! They passed by and looked this way! You gave them away!"
"I swear I didn't, Thiago needs the treatment, I just—"
He hit her forehead with the gun.
"SHUT UP!"
Thiago started to cry. The sound of his crying mixed with the beeping of the nebulizer, creating a cacophony of terror.
Mateo saw it first.
He was taking medication to another patient when, through the glass door, he saw the man with the gun. He saw Yn recoiling with nothing but panic in his eyes.
He dropped everything.
"CODE HOOP! CODE HOOP! CENTRAL FOUR!"
The entire corridor exploded. Nurses retreated. Security guards ran. The two police officers, who had just come through the door, turned, drew their weapons, and retreated for cover.
Inside the trauma room, Jack heard the scream.
He had his hands buried in the accident victim's abdomen, stopping a hemorrhage. The scream came from afar, but the name "Yn" traveled down the corridor like a trail of gunpowder.
Jack raised his head. He saw the police officers running. He saw the movement.
"Shen, take over" he removed his blood-soaked gloves. "Now."
Shen didn't ask anything. He just stepped into Jack's place.
Jack left the room, following the crowd that was gathering in front of Central Four. Lena was pale. The police officers had their weapons drawn, but no one moved.
"What's happening?"
"Code hoop," Lena replied.
"Aren't you going to do anything? Help her!" Mateo shouted, but before Jack could turn around, Lena grabbed his arm.
"It's Yn, Jack. She's in there."
Jack's blood ran cold.
He had felt that temperature once before. In Afghanistan, when they saw the ambush. When he lost his leg. When he held his wife's body in his arms and felt the weight of a life that would never return.
It was the coldness of someone who knows the worst is yet to come, but needs to act before feeling it.
"We can't go in," one of the police officers replied to Mateo. "There's a child and a hostage."
"Bullshit!" Mateo spat.
Then Jack saw.
Through the tinted glass of the door, the room was almost dark; Yn had probably turned off the light to make the boy more comfortable. Thiago was curled up in bed, the nebulizer mask still on his face, thick tears streaming down his face.
The man had Yn in front of him, facing the door. A clean shot was impossible. The gun pressed against her temple. A trickle of blood ran from her eyebrow to her cheek.
Her eyes met his through the glass.
She was terrified. He could see the panic growing every second.
Jack made a decision.
"I'm going to talk to him."
"No. It's too risky," the policeman said in a tone that didn't allow for a reply.
"He's with one of my nurses. I'm going to talk to him."
Now it was Jack's tone that didn't allow for a reply.
He heard one of the policemen whisper to the other: "Leave him alone, he'll buy time."
So he went. Jack approached the door with his hands raised.
The man saw immediately. He pressed the gun harder against Yn's head. She groaned.
"NO ONE COMES NEAR!" the man shouted. "I SWEAR I'LL KILL HER!"
Jack stopped.
He looked at Yn. Tears streaming down her face. Her hands trembling. Her body frozen.
He was going to save her. Even if it was the last thing he did.
"I'm not going to come any closer," his voice came out calm. Calm. Inside, his heart pounded like a jackhammer. "My name is Jack. I'm a doctor here. I just want to talk."
"I don't want to talk! I want to get out of here!"
"And you will get out. But nobody's going to get hurt, right? Look at me. We'll figure this out."
The man hesitated. The gun trembled.
Jack noticed his eyes shift to his son. Take advantage of this, he thought. Use the boy.
"Your son needs to finish his treatment," Jack continued, taking a microscopic step into the room. "He's still wheezing. We can't interrupt now."
"I don't care!"
"You care. Of course you care. You brought him here. You want him to get better." One more step. "Let the nurse leave. I'll take her place. I'm a doctor. I'm worth more."
"JACK, NO!" she screamed, and her voice shattered his chest.
"Shut up!" The man pressed the barrel against her head. She sobbed.
"It's okay," Jack said, raising a hand. "It's okay. Nobody's going to scream. We'll talk calmly." One more step. Now about two and a half meters from the gun. "Tell me your name. What can I call you?"
"Why do you want to know my name?"
"Because I like to know who I'm talking to. My name is Jack. She's Yn. The boy is Thiago. And you?"
The man hesitated. His eyes blinked rapidly, nervously.
"Jefferson."
"Jefferson. Right. So, Jefferson, listen to me. The police aren't here for you. There was a car accident a little while ago. They came to talk to the victim. That's all. Nobody called anyone."
"LIE! She called! I saw them looking this way!" “They look everywhere, Jefferson. It’s their job. But it wasn’t because of you. Look at me.” Jack waited until the man’s eyes met his. “She didn’t call anyone.”
Jefferson took a deep breath. The gun still trembled, but now the tremor seemed like doubt, not certainty.
“How do I know you’re not lying?”
“Why would I lie to you?”
“To save your bitch over there!”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Yn closed her eyes. Jack felt his chest tighten. All he wanted was to get her out of there. To take her away from that madman and take care of her. To take her far away. To protect her.
“Let me take care of your boy, Jefferson. Let her go. I’ll stay. We’ll finish the nebulization, and then we’ll talk about how you’re going to get out of here. Without violence. Without anyone getting hurt.”
“And her?”
“She’ll get out. And I’ll take care of her too.”
Jefferson looked at Jack, then at the woman held in his arms.
"You like her, don't you?"
The question caught Jack off guard.
But he didn't hesitate.
"Very much. Very much indeed."
She made a sound—a choked sob, almost a laugh.
"You're dating, is that it?" Jefferson asked, strangely interested.
"Not yet," Jack replied, because now there was no reason to hide it. "But I was hoping that would change soon. I like everything about her. The way she works. The way she laughs. The way she takes care of each patient as if they were family." He took the last step. He was an arm's length away. "She's intelligent, kind, and the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. And she deserves to keep living. You deserve it too. And your son deserves a living father."
Jefferson blinked.
The gun barrel wavered.
Just a second. But enough.
Jack moved.
His right hand rose, twisting Jefferson's wrist outward. His left hand gripped the barrel and forced it upward.
The gun fired.
The bang was deafening. The shot went into the ceiling. Plaster fell like snow.
Jack spun Jefferson's body, using the momentum to throw him against the wall. The prosthesis creaked with the effort, but held. He locked the man's arm behind his back, immobilizing it with his knee.
"DROPP THE GUN!" he yelled.
Jefferson obeyed.
On the floor, yn crawled to Thiago, hugging the boy, hiding his face against her shoulder so he wouldn't see.
The police entered. Handcuffs. Confused voices. Jack released Jefferson and stepped back, breathless.
Nurses burst into the room, surrounded Yn, and pulled her away. Someone took Thiago from the bed. Someone called pediatrics.
Jack stayed there.
On his knees on the plaster-covered floor. Breathing as if he'd run a marathon. His heart pounding. His hands trembling.
She's alive. She's alive. She's alive.
He repeated that like a mantra until he managed to stand up.
Yn was sitting on a bed in an observation room. A blanket over her shoulders. A glass of water in her hand. Her forehead was still bleeding, but she didn't seem to notice.
She trembled. She couldn't stop.
The door opened.
Jack entered, and she was startled by the noise. He hated seeing that.
He looked more serious than usual. Disheveled hair. His right hand was bruised, probably from punching Jefferson after the police handcuffed him. Jack couldn't quite remember.
"May I?" he asked, pointing to her forehead.
yn nodded.
He pulled up the stool, calmly put on his gloves, and began cleaning the wound. Yn didn't react. Her eyes fixed on some distant point. In shock. Jack didn't know if it was better this way or if it was better for her to react.
He was more careful than usual. Each movement slow, controlled. As if she were going to break.
Two false stitches. Nothing deep. Relief.
When he finished, he started to step away.
Her hand gripped his scrub. Her knuckles were white from the force.
"I…" her voice faltered. She tried again. "I thought I was going to die."
Finally, she looked at him.
Jack saw the change. Those eyes that always had light, always had life, were now dark. Empty. Tears came before she could stop them.
"I thought I was going to die, Jack."
He pulled her into a hug. Her body molded to his, and he felt every tremor.
"I wasn't going to let this happen."
"He was so angry… I don't know what I did wrong…"
"You didn't do anything wrong. You did everything right. Everything as you should."
"I thought he was just worried about his son. I didn't know he was armed. I didn't know, Jack."
"There was no way to know, darling. There was no way."
"I was panicking."
"I know. Me too."
She lifted her head from his chest. Her eyes were red, swollen, tears streamed down her face. Somehow, still beautiful.
"You were? You seemed so calm…"
"Calm? Darling, I was panicking. Every second that gun pressed against your head, I felt the ground disappearing beneath me."
"But you seemed calm…"
"I was trained to appear calm" he reminded her, carefully running his fingers through her hair. "Doesn't mean I was."
She was silent for a moment. Then:
"What you said in there… about me… was a good idea."
"Was it?"
"It distracted him. It worked."
Jack felt his heart clench.
"That was the goal, wasn't it?" she continued, her voice small and fragile. "To lie and distract?"
"The goal was to get you out of there" He cupped her face in his hands, making her look into his eyes. "And I didn't lie."
She blinked.
" Not a word " he said. "Not one"
"Why…?"
"Why didn't you ever say anything before?" He finished. He took a deep breath. "Because I thought you deserved someone better. Someone without so much baggage. Someone who doesn't wake up screaming at night. Someone who doesn't have to put on a prosthetic leg every morning and pretend they're whole."
She fell silent.
"You're not the one who decides that," she said finally.
Jack let out a short, wet laugh.
"No. I'm not."
"I was so scared," she confessed, as if it were a secret. "So scared, Jack."
"I know. I know, darling." He hugged her tighter. "But it's over. You're here. You're alive."
"I heard the gunshot. I thought it hit me."
"No. It hit the ceiling. I wasn't going to let it hurt you."
"You saved me."
"I did. And I'll save you again if I need to. Always. I won't let anything hurt you."
He placed a kiss on her forehead. Long. Warm. A promise.
She lifted her head.
For a second, Jack thought he had gone too far.
Then she kissed him.
It wasn't a kiss of panic. It wasn't a kiss of relief. It was a kiss of finally. Her lips met his with an urgency that had been building up for months, in the glances in the hallway, in the hands that brushed against each other, in the unspoken jokes, in the almosts and the whats. Jack reciprocated in kind. One hand rose to her face. The other held her firmly against him.
When they separated, both were breathless.
"I like you too, Jack," she said, her forehead resting against his. "Very much."
He smiled. The first genuine smile of the night.
"Good. Because I was starting to think I'd have to repeat that whole declaration in front of the entire shift."
She laughed a trembling, wet, but real sound.
She kissed him again.
And again.
And when they finally stopped, still embraced, still trembling, the noise of the hospital outside no longer seemed so threatening.
Outside, through the glass of the room, Mateo looked at Lena.
"Finally," he whispered.
Lena smiled.
"I accept my payment in cash."
Shawn Hatosy @shawnhatosyhoard - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
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