Abbot’s Girl

26 | she/her | French Women & Zaddy enthusiast free palestine

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Welcome to Sole-jpeg !

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Sole, 26, bi, she/her, french, aries but feels more like a pisces, infj, art lover, consume any kind of media, i want to be a singer, an emergency doctor and a filmmaker at the same time </3

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favorite characters media : joel miller, alicent hightower, dana evans, jack abbot, natasha romanoff, obi-wan kenobi, baelor targaryen, jim hopper, joyce byers, michael berzatto, velma Kelly.

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Favorite actors : pedro pascal, shawn hatosy, scarlett johansson, song hye-kyo, ewan mcgregor, aubrey plaza, winona ryder, rosamund pike, emily blunt, olivia cooke, eva green.

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Favorite shows : the pitt, desperate housewives, got, las chicas del cable, the last of us, jojo bizarre adventure, the bear, respira.

[sole-jpeg]

Somewhere Between Hate And Whatever This Is — Jack Abbot

(Chapter 18/?)

pairing : jack abbot / f!reader

words count : 8.7k

previous chapters : Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17

summary : The night shift at the Pitt teaches you two things very quickly: how to keep people alive, and how to survive the ones you can’t.

You are a newly assigned intern doctor who is brilliant, stubborn, and entirely incapable of backing down — which becomes a serious problem when your supervising attending, Jack Abbot, seems to make a sport out of challenging you at every possible opportunity. Between impossible trauma cases, sleepless nights, and arguments sharp enough to cut through the entire ER, the rivalry between them slowly turns into something far more dangerous.

contain : enemies to lovers, rivals, slow burn, sarcasm, mentions of medical trauma, injuries, trauma, hurt/comfort, nightmares trauma.

a/n : heyyy its been a while so sorry 😖 there’s so many changes in my new life now, I need to get everything clear and get back to write more haha anyway hope you like this chapter, its way less heavier than the previous one I promise 🤞🏻

archiveofourown link Spotify playlist link

Chapter 18 : Not Alone Anymore

After that night, Jack didn’t leave. He didn’t try to continue the conversation or find the right words to answer everything you had confessed. He knew there weren’t any. Instead, he simply stayed.

While you eventually drifted into an exhausted sleep, Jack stayed awake a little longer, quietly cleaning up before finally stretching out on the couch. Sleep came lightly. Every now and then, he’d wake up, glance toward you to make sure you were still asleep, then close his eyes again.

By the time morning arrived, nothing had really changed. Your fears were still there, your scar was still healing, your thoughts were still loud. But for the first time in a long while…you hadn’t gone through the night completely alone.

You woke before the sun had fully risen. For a few moments, you stayed where you were, still wrapped in the warmth of your blanket, letting your eyes adjust to the pale morning light filtering through the apartment. It was quiet, the kind of quiet that only existed before the city truly came alive.

Your gaze drifted toward the couch, Jack was still asleep.One arm hung lazily over the edge, the blanket half-slipped onto the floor sometime during the night. He looked surprisingly peaceful, completely unaware that you were awake. A small smile tugged at the corner of your lips before disappearing almost as quickly as it had come.

Careful not to wake him, you slipped out of bed, your movements still slow enough to protect your healing side. You quietly unlocked the balcony door and stepped outside, the cool morning air brushing gently against your skin. You lowered yourself onto the ground, drawing your knees against your chest and wrapping your arms around them.

From up here, the city looked different. The streets slowly filled with people hurrying toward work, buses began appearing one after another, cafés opened their doors, and somewhere below, the familiar rhythm of another ordinary day quietly unfolded.

You watched it all in silence. But your mind wasn’t really there. It was still on the living room floor, still replaying every word you had spoken the night before. Every confession. Every tear. Every silence. The more you thought about it, the more your mind did what it always did, it dissected everything.

Did you say too much?

Did you make him uncomfortable?

Did he only stay because he felt obligated?

Would he see you differently now?

Would he regret knowing all those parts of you?

The questions came one after another, never giving you enough time to answer the previous one before another appeared, each one louder than the last, until they drowned out the sounds of the waking city below.

You hated that your mind worked this way, you hated how quickly it could turn a moment of comfort into a hundred different reasons to worry. Your thoughts spiraled so deeply that you didn’t even hear him wake up.

The sudden sound of the sliding glass door moving along its track startled you back to reality. You turned your head instinctively, as Jack stepped out onto the balcony, one hand still resting on the door handle. His hair was slightly tousled from sleep, his T-shirt wrinkled, and he looked like someone who had only just opened his eyes a few minutes earlier. The golden light of the early morning caught his face as the sun rose higher over the buildings, softening every feature.

When he noticed you looking at him, a warm smile spread naturally across his face.

“Morning.” His voice was still rough with sleep, simple, ordinary. As though nothing had changed. As though last night’s conversation hadn’t scared him away. As though seeing you first thing in the morning was the most natural thing in the world. For a brief moment, all the questions inside your head fell silent. Just long enough for you to smile back.

“Morning,” you answered quietly. Your voice was still soft from sleep.

Jack walked over without saying anything else and lowered himself beside you, his shoulder almost brushing yours as he settled against the balcony wall. For a while, neither of you spoke. The city below slowly stretched itself awake, traffic becoming heavier by the minute, pedestrians weaving between one another with coffees in hand, cyclists rushing toward work before the morning truly began.

You both simply watched. It was a comfortable silence. The kind that no longer needed to be filled. From the corner of your eye, you found yourself looking at him. Not obviously, but just enough to study him without him noticing. Or so you thought.

The morning light revealed details you had somehow never paid attention to before. The faint lines at the corners of his eyes, deeper after sleeping on your couch. The light freckles scattered across his face all the way to his neck. The stubble that had begun growing overnight. The tiredness still lingering beneath his eyes after another night that hadn’t really been restful.

You wondered, briefly, how many nights like that he’d had throughout his career. How many times he’d slept in a hospital chair, or not slept at all. As if sensing your gaze, Jack turned his head. Your eyes met instantly. You looked away first. A small smile appeared on his face, though he chose not to mention it. Instead, he looked back toward the street below.

“I think…” he said thoughtfully, “…we should probably go grocery shopping.”

You blinked. “What?”

He nodded seriously. “I had a look in your fridge yesterday.”

You immediately frowned.

“I was looking for something to drink.” He shrugged innocently. “And unless you’ve recently decided that mustard and half a lemon count as a balanced diet…”

You couldn’t help smiling.

“…there’s absolutely nothing in there.”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head.

“I have food.”

Jack slowly turned to look at you. “No.”

“I do.”

“You really don’t.”

“There are…things.”

“There are condiments.”

You rolled your eyes. “They’re edible.”

“They’re ingredients for a cry for help.” That earned him a genuine laugh.

He pointed toward the apartment behind you. “You told me you already had everything you needed.” A dramatic pause. “You lied to me.”

You let out another laugh, covering your face for a second. “I may have…slightly exaggerated.”

“You absolutely did.” He nodded once.

The laughter between you slowly faded, leaving only the distant sounds of the city waking beneath your balcony. For a few moments, neither of you moved. You stayed sitting on the floor, your knees still drawn against your chest, watching people disappear into cafés, buses pulling away from their stops, another ordinary morning beginning without either of you saying a word.

Your gaze drifted toward Jack again. He was still looking out over the rooftops, a faint smile lingering on his face from the joke about your empty fridge. You hesitated, then quietly, you spoke.

“You don’t have to do all of this for me.”

His smile disappeared, replaced by something softer. He turned completely toward you, giving you his full attention. “I know.”

His voice was calm. “I’m not forcing myself.”

You searched his face, trying to find the obligation behind his words. The guilt, the pity, anything. But there was nothing. He simply looked back at you.

“I’m not here because I feel like I have to. I’m not checking on you because I think it’s my responsibility.” A small smile returned to his face. “I’m here because I want to be.”

The words settled somewhere deep inside you. You lowered your eyes instinctively. Jack let the silence sit between you before speaking again.

“You really need to start believing that people can choose to spend time with you…” His smile widened just enough to soften the sentence. “…without expecting something in return.”

You didn’t answer, not because you didn’t want to but because you didn’t know how. After a few seconds, Jack pushed himself to his feet, brushing the dust from the back of his jeans.

Then he looked down at you. “Come on.”

He held out his hand. You looked at it then back at him. You hesitated only for a few seconds. But he noticed. Still, he didn’t say anything, and simply left his hand there, waiting. Giving you all the time you needed. Slowly, you reached out and placed your hand in his. His fingers wrapped gently around yours, warm and reassuring, as he helped you back onto your feet, careful not to pull too hard and make your side hurt.

Once you were standing, neither of you moved, your hand was still resting in his. For a brief moment, you simply looked at one another, and neither of you seemed in any hurry to let go.

**********

The rest of the day unfolded far more simply than you could have imagined. You left the apartment together a little while later, taking your time down the stairs, Jack slowing his pace without making it obvious whenever your side started reminding you that you were still healing.

The grocery store wasn’t far. For the first time in weeks, you found yourself walking through the aisles with no real purpose other than deciding what sounded good.

Jack insisted your basket looked “depressing” after watching you reach for instant noodles and a frozen meal.

“You need actual food.”

“I am buying actual food.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That isn’t food.”

“It has calories.”

“It also has enough preservatives to survive another apocalypse.”

You laughed, nudging him lightly with your shoulder.

“You’re dramatic.”

“I’m a doctor.”

“Exactly.”

The conversation drifted from one ridiculous topic to another as you wandered through the store. You debated over pasta shapes as if they were life-changing decisions. Argued over whether pineapple belonged on pizza. Stopped in front of the bakery simply because the smell was impossible to ignore. At one point, the two of you stood in the vegetable aisle trying to remember a recipe Dana had once brought in for a potluck, neither of you managing to remember more than half of the ingredients.

“We’ll improvise,” Jack declared confidently.

“That’s how kitchen fires start.”

“It’ll be educational.”

“For the firefighters, maybe.”

The laughter came easier than it had in a long time. Natural and unforced. And by the time you reached the checkout, the cart was far fuller than either of you had planned. Fresh vegetables, fruit, pasta, rice, chicken, yogurts, bread. Far more than your nearly empty cupboards had held that morning.

The day slipped by almost without either of you noticing. One conversation naturally led to another. You laughed over stories that weren’t even that funny, argued over insignificant things as though they were matters of life and death, and occasionally fell into comfortable silences that no longer felt awkward. It was… easy. A word you hadn’t associated with yourself in a long time.

The hours slipped away without either of you trying to make them special. After putting the groceries away, you ended up watching a movie neither of you was really paying attention to, spending more time commenting on the plot than actually following it. Halfway through, Jack confidently guessed the ending. He was completely wrong. You laughed so hard that your side started hurting, forcing you to press a hand against your bandage while he apologized through his own laughter.

Later, the two of you wandered onto the balcony with mugs of coffee, watching people pass below and inventing ridiculous backstories for strangers walking down the street. An elderly man carrying three baguettes somehow became an international spy, and a woman hurrying toward the bus stop was apparently on her way to secretly rob a bank.

It was stupid, completely pointless. And yet, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d laughed that much over absolutely nothing. The conversations never stayed on one subject for very long. They drifted naturally from old residency stories to favorite childhood movies, from terrible cafeteria food to the most embarrassing mistakes either of you had ever made at work. Every now and then, silence settled between you, but it never felt uncomfortable. It simply became another part of the afternoon, as easy and familiar as the soft music playing in the background.

There was no pressure to fill every quiet moment, no need to pretend. No expectation that either of you had to be anything other than yourselves. For the first time in weeks, you weren’t counting the hours. You weren’t waiting for the day to end. You were simply… living it. And somehow, that ordinary, uneventful day became one of the lightest you had experienced in a very long time.

By the time the evening settled outside your windows, the apartment had taken on that familiar golden glow of sunset giving way to the first lights of the city.

Jack had somehow ended up in your tiny kitchen again. Neither of you had really decided it, it had simply happened. Jack took over chopping vegetables, insisting you were still under strict orders not to overdo it.

“Sit.”

“Jack—”

“Doctor’s orders.”

You had rolled your eyes dramatically. “I hate when doctors say that.”

“I know.”

So you gave up arguing, for once. You settled onto the couch only a few feet away, close enough to keep talking while he moved around the kitchen, occasionally opening cupboards that he somehow already seemed to know better than you did.

The apartment slowly filled with the smell of garlic, onions, and something simmering gently on the stove. You found yourself laughing again when he almost dropped a wooden spoon after insisting he “absolutely knew what he was doing.”

You were talking, as he was telling you a story about his residency. “…and I swear,” he said while stirring something in the pan, “I spent twenty minutes looking for my attending because I thought I’d lost a patient’s chart.”

You smiled. “What happened?”

He laughed to himself. “I was holding it.”

You burst into laughter. “No.”

“Right here.”

He tapped the side of his head. “I’d tucked it under my arm while talking to someone.”

“You must’ve looked incredibly competent.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“The future of emergency medicine.”

“The pride of the residency program.”

You laughed again, shaking your head. “You’ve become slightly less embarrassing with age.”

“Slightly?”

“Very slightly.”

He placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “That was unnecessarily cruel.”

The apartment filled once more with quiet laughter. You leaned back against the couch, smiling to yourself as you listened to him continue another story.

Then, without really thinking about it, your eyes drifted toward your phone lying on the coffee table. The screen lit up as you picked it up. 8:13 p.m.

Your smile slowly faded, as you looked toward Jack confused. “…Jack?”

“Hm?”

He didn’t turn around immediately, still focused on whatever he was cooking.

You frowned. “What time does your shift start tonight?”

He paused, only for a second. Then he looked over his shoulder at you.

You glanced back down at your phone before meeting his eyes again. “It’s already eight-thirteen.” Your brows pulled together. “Shouldn’t you… be at the hospital?”

The question lingered in the air for a moment. Jack looked down at the pan in front of him, absentmindedly stirring whatever was simmering inside before lowering the heat.

He let out a quiet breath through his nose. “I’m not working tonight.”

You frowned. “No?”

He shook his head. “I took a few days off.”

The words were simple enough, but they immediately caught your attention. You straightened a little on the couch.

“You… took time off?”

“Yeah.”

There was a brief silence. Then another thought crossed your mind and your expression softened. “…For me?”

Jack scratched the back of his neck almost awkwardly, a rare hint of embarrassment creeping across his face. “…Partly.”

He gave a small, almost sheepish smile. “I’d been thinking about taking a few days off for a while.” He shrugged, as though that somehow made the confession less significant.

“I just…” His eyes drifted toward the kitchen counter before returning to you. “…figured now wasn’t the worst time.”

You didn’t say anything. So he kept talking, filling the silence before you had the chance to.

“Dana agreed…so did Robby. They’ve been telling me to slow down for months anyway.” He laughed quietly, though it sounded more nervous than amused.

“So… I finally listened.” Another pause. “And…” He rubbed the back of his neck again. “…I thought it might be nice to make sure you weren’t spending every day alone.”

The last sentence came out much quieter, lmost mumbled. As if he wasn’t entirely sure how you’d react. He looked anywhere but directly at you, suddenly finding the saucepan remarkably interesting.

“I know you probably don’t like people changing their plans because of you.”

A faint smile tugged awkwardly at the corner of his mouth. “And before you tell me I shouldn’t have…” He finally looked back at you. “…it wasn’t a sacrifice.”

His expression softened. “It was a choice.”

He shrugged once more, almost trying to dismiss the whole thing. “I wanted a few days off, and…I wanted to spend some of them with you. As simple as that.”

There was a slight flush across his cheeks now, subtle enough that most people would have missed it. “You don’t have to feel guilty about it…I promise.”

You didn’t answer him, not right away. Instead, you simply looked at him from the couch, your expression unreadable. The smile that had been there only a few moments ago had completely disappeared, leaving your face unusually serious.

Jack noticed immediately. His own smile slowly faded as uncertainty crept into his features. For the first time since he’d admitted taking those days off, he seemed genuinely unsure of himself.

Had he crossed a line? Was this exactly what you had been afraid of?

He searched your face, trying to read you the same way he usually could, but this time you gave him nothing.

“…What?” he asked carefully.

You held his gaze for another second before speaking. “I think you’re right.” Your voice was calm, too calm. “You know I don’t like people changing their lives because of me.”

Jack instinctively straightened, already preparing to explain himself again. “I wasn’t—”

“I know.” You cut him off before he could finish.

His brows pulled together. For a brief moment, neither of you spoke. Then your eyes drifted toward the saucepan simmering quietly on the stove.

“So…” You tilted your head ever so slightly. “…I really hope you’re a good cook.”

Jack frowned. “What?”

You looked back at him with the exact same seriousness.

“Because if you took several days off…” You glanced deliberately at the food he was making. “…and this ends up tasting terrible…” A tiny shrug lifted one of your shoulders. “…then I’m afraid you’ve wasted your vacation.”

Silence. Jack simply stared at you. His brain took a second to catch up. Then, all at once, understanding washed over his face. A relieved laugh escaped him as he dropped his head with a shake of disbelief, one hand coming up to rub across his forehead.

“Oh my God…” He looked back at you, still laughing. “You scared me.”

His shoulders relaxed visibly now that he realized you were teasing him. “I genuinely thought you were about to tell me to leave.”

That was enough to break your composure. A smile spread across your face, followed by a quiet laugh. “I considered it.”

He pointed the wooden spoon in your direction, looking thoroughly offended.

“You’re evil.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“No,” he said, chuckling as he turned back toward the stove. “That wasn’t funny.”

“It absolutely was.”

“It was psychological warfare.”

“It was deserved.”

He laughed again, shaking his head while stirring the pan. “You know…” He looked back over his shoulder, a grin still lingering on his face. “…for someone who claims she isn’t very funny…” He narrowed his eyes playfully. “…you’ve got a surprisingly cruel sense of humor.”

You leaned back comfortably against the couch.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It wasn’t.”

“It definitely was.”

Jack sighed with exaggerated resignation before returning his attention to dinner.

“You’ve become very confident for someone who’s about to eat food cooked by the person she just mocked.”

You smiled to yourself.

“I have faith.”

“In me?”

“No.” You waited just long enough. “In the emergency department.”

He blinked. “…What?”

“If dinner goes terribly wrong…”

You folded your arms with mock confidence.

“…I know exactly where you’ll take me.”

Jack couldn’t help laughing again. “You are unbelievable.”

“But you’re still cooking.”

“I am.”

“And you’re still eating it.”

You smiled. “I guess we’ll find out whether those days off were worth it.”

By the time dinner was finally ready, the apartment had filled with a warmth that had nothing to do with the summer evening outside.

The rich smell of garlic and herbs lingered in the air, mixing with the sweetness of slowly cooked onions and the comforting aroma of tomatoes that had been simmering long enough to lose their sharpness. Fresh basil rested on top, adding a bright splash of green against the deep red sauce, while ribbons of parmesan slowly melted over the steaming pasta beneath. It wasn’t anything extravagant. Just a simple homemade pasta. But it looked like something that had been cooked with care rather than thrown together out of necessity.

Jack carried the two plates over to the small table tucked against the wall before disappearing back into the kitchen to grab forks and two glasses of water.

“There,” he said, setting everything down. “Dinner is served.”

You smiled as you sit on the ground in front of the coffee table. “I have to admit…” You looked down at your plate. “It already looks better than anything I’ve made in the last month.”

“I’m choosing to take that as a compliment.”

“You should.”

The two of you settled across from one another. For a moment, neither of you touched your food. Jack rested his forearms lightly against the table, watching you with far more attention than he probably realized.

You noticed. “You know,” you said, raising an eyebrow, “you’re making this very stressful.”

“I’m just waiting.”

“For?”

“Your professional opinion.”

“My professional opinion?”

“As the patient.”

You laughed quietly. “So that’s why you became a doctor.”

“Exactly.” He gestured toward your plate. “Go ahead.”

You twirled a small forkful of pasta, bringing it cautiously to your mouth while Jack continued watching you with an expression that was somewhere between confidence and genuine curiosity. You chewed slowly, thoughtfully without saying a word.

Jack’s confidence began to crack. “…Should I already start looking for my car keys?”

You kept chewing.

“I mean,” he continued, trying not to smile, “if we’re heading back to the ER tonight, I’d rather leave before traffic.”

Still nothing. He sighed dramatically. “I knew I should’ve ordered takeout.”

You swallowed, deliberately taking another small bite before answering. “Hm.”

Jack blinked. “‘Hm’?”

You looked down at the plate again as if you were carefully analyzing every ingredient. “I see.”

He leaned back. “Well. I’ve had a good career. It was nice knowing everyone.”

You couldn’t hold it any longer. A smile spread across your face. “It’s really good.”

Jack immediately pointed at you. “‘Really good?’”

You nodded. “It is.”

He folded his arms with mock indignation. “Not delicious?”

You tilted your head, pretending to think about it. “I don’t know…It might be…” Another pause. “…edible.”

Jack let out the most offended laugh. “Edible? I survived.”

You laugh at his reaction.

“I’ve dedicated over an hour of my life to this meal.”

“And I appreciate your effort.”

“My effort?”

He shook his head dramatically. “I was expecting tears.”

“You got compliments.”

“I wanted admiration.”

You smiled before taking another bite. “Don’t get greedy.”

Jack sighed theatrically before finally beginning his own dinner. “I should’ve let you eat the instant noodles.”

You laughed, the sound filling the apartment once again.

“No.” You looked back up at him with a smile that reached your eyes. “I’m actually glad you didn’t.”

For just a second, Jack forgot to answer. He simply smiled back. Then, quietly, almost to himself, he picked up his fork again. “Yeah…So am I.”

For a while, the conversation naturally drifted away from the food. You both ate quietly, occasionally interrupting the silence with another small joke or a comment about something completely unrelated. The kind of conversation that didn’t require effort. It was simple and normal. Something you hadn’t realized you had missed so much.

Jack was halfway through his plate when he looked up at you. “So…”

You glanced at him. “So?”

“When are you going back?”

You knew immediately what he meant. The ER. Your expression softened slightly as you looked down at your plate. “Actually… soon.”

His eyebrows lifted a little. “How soon?”

“Five days.”

The answer made him pause. “Five days?”

You nodded. “They cleared me for shorter shifts first. Nothing too intense, no long hours, and I’m not supposed to push myself.” A small smile appeared on your face. “But yeah.”

You looked around your apartment briefly, then back at him. “I can finally go back.”

There was something in your voice that made him smile. Not because you were excited about work but because he could hear how much you meant it. “I miss it,” you admitted quietly.

“The ER?”

You nodded. “The noise. The people. The chaos.” You laughed softly. “Which sounds insane when I say it out loud.”

“It does.”

You looked at him, offended. “Hey.”

He smiled. “But I understand.”

You continued eating for a moment before adding, “I think I need it.”

Jack’s expression changed slightly. Not worried, just attentive. “What do you mean?”

You shrugged. “I need to get my brain working again.”

You tapped lightly against your temple. “Being home sounded nice at first. Resting, recovering, having time.” You looked around the small apartment. “But after a while…” You sighed. “It felt like my thoughts were getting louder.”

Jack stayed silent, listening.

“And at work, I don’t have time to overthink everything.” A small smile tugged at your lips. “There’s always something happening. Someone who needs help. Something to solve.”

He understood that, maybe more than anyone. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from asking. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

You looked back at him. The question wasn’t about your physical condition, you knew that. He was asking if you were ready to walk back into the place where everything had changed.

“You don’t have to rush.” His voice stayed gentle. “If you want to wait a little longer, nobody would blame you.”

You shook your head almost immediately. “No.” The answer came faster than you expected. “I don’t want to wait.”

Jack watched you carefully.

“I mean it.” You placed your fork down for a moment. “I know what happened.” Your fingers brushed absentmindedly against the edge of the table. “I know it’s probably normal to be scared. And maybe part of me is.”

You looked at him honestly. “But staying away longer isn’t going to make it disappear.” A quiet silence settled between you. “I need to go back.” Your voice was softer now. “I need to remember that the hospital is still the place where I saved people…Not just the place where I almost died.”

Jack didn’t answer immediately, he simply looked at you, taking in your words. Then he nodded slowly. “Okay.”

A small smile appeared. “But you promise me something?”

You raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“You listen to your body.”

You sighed. “Jack—”

“No.” He pointed his fork lightly at you. “I’m serious.”

You tried not to smile. “You sound like Dana.”

“Good.”

You laughed quietly. “That’s terrifying.”

“It means she’s right.”

You shook your head, but the smile stayed. And Jack noticed. Because for once… You weren’t arguing because you wanted to push him away. You were arguing because you were comfortable enough for him to stay.

The rest of the evening passed just as quietly. There was no big conversation after that, no heavy emotions to unpack, no difficult subjects waiting around the corner. You simply finished dinner together, leaving the empty plates on the small kitchen counter before returning to the couch. It felt strangely ordinary, and maybe that was what made it feel so special.

Jack picked up the remote and looked at you. “Your choice.”

You immediately raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

He nodded. “Really.”

You studied him for a second. “You know I’m going to choose something terrible just to annoy you.”

“I know.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“I’m prepared.”

You smiled slightly before shaking your head. “No. You choose.”

He looked almost surprised. “You trust me with a movie?”

“Don’t make it dramatic.”

“Too late.” He scrolled through the options for a moment, completely ignoring your comments about his questionable taste. Then he stopped. You glanced at the screen.

“The Notebook.”

You looked at him. “Seriously?”

“What?”

“That’s your choice?”

He shrugged. “It’s a good movie.”

You narrowed your eyes playfully. “I didn’t know you were that kind of person.”

“What kind?”

“The romantic movie kind.”

“I contain multitudes.”

You laughed quietly. The apartment slowly became darker as the movie played, only the soft light from the television moving across the room. Jack didn’t talk much either. He simply sat beside you close. Not intentionally, not in a way that demanded attention, just naturally.

Your shoulders brushed occasionally whenever one of you shifted. Your knees touched, resting against each other without either of you moving away. And somehow, neither of you acknowledged it, there was no awkwardness. No sudden realization, just comfort.

Halfway through the movie, you found yourself watching less for the story and more for the peacefulness of the moment itself.

The quiet sound of Jack breathing beside you. The warmth of another person sitting close. The simple fact that when you looked to your side… Someone was there.

You had spent so long convincing yourself that you preferred being alone. That you didn’t need anyone. That depending on people only gave them the opportunity to hurt you. But sitting there, sharing a movie on an ordinary evening, you realized something that was both comforting and terrifying. Maybe you didn’t hate needing people. Maybe you were just afraid of what happened when you needed them too much.

The movie carried on quietly, filling the apartment with soft piano music and whispered conversations from the television. Neither of you had spoken in a while. You were both too caught up in the story, or at least, that’s what you thought.

Then, during one particularly emotional scene, you heard it. A tiny sniff. So quiet you almost wondered if you’d imagined it. Your eyes slowly left the television as you turned your head toward Jack. At first, nothing seemed unusual. He was still watching the screen, completely focused, his arms folded comfortably across his chest.

Then the light from the television shifted across his face. You caught the unmistakable shine in his eyes. You blinked. No…You looked again. His eyes were definitely watering. For a second, you genuinely wondered if there was something in the apartment making his eyes sting. Then another discreet sniff reached your ears.

You stared at him. “…Jack?”

“Hm?”

He didn’t even look away from the movie. You turned your body toward him a little more.

“…Are you…”

A smile slowly spread across your face.

“…are you crying?”

His head finally turned. “What?”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I’m really not.”

As if to prove himself right, he casually lifted a hand to rub beneath one eye. Unfortunately for him, it only confirmed your suspicion. He wiped away an unmistakable tear.

Your mouth fell open. “No way.”

“It was dust.”

You laughed. “Dust?”

“There was…” He glanced vaguely toward the ceiling. “…something.”

“In your eye?”

“Exactly.”

You couldn’t stop smiling. “Jack Abbot…” You shook your head in complete disbelief. “…you’re crying over The Notebook.”

“I’m not crying.”

“You’re literally wiping away tears.”

“I have allergies.”

“Oh c’mon.” You burst into laughter.

Before he had the chance to invent another excuse, you shifted closer across the couch. You reached for his forearm, laughing as he instinctively tried to hide part of his face behind his hand.

“I’m fine.”

“Jack.”

“I’m watching the movie.”

“You are crying.”

“I am absolutely not.”

Still laughing, you caught his wrist and gently pulled his hand away from his face despite his half-hearted resistance.

“There.”

You leaned in dramatically, pretending to inspect him with the seriousness of a doctor examining a patient. The moment you finally got a proper look at him, your teasing faltered.

His eyes really were glassy. Not dramatically, not enough for tears to be streaming down his face but just enough that the corners of his eyes shimmered in the light of the television, betraying him completely.

For a split second, your heart melted. The sight was so unexpected, so completely at odds with the man who spent every day barking orders in Trauma, that you couldn’t help yourself.

The grin on your face softened into something almost affectionate. You let go of his wrist only to immediately wrap both of your arms around him instead.

“Aww…”

You rested your chin lightly against his shoulder, hugging him with exaggerated sympathy.

“…poor baby.”

Jack let out a laugh so sudden it caught both of you off guard. “Oh, shut up.”

His voice was muffled by his own laughter.

“I’m serious.”

“No, you’re making fun of me.”

“I would never.”

He huffed. “You absolutely would.”

You only hugged him a little tighter, smiling into the fabric of his T-shirt.

“It’s okay.”

Another laugh escaped him as he finish to wipe again his tears.

“You don’t have to hide your feelings.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I definitely dislike you a little right now.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, still smiling. “I think it’s cute.”

Jack immediately groaned. “Don’t say that.”

“It is.”

“It absolutely is not.”

“I’ve never seen the terrifying Dr. Abbot lose a fight against a Nicholas Sparks movie.”

“I wasn’t losing.”

“You were.”

“I was emotionally… appreciating the cinematography.”

You burst out laughing. “The cinematography?”

“Exactly.”

“That’s the excuse we’re going with?”

“It looked very… emotional.”

You shook your head, unable to stop smiling. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone worse at lying.”

Jack sighed dramatically, though the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him once again. “…Can we never mention this again?”

You smiled sweetly. “No.”

Your arms were still loosely wrapped around his shoulders. At some point, the movie had become nothing more than distant background noise, its dialogue blending into the quiet hum of the apartment. Neither of you was really watching anymore.

Jack hadn’t moved away from the hug. His arm still rested on his lap, the laughter gradually faded until only silence remained between you. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Just… still.

You slowly lifted your head from his shoulder. He was already looking at you and for a long moment, neither of you said a word. The room seemed strangely smaller all of a sudden, the only light coming from the television as shifting blue and amber reflections passed over his face as you found yourself studying him without meaning to.

The softness that had replaced his usual guarded expression, the tired lines beneath his eyes, the faint smile that hadn’t quite disappeared after laughing together. His gaze never left yours, but your heartbeat quickened.

Almost involuntarily, your eyes drifted downward. Just for a fraction of a second to his lips. The movement was so brief you almost convinced yourself it hadn’t happened at all. But when your eyes lifted again, you caught the slightest flicker in his expression.

His own gaze had dropped, too, only for an instant. Only long enough to make you wonder if you’d imagined it. The realization hit you almost immediately. Heat rose to your cheeks as you blinked, suddenly aware of how close the two of you actually were. Without saying anything, you gently loosened your arms from around his shoulders and leaned back, quietly returning to your place on the couch. The cushion dipped beneath your weight as a small distance settled between you once again.

Neither of you acknowledged it. Jack cleared his throat almost imperceptibly before turning his attention back to the television. You did the same. The movie continued playing. But neither of you could have said what happened in the next scene.

The rest of the movie played on. At least, it played on the television. Your mind had wandered somewhere else entirely. You stared at the screen without really seeing it, the scenes changing one after another while your thoughts quietly drifted back to a conversation you had tried not to revisit.

Dana. You could still picture the hospital room as clearly as if you were sitting there again. She had been holding your hands between hers, looking at you with that gentle patience that somehow always made it impossible to lie.

“Do you love him?”

The question echoed through your mind once more. Back then, you hadn’t answered because you hadn’t known. Or maybe because you hadn’t wanted to know. Now…

Your eyes shifted, almost unconsciously, toward Jack. He was still watching the movie, completely unaware of the storm slowly building inside your head. Your gaze lingered only for a moment before returning to the screen.

Do I?

The thought frightened you more than it should have. Not because of the answer but because of what it would mean if the answer was yes. Your chest tightened. Almost instinctively, you pushed the thought away.

The movie reached its final scene without you realizing it. The credits began rolling across the screen as soft music filled the apartment. Jack stretched slightly, letting out the quiet sigh of someone who had been sitting in the same position for too long before reaching for the remote. The television clicked off, the room immediately fell into darkness, illuminated only by the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the balcony window.

For a few seconds, neither of you moved. The silence felt different now, gentler and sleepier.

You glanced at the clock. “…It’s late.”

Jack looked over.

You offered him a small smile. “I think…”

You stood up carefully, still mindful of your side. “…we should probably get some sleep.”

He nodded almost immediately. “Probably.”

Neither of you mentioned the quiet moment that had happened earlier. Neither of you mentioned the way your thoughts had been elsewhere for the last half hour. Instead, the evening simply came to a natural end.

The apartment gradually settled into silence. The familiar little routines of the evening unfolded without either of you needing to discuss them.

You disappeared into the bathroom long enough to brush your teeth and change into an oversized T-shirt before climbing carefully beneath the covers, mindful of your healing side. Across the room, Jack quietly folded the blanket he’d been using the previous night, shaking it out before spreading it neatly over the couch.

The apartment gradually fell quiet. Jack settled onto the couch, pulling the blanket over himself with a quiet sigh as he adjusted the cushion beneath his head. Across the room, you shifted carefully beneath your own blankets, turning onto your right side before quickly deciding against it as the healing wound protested. With a small grimace, you rolled back onto your back instead, staring up at the ceiling.

The room was almost completely dark. Only the faint amber glow of the streetlights outside slipped through the curtains, casting long shadows across the walls and painting soft outlines of the furniture.

For a while, you could hear Jack moving every so often on the couch, the rustle of fabric, the quiet creak of the cushions beneath his weight. Then…nothing. Only the steady rhythm of two people breathing in the same room. Slowly, your own breathing matched the silence around you, your eyelids grew heavier.

The thoughts that had been circling your mind all evening became quieter, their edges blurring together until they no longer made sense.

And eventually… sleep found you.

**********

At first, the dream felt ordinary. You were walking. Crowds moved around you beneath strings of colorful festival lights, music drifting lazily through the warm evening air. Children laughed somewhere nearby. Someone bumped your shoulder before disappearing into the sea of people.

Everything felt… normal, safe.

Then— A sharp crack split the air.

Someone screamed. Another shot. The music stopped.

The lights blurred into streaks of color as people began running in every direction. Your heartbeat lurched violently.

No. Not again.

You tried to move. Your legs refused.

Another deafening gunshot echoed somewhere behind you. Then another. Then another. The crowd swallowed you whole.

Faces flashed past too quickly to recognize. Someone slammed into you. You stumbled. Fell.

Your hands hit the ground. Warm. Wet. You looked down. Blood. Your hands were covered in it. Too much. It dripped between your fingers, staining your sleeves, your clothes, your skin. You tried to wipe it away. It only spread farther.

Your breathing became uneven. Someone was shouting your name. Far away. Or maybe right beside you. You couldn’t tell anymore.

Then…pain. A violent, burning pain exploded through your side.

The force stole the air from your lungs. You collapsed onto the pavement, your vision trembling as the sky above you disappeared behind terrified strangers running past.

Everything became louder. The gunfire. The screams. The sirens. You couldn’t breathe. You pressed your hand against your side. More blood. So much blood. Your fingers slipped.

Someone reached you. Strong hands. Voices. “Stay with me.” You knew that voice. Jack. You forced your eyes upward. His face hovered above you.

Rain. Blood. Panic.

You had never seen him look like that. His hands were pressing desperately against your wound. His mouth was moving. He was saying something. You couldn’t hear him.

Everything sounded distant. Like you were underwater. Your vision darkened.

“O negative!”

“We’re losing her!”

The monitor began screaming. Its frantic beeping filled every corner of your mind. Faster. Faster. Faster.

You tried to speak. Your lips barely moved. “I’m… sorry…”

Jack’s face crumpled. “No.” His voice was clear now. “No, no, stay with me.”

You wanted to. God, you wanted to. But your body no longer listened. The beeping slowed. One beat. Another. Longer. Longer. Then— A single, endless tone. The sound swallowed everything. Jack’s hands were still on you. Still trying. Still refusing to stop. And then…Darkness.

You woke up violently. Not slowly or gently. One second you were trapped in the dream, drowning in the noise, the blood, the panic— and the next, you were sitting upright in bed, your entire body jolting awake as if someone had pulled you out of the nightmare by force.

A sharp breath tore from your lungs as you couldn’t breathe properly. Your chest rose and fell too quickly, every inhale feeling too small, too shallow. Your hands immediately gripped the blanket beneath you, fingers trembling as your eyes desperately searched the darkness around you.

For a few seconds you didn’t know where you were. The room felt unfamiliar, the shadows on the walls looked wrong. Your brain was still somewhere else, still at the festival, still on the ground, still bleeding.

Your heart hammered painfully against your ribs as you looked around, trying to convince yourself that you were no longer there. No flashing lights, no screaming, no gunshots, no blood. Just your apartment, your bed and the quiet hum of the city outside. But your body didn’t understand that yet.

Tears started falling before you even realized you were crying, silent at first then heavier. Your breathing became uneven as you brought a shaking hand toward your face, trying to wipe them away, almost frustrated by the fact that they wouldn’t stop.

You hated this, you hated feeling out of control. You hated that your own mind could drag you back there whenever it wanted.

Across the room, Jack woke up. At first, it was the sound that pulled him out of sleep. Your breathing too fast, too panicked. Not the quiet breathing of someone having a bad dream, but the kind that immediately made every instinct in him wake up.

His eyes opened in the darkness. For a second, he was disoriented himself, still caught between sleep and reality. Then he heard it again. A small, broken sound, a quiet sob.

He sat up immediately. “Y/N?” His voice was low, careful.

You froze as hearing his voice made reality start coming back piece by piece. Your eyes moved toward the couch, toward him.

Jack was already getting up, his blanket falling, his expression filled with concern. He rush toward you, but didn’t touch you. He just looked at you, making sure you knew where you were.

“Hey…” His voice softened. “It’s me.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. You wanted to say you were fine. The automatic response was already there.

I’m okay.

It’s nothing.

Go back to sleep.

But the words wouldn’t form. Because for once…you weren’t okay and Jack could see it. You were still looking at him, but Jack could see it in your eyes, you weren’t really seeing him, not yet. Part of you was still trapped somewhere between the nightmare and reality, tears falling on your cheeks, your breathing too fast, your shoulders trembling with every uneven inhale.

The mattress dipped slightly as he sat carefully on the edge, making sure to leave enough space between the two of you. He didn’t reach for you, didn’t take your hand, didn’t pull you into a hug, not yet. He knew better than to touch someone who hadn’t fully come back. Instead, he kept his voice low and steady, the same reassuring tone he used with terrified patients in the trauma bay.

“Hey…” He waited until your eyes found his again. “Look at me.”

Your gaze flickered toward him. Still unfocused and frightened.

“That’s it.” He nodded gently. “You’re doing okay.”

Another shaky breath escaped your lips. “No…” You barely managed to whisper it. “It was…” Your voice cracked before the sentence could finish.

Jack slowly shook his head. “I know.” His tone remained calm, almost impossibly calm. “But you’re here.” He glanced around the apartment for just a second before looking back at you. “You’re home.”

His eyes never left yours. “You’re in your apartment. You are safe, breath slow.”

Another breath still too quick come out. Jack stayed exactly where he was. Close enough that you knew he was there. “You don’t have to be afraid right now.” His words were quiet, barely louder than a whisper. “It was a nightmare.” He held your gaze. “It’s over…you survived.”

Another tear rolled down your cheek.

“You’re here with me.” A small pause. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time since waking up, your shoulders loosened ever so slightly, only a little. But enough for Jack to see that you were finally beginning to find your way back to the room. Back to him, back to the present.

Little by little, your breathing steadied. The tears didn’t stop immediately, but they no longer came with the same desperate panic that had wrenched you awake. The nightmare was fading, its sharp edges softening as the familiar outlines of your apartment slowly replaced the images your mind had trapped you in only minutes before.

Neither of you spoke for a while. Jack simply stayed where he was, sitting on the edge of the bed, giving you the silence you seemed to need. When he was finally certain you were fully present again, he let out a quiet breath of his own.

“There you are,” he murmured, a small smile touching the corner of his lips. His hand lifted slowly, giving you every opportunity to move away if you wanted to, but you didn’t. With the gentlest touch, he brushed a loose strand of hair away from your damp face, tucking it carefully behind your ear before letting his hand fall again. His thumb lingered for the briefest second against your temple.

“You should try to get some sleep.” His voice remained soft, almost soothing. “It was just a nightmare.” He held your gaze for another moment. “You’re safe, the doors are locked, I’m here, and everything’s okay.”

You nodded faintly, not because you completely believed it but because you wanted to. Slowly, you eased yourself back against the pillow, pulling the blanket up around you as your body finally began to feel heavy again.

Jack waited until you were settled before pushing himself to his feet. “Try to rest,” he whispered. “I’ll be right over—”

A gentle pressure around his forearm stopped him before he could finish. He looked down, your fingers were wrapped lightly around his sleeve.

Your eyes immediately dropped to the blanket, a faint flush warming your cheeks. “…Wait.”

The word came out barely above a whisper. You hesitated, and for a second, it looked as though you were going to let go and pretend you hadn’t said anything.

Instead, you gathered what little courage you had left. “…Can you…” You swallowed. “…can you sleep here?”

Your voice was almost embarrassingly quiet now. “With me…” You finally looked back up at him. Your fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around his sleeve before loosening again. “I don’t think I can fall asleep alone tonight.”

The admission hung quietly between you. You weren’t asking because you were frightened of the dark. You were asking because you were frightened of closing your eyes. And for the first time since Jack had known you… you had trusted someone enough to say it out loud.

Jack didn’t answer. He didn’t ask whether you were sure. He simply looked at you for a long second before giving the smallest nod. Without another word, he walked around to the other side of the bed and carefully slipped beneath the covers, making sure to leave enough space between the two of you. He settled onto his back, one arm resting across his stomach, the room falling silent once again.

Outside, the city had long since gone to sleep. Inside, only your uneven breathing disturbed the stillness. You stared at the ceiling, willing your heartbeat to slow, but every deep breath seemed to catch halfway before leaving your lungs in another shaky exhale. The nightmare still lingered somewhere beneath your skin, refusing to loosen its grip completely.

Jack listened quietly beside you. He didn’t need to look to know you were still fighting it. After another long breath that sounded more like a suppressed sob than an exhale, he turned his head slightly toward you.

“Hey…” His voice was barely louder than the darkness surrounding you. “You’re okay…”

The words were so gentle, so…certain… That something inside you finally gave way. Your eyes squeezed shut as fresh tears escaped before you could stop them.

Without thinking, almost instinctively, you turned toward him, closing the small distance between your bodies until your forehead rested against his chest. You hid your face in the soft fabric of his T-shirt, ashamed of the tears that refused to stop.

Jack didn’t hesitate this time. One arm slowly came around your shoulders, the other around your back, holding you carefully, mindful of your healing wound. His embrace wasn’t tight enough to trap you, only firm enough to let you feel that he was there.

That you weren’t facing the night alone. He rested his chin lightly against the top of your head, his hand moving in slow, reassuring circles between your shoulder blades.

“You’re okay…” he whispered again. His voice vibrated softly beneath your cheek. “You’re safe…” Another gentle squeeze. “I’m here…”

You felt your fingers curl weakly into his shirt as another quiet sob escaped you. He held you a little closer. “You’re okay…”

He repeated the words with the same patient calm, over and over, never rushing you, never asking you to stop crying. “You made it…”

A kiss of silence settled over the room between each reassurance. “You’re home…” His hand continued its slow rhythm across your back.

“And you’re not alone anymore…”

Taglist ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

@slowburnsky @gandalfthegoatsblog @nosebeers @chaotic-taco-collector-blog @yosoylaprincesa2004 @thehockeynerd30 @slut4jackabbottt @torntaltos @jennataurus @pinkgarnet @stoptheinnocence @lacy1986 @itwas-maroon16 @lonelyghosts-stuff @wwhitenednostalgia @magicalasylumvindicator @4ria790 @lala-berry

[sole-jpeg]

Somewhere Between Hate And Whatever This Is — Jack Abbot

(Chapter 17/?)

pairing : jack abbot / f!reader

words count : 9.6k

previous chapters : Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16

summary : The night shift at the Pitt teaches you two things very quickly: how to keep people alive, and how to survive the ones you can’t.

You are a newly assigned intern doctor who is brilliant, stubborn, and entirely incapable of backing down — which becomes a serious problem when your supervising attending, Jack Abbot, seems to make a sport out of challenging you at every possible opportunity. Between impossible trauma cases, sleepless nights, and arguments sharp enough to cut through the entire ER, the rivalry between them slowly turns into something far more dangerous.

contain : enemies to lovers, rivals, slow burn, sarcasm, mentions of medical trauma, injuries, trauma, loneliness, insecurities, ANGST.

a/n : maybe I put a bit too much of myself inside this chapter… 🥲 but there you go some angst just for you <33

archiveofourown link Spotify playlist link

Chapter 17 : Someone Who Stayed

Recovery turned out to be a lot less dramatic than almost dying. Nobody really talks about that part. They talk about surgeries, about waking up, about surviving. But they do not talk about the endless hours afterward.

The waiting. The weakness. The frustration of realizing that your body suddenly belonged to someone else. You stayed at the hospital for another eleven days after waking up. Eleven days of nurses checking vitals every few hours. Eleven days of medications. Eleven days of people telling you to rest when resting was slowly becoming its own kind of torture.

At first, simply sitting up had exhausted you. Then standing. Then walking five steps to the bathroom with someone hovering nearby like you were made of glass.

You hated it. Absolutely hated it. And somehow everyone knew it too. People came constantly during those eleven days. More than you would have expected, more than you thought they would.

Dana practically treated your room like her second office, walking in and out whenever she had free time, carrying coffee cups and stories and acting like she had not cried the moment you opened your eyes. Robby came by too, always pretending he was “just checking on one of his doctors,” before staying thirty minutes longer than necessary. Santos, Javadi, Princess, Perlah, McKay — they all came whenever shifts allowed it.

And somehow, none of them ever arrived empty-handed. Chocolate started accumulating on the little table beside your bed. Flowers too. So many flowers. Enough that Dana eventually joked that your room looked less like recovery and more like a funeral where people had accidentally shown up too early.

Jack came too, always. But never alone, not once. If Dana came, he would appear ten minutes later. If Robby stopped by, Jack somehow happened to be nearby too. If everyone gathered in your room after a shift, he would quietly walk in with them. And then he would stay back, always just slightly behind everyone else. Leaning against the wall near the window, sitting in the chair furthest from your bed. Listening more than speaking, smiling at conversations without really joining them.

You noticed it immediately. Because before, Jack would have sat beside you without thinking about it. He would have teased you, argued with you, stolen your pudding cup just to annoy you. Now he kept a careful distance. Not cold, never cold. Just…careful.

As if he was making sure nobody looked too closely. As if he already knew you would hate becoming the center of whispered conversations and knowing glances around the ER. As if he was protecting something. Protecting you, protecting whatever this was.

Sometimes, while Dana was talking or Robby was telling some ridiculous story, your eyes would drift toward him. And every single time, somehow, you would find him already looking at you. Not staring, just checking. Making sure you looked okay, making sure you were smiling, making sure you were still there. Then the second he realized you had caught him, he would look away and say something completely normal to whoever was speaking, like nothing had happened at all. Like he had not been watching you the entire time.

Eleven days later, you were finally allowed to go home. You had imagined that moment differently more times than you could count.

You thought it would feel freeing, like finally crossing a finish line. Like breathing properly again after being trapped somewhere for too long. Instead, it felt strangely unreal. Dana had driven you home herself, refusing to even entertain the idea of letting you take a cab.

“You nearly died two weeks ago,” she had said while carrying one of your bags under her arm. “You’ve officially lost all rights to independence for at least another month.”

You had rolled your eyes weakly because even that still took energy. The walk from the parking lot to your apartment building had felt longer than you remembered. Your body still wasn’t yours completely yet. There was still soreness pulling at your side every time you moved too fast, every time you twisted wrong, every time you forgot for half a second that you were healing.

Dana stayed longer than necessary after getting inside. She put your medications on the kitchen counter, checked your fridge, complained that you had absolutely nothing healthy to eat. Adjusted pillows on your couch, adjusted them again five minutes later.

Then stood in the middle of your apartment with her hands on her hips, looking around suspiciously like she expected hidden dangers to suddenly reveal themselves.

“You have your phone?”

You stared at her. “Yes.”

“Charged?”

“Yes.”

“Pain medication?”

“Yes.”

“Emergency contacts?”

“Dana.”

“Good.”

You stared at each other. Then she sighed, then you sighed. Then she walked over and hugged you again, this one tighter than before, longer too.

“You call me if you need anything,” she said against your hair.

“Dana—”

“No, seriously.”

You closed your eyes slightly.

“I mean anything.”

You smiled softly. “I know.”

Eventually, she left.

Not because she wanted to. Mostly because you practically pushed her out while promising for the fifth time that you were okay. She pointed at you dramatically before stepping into the hallway.

“I’m calling later.” Then she disappeared. And the apartment door closed. Silence, immediate silence. You stood there for a few seconds without moving. No monitors, no footsteps outside your room, no nurses walking past, no voices, nothing. Just your apartment, just you.

Slowly, your eyes moved around the room, everything looked exactly the same. The couch, the kitchen, the blankets, the city outside the windows. Everything was exactly where you had left it. But somehow it didn’t feel the same anymore. Because for the first time in a while…you were alone.

The first day alone felt peaceful. The second felt quiet. By the third, the silence had started feeling heavier.

You had always thought of yourself as someone who was fine on her own. More than fine, actually. You liked your space, you liked coming back to an empty apartment after long shifts, throwing your shoes somewhere near the entrance and enjoying the simple comfort of not having to talk to anyone for a few hours. You had always believed you were good at being alone, happy alone.

But this felt different. Because this was not choosing solitude, this was being left with it. For the past few days, your apartment had started feeling too big somehow, too still, too silent. The television had become background noise more than anything else, playing for hours without you really watching it. Episodes followed one another while your eyes stayed fixed on the screen without processing any of it.

Sometimes you slept, sometimes you just stayed there with your eyes closed. Sometimes you stared out of the window for long periods of time, watching strangers walk below, watching people continue living their lives while yours felt strangely paused.

You hated admitting it, even to yourself, but you felt lonely. Really lonely. And it surprised you, because loneliness had always been something that belonged to other people, not you.

You had coworkers, Dana, the hospital, the constant noise of the ER. You had always been surrounded by movement, by voices, by life. You had never realized how much space those people occupied inside your days until suddenly they were gone.

Until suddenly nobody was knocking on your door, nobody was calling your name down a hallway, nobody was arguing with you over stupid things, nobody was stealing fries from your plate, nobody was sitting beside you.

Your eyes slowly moved toward the empty spot on the couch beside you, and without wanting to, without even realizing it at first…you thought about Jack. About him sitting quietly in your hospital room, about him checking your vitals, about him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking, about his chair beside your bed. Your chest tightened slightly because somehow the apartment wasn’t the thing that felt empty…you were.

And at first, everyone kept checking in. Texts came throughout the day, scattered between shifts and busy schedules.

Dana: Are you alive?

Princess: I’m bringing food and I’m not asking.

Robby: How’s recovery going?

Perlah: Need anything?

Little things, simple things. Proof that people were thinking about you, proof that you weren’t actually alone. But somehow, every time your phone lit up, your chest tightened instead of warming. And every time, your fingers found excuses automatically.

I’m sleeping.

I’m really tired today.

I have a follow-up appointment.

Maybe tomorrow.

I’m okay. Always I’m okay.

You stared at those words more than once after sending them. Because you had become very good at writing them. Even when they weren’t true, especially when they weren’t true. Days passed like that.

The truth was, it was never because you did not want to see them, and it was not because you did not miss them either. It was because every message felt like something you had to take from them.

Their time, their energy, their day. Dana had shifts to work, Robby had an entire ER sitting on his shoulders. Everyone had their own lives, their own routines, their own problems waiting for them outside your apartment walls.

And now there was you. Broken, healing, needing things. And you hated needing things. You hated the feeling of becoming someone people had to worry about, because worrying turned into changing plans, changing plans turned into sacrifices.

And somewhere inside your head, without even realizing it, you had started convincing yourself that every visit, every call, every offer to help was something you were taking from them. So you kept saying no because you thought you were protecting them from carrying you too. You kept telling yourself that if you just waited a little longer, got a little stronger, healed a little more, then things could go back to normal. Then nobody would have to rearrange pieces of their lives around you.

You spent most of them wrapped in blankets on your couch or back in bed, television running somewhere in the background while sunlight slowly moved across the walls of your apartment. Hours disappeared without you noticing where they went.

And eventually people stopped insisting so much. Not because they didn’t care, but because they thought you needed space, because they respected you. Because everyone knew you had a habit of disappearing into yourself when things became too heavy.

Even Jack. He had called a few times, not many but just enough. The first time had been two days after you got home. You remembered staring at his name on your screen for several seconds before answering. His voice had been calm, careful.

“Hey.”

Just that, simple. Like he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, like he didn’t want to push too hard. He had asked how you were feeling, if the pain was manageable, if you needed anything. Then after a small pause—

“I can bring groceries if you’re running low.”

“Or food.”

“Or… I don’t know. Whatever.”

You could almost picture him rubbing the back of his neck while saying it, trying to sound casual, trying not to sound like he cared too much. You remembered smiling slightly, weakly. Because even then, alone in your apartment, you had heard it anyway. And you had rejected him…again. But this time politely, softly.

“I already have everything I need.”

Silence.

“Okay.”

Then he had asked if you needed anything else, you had said no, and after that the conversation had ended. But afterward, you had stayed staring at your phone for a long time. Because the problem was…you had lied. You didn’t have everything you needed, not even close.

——————————

Days quietly slipped into weeks, without you really noticing when one ended and another began. The calendar on your kitchen wall changed almost by accident, crossed-off dates slowly filling the page while your routine stayed exactly the same.

Sleep. Television. Pain medication. A short walk around the apartment. Back to bed.

One evening, just before seven, a knock echoed softly through the apartment. You looked up from the couch automatically. The visiting nurse. She was supposed to come around seven-thirty to change your dressing, check the incision, make sure everything was healing properly. She was probably just a little early.

With a quiet sigh, you pushed the blanket off your legs and carefully stood up.

Your body was stronger than it had been two weeks ago, but it still reminded you every single day that you weren’t fully recovered. The muscles along your left side protested immediately as you straightened, a dull ache pulling beneath the healing wound. You waited for the dizziness to settle before taking your first step. Slowly, you crossed the apartment toward the front door.

Your hand rested briefly against the wall for balance before reaching the handle. Without really thinking about it, you unlocked the door and pulled it open.

“…Oh.”

The word escaped before you could stop it. Because it wasn’t the nurse standing on the other side.

Jack. For a second, your brain simply refused to catch up with what your eyes were seeing. He stood quietly in the hallway, one hand holding a medical bag that looked remarkably similar to the ones used during home visits, the other balancing two pizza boxes against his hip. He wore jeans instead of scrubs, a dark jacket left unzipped, and the faintest smile rested on his face. Not the teasing grin you knew so well, just a small, almost hesitant one. Like he wasn’t entirely sure how this was going to go.

You blinked. “…Jack?”

He gave a small nod. “Hi.”

Silence settled between you for a moment. You looked from him…to the medical bag…to the pizzas…then back to him.

Your brows pulled together in confusion. “What are you doing here?”

The corner of his mouth lifted just a little. “I came to replace the nurse.”

Your confusion only deepened. “…What?”

He lifted the medical bag slightly. “I may have… convinced her to switch with me.”

“You convinced my nurse?”

“I asked very nicely.”

You stared at him as he shrugged, looking almost sheepish. “I also might’ve mentioned that I’m an emergency physician who’s perfectly capable of changing a dressing.”

A beat passed. “And?”

“And…” another tiny shrug, “…she seemed happy to finish work half an hour early.”

Despite yourself, you felt the smallest smile tug at your lips. Jack noticed, of course he noticed. Satisfied with that tiny victory, he lifted the pizza boxes this time.

“And after that,” he continued, “I thought we could eat.” You looked at the pizzas, then back at him.

“You invited yourself.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t even ask.”

“I tried asking.” He tilted his head slightly. “You kept saying no.”

That made your smile disappear again, because he wasn’t wrong. You had kept saying no. To him, to Dana, to everyone. Jack’s expression softened almost immediately, as though he regretted sounding so direct.

“I’m not here because I think you can’t take care of yourself,” he said quietly. “And I’m not here because I think you need someone looking after you every second.” He paused. “I’m here because I figured…” His eyes met yours. “…maybe you’ve spent enough time being alone.”

The hallway fell silent again. Neither of you moved. The apartment behind you was as quiet as it had been every evening for the past few weeks. Jack simply stood there, medical bag in one hand, pizza in the other, waiting. Not trying to force his way inside, not trying to convince you. Just… waiting for your answer.

For a moment, you hesitated, it was barely noticeable. Just a small pause where your hand remained on the door, where your eyes stayed on him, trying to decide whether letting him in was a good idea or just another thing you would eventually overthink later.

Because this was Jack. And somehow, Jack had always been the person who made things more complicated. Not because he did anything wrong. But because with him, you couldn’t pretend you didn’t feel anything.

Eventually, you stepped aside, a small quiet gesture, but enough. Jack looked at you for a second, making sure he understood correctly, then his smile grew slightly.

“Wow.”

You looked at him. “What?”

He stepped inside carefully, balancing the pizza boxes. “I was starting to think I was going to have to perform an entire emotional intervention in the hallway.”

You rolled your eyes weakly. “You were not.”

“No?”

“No.”

He looked back at the door as he walked past. “I had a whole speech prepared.”

“You did not.”

“I did.”

You closed the door behind him. “What was it?”

He thought for a second. “Something very moving. Probably involving dramatic music.”

A small breath escaped you. Not quite a laugh, but close. And Jack noticed. He didn’t point it out, he didn’t make a big deal out of it. He just looked quietly pleased that he had managed to bring even a tiny bit of normality back into the apartment.

He placed the pizzas on the kitchen counter before turning back toward you. The familiar medical focus returned almost immediately. “Okay.”

You already knew that tone. “Jack—”

“No.”

You frowned slightly. “I didn’t even say anything.”

“You were about to.”

You sighed softly. “I was going to say that you don’t actually need to check my wound. I can do it later.”

Jack stared at you, then slowly raised his eyebrows. “Interesting.”

“What?”

“You let me come all the way here, but you’re still trying to get out of the one reason I’m actually here.”

You opened your mouth to answer, but nothing came. Because he was right, again. Jack picked up the medical bag and opened it. “No.”

You looked at him. “No?”

“No, I did not take over the nurse’s job for nothing.” A small smile appeared on his face. “I’m here to check your wound.” He pointed slightly toward the bed. “Now, lay down.”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t trust him, that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that letting him take care of you still felt strangely uncomfortable. Not bad just…unfamiliar. You had spent so long refusing help that accepting it almost felt like admitting defeat.

Jack seemed to understand, his voice softened. “Hey.”

Your eyes met his.

“This isn’t you being weak.” The words hit a little harder than you expected. “It’s just me making sure you’re healing properly.”

A few seconds passed. Then, quietly, you nodded. You walked toward the bed, and Jack followed, carrying the medical supplies with him. For the first time in weeks, someone stepped into your apartment and the silence didn’t feel quite as heavy.

You hated how easily Jack could read you, or at least, that was what you kept telling yourself. He always seemed to know what you were thinking before you said a word. He caught the smallest hesitation, the tiniest shift in your expression, the way your shoulders tensed whenever you were about to retreat behind another excuse.

It should have been irritating, it probably was. And yet…you weren’t entirely sure you actually hated it. Because there was something strangely comforting about not having to explain yourself all the time. About someone seeing straight through the walls you spent so much energy building.

You let out a quiet breath, then, without arguing anymore, you listened. You walked to your bed and carefully lowered yourself onto the bed, moving slower than you used to. Even after weeks, the wound still reminded you it was there every time you twisted the wrong way.

Jack set the medical kit down on the mattress beside you before kneeling next to the bed. Neither of you spoke, the familiar metallic click of the case opening filled the room, as he laid everything out with practiced precision.

Fresh gauze. Saline. Tape. Gloves.

You watched him in silence, there was something oddly calming about it. Watching his hands move with quiet confidence, every gesture deliberate, every movement careful. You had seen those same hands work through chaos, through trauma bays filled with blood and alarms and impossible decisions. Now they moved just as steadily in the quiet of your apartment.

You slowly lifted the hem of your shirt, exposing the white dressing that still covered your left side.

Jack’s eyes flickered briefly to your face. “Comfortable?”

You nodded. “As comfortable as I’m going to be.”

A faint smile crossed his face. “I’ll take that.”

He pulled on a pair of gloves before resting one hand lightly against your side, warm even through the latex.

“Tell me if anything hurts.”

“I will.”

Very gently, he caught the edge of the dressing and began peeling it away, slowly, patiently, making sure not to pull too hard against the healing skin beneath.

Your eyes never left him. Not because of the wound, but because of him. His brow had furrowed slightly in concentration, his entire attention fixed on making sure he didn’t cause you unnecessary pain. Every now and then he glanced back up at your face, checking your expression before continuing.

You realized then that he had probably done this dozens of times over the past few weeks but somehow, this felt different.

Not because his technique had changed, but because his eyes had. There was a gentleness in them that hadn’t come from medical training, only from caring.

Jack worked in silence for another minute. He finished removing the old dressing, his movements as careful as ever before cleaning the incision with slow, practiced precision. Every so often, he glanced up at you, not long enough to make you self-conscious, just enough to make sure you weren’t in pain.

“You doing okay?”

You nodded. “It stings a little.”

“It’ll pass.”

Another comfortable silence settled between you. It was strange, you had always imagined silence as something awkward between two people. With Jack, it rarely was.

He reached for a fresh piece of gauze, pausing for just a second before speaking again. “So…” You looked at him. “Can I ask you something?”

“You just did.”

A quiet chuckle escaped him. “I suppose I did.”

You almost smiled, almost. He focused on securing one side of the new dressing before continuing. “Why aren’t you letting anyone come see you?”

The question landed gently. No accusation, no judgment, just…curiosity. Your body, however, reacted before your mind did. Your eyes immediately drifted away from him, settling somewhere on the blank wall across the room as though the answer might be written there.

Your throat tightened. “I…” You swallowed. “It’s just…” The words refused to come together as you shook your head slightly. “I don’t know.”

Except you did, you just didn’t know how to explain it without sounding ridiculous. Jack noticed. He smoothed another strip of tape over the fresh dressing before speaking again, his eyes still on his work.

“I don’t think that’s true.” You stayed quiet. “I think…” he said carefully, “…you know exactly why.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around the blanket beneath them.

“I’ve been thinking about it.” A small pause. “And I don’t think you’re avoiding everyone because you want to be alone.”

You didn’t answer.

“I think you’re avoiding everyone because you don’t want anyone taking care of you.”

Your breathing caught almost imperceptibly, Jack saw it, but his voice stayed calm. “You keep telling everybody you’re fine.”

Another piece of tape.

“You tell Dana you’re sleeping.”

Another glance toward you.

“You tell Robby you have appointments.”

He smiled faintly.

“You told me your fridge was full.”

You looked back at him, guilty, because it hadn’t been. He held your gaze for a moment. Then, quietly, almost as though he were saying something he’d only just figured out himself, he added, “I don’t think you’re pushing us away…” He gently pressed the last edge of the dressing into place. “…I think you’re trying not to become someone we have to carry.”

For a moment, you simply looked at him. Then, despite everything, despite the conversation, despite the uncomfortable truth he had just placed so gently between the two of you, the corner of your mouth lifted into a faint smile. It was tired, almost invisible but it was there.

“You know…” you murmured quietly, “you could really stop reading my mind.”

Jack looked up from the dressing he had just finished securing, a small smile appeared on his own face.

“So I was right.”

You let out a quiet breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “I didn’t say that.”

“No.” He peeled off one glove slowly. “You just implied it.”

You rolled your eyes weakly. “That’s different.”

“It isn’t.”

For a second, the room felt lighter, almost normal. Then your smile faded again. Your eyes dropped toward your hands. “I just…” you began quietly.

The words came easier this time, not because they hurt less but because you were too tired to keep holding them back. “I don’t want everyone putting their lives on hold because of me.”

Jack stayed silent. He removed the second glove carefully, folding both together before setting them aside.

You continued speaking anyway. “I know everyone means well.” You swallowed. “I know Dana would come here every single day if I let her.” A sad smile crossed your face. “So would Robby.” Another pause. “And you.”

Jack didn’t interrupt, didn’t try to reassure you. He simply listened.

“I don’t want that,” you whispered. “I don’t want people changing their routines because I can’t get groceries. Or because I need someone to change a dressing. Or because…” You looked away again. “…because I almost died.”

Your voice had become so quiet that the last words barely filled the room. “I don’t want to become another responsibility.”

Silence settled between you. Jack rested his forearms lightly on his knees, watching you without saying a word, giving you the space to finish.

“I can do it alone,” you said finally. “I’ve always done things alone.”

Neither of you spoke for several seconds after that. Then, slowly, you pushed yourself upright. The movement was still careful, instinctively protective of your left side. Jack watched you stand but didn’t stop you. You made your way toward the kitchen at an unhurried pace, opening the refrigerator and staring inside for a moment before reaching for two bottles of beer, the glass clinked softly against itself as you closed the door.

Behind you, Jack remained exactly where he was, watching, thinking. Finally, he stood and followed you into the kitchen. He leaned one shoulder lightly against the wall, his arms folding across his chest.

“You know…” he said quietly, “that’s not how this works.” You looked over at him, he held your gaze. “You keep saying you don’t want to be a burden.” His voice remained calm. “But you never stopped to ask us whether helping you actually feels like one.” He tilted his head slightly. “You decided that for everybody.” The kitchen fell quiet again. “And that’s not a decision you get to make.”

You didn’t answer him. Not right away. You simply stood there with your back to him, one hand resting lightly against the kitchen counter, the two beers still sitting unopened in front of you. His words lingered in the air.

You decided that for everybody.

You knew he was right. That was probably the hardest part. After a few long seconds, you slowly turned around to face him. There was no defensiveness in your expression, no irritation. Just a quiet kind of resignation. A small, almost apologetic smile appeared on your lips.

“I know,” you said softly. Your shoulders lifted in the smallest shrug. “I just…”

You searched for the words before letting out a tiny breath through your nose. “I can’t help it.”

You looked at him for another second before lowering your eyes briefly. “It’s just… how I am.”

Jack watched you in silence. His first instinct was to tell you that it didn’t have to stay that way. That people who cared about you wanted to help because they chose to, not because they felt obligated. That you deserved the same kindness you gave everyone else. But he could see it on your face. You weren’t ready for that conversation, not tonight. So instead, he smiled. Softly.

“Fair enough.” He walked over, took one of the beers from the counter, and held it up slightly. “But I’m still stealing this.”

That earned him another small smile. “Amazing.”

“I know.”

“You invite yourself into my apartment…”

“Mhmm.”

“…lecture me…”

“Also true.”

“…and now you’re stealing my beer.”

Jack nodded thoughtfully. “When you say it like that, I sound terrible.”

“You really do.”

For the first time in days, you laughed. It was quiet and brief but real. And somehow, that alone made the evening feel lighter. The rest of the night passed more easily than either of you had expected.

The pizza boxes sat open between you on the coffee table and at some point, you looked over at him with genuine curiosity. “So…”

Jack glanced up.

“Any hospital gossip?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been gone three weeks and that’s your first question?”

“Absolutely.”

“No ‘How’s everyone doing?’”

“That is how everyone’s doing.”

He laughed softly.

“You’ve definitely been spending too much time with Princess and Perlah.”

“I learned from the best.”

“I wouldn’t admit that out loud.”

You leaned back against the couch. “Come on.” Your eyes brightened just a little. “What did I miss?”

Jack gave in with an exaggerated sigh. “Fine.”

He reached for another slice of pizza. “Santos somehow managed to glue two pairs of surgical gloves together while trying to prove she could catch an IV cap with her elbow.”

You blinked. “…How?”

“No one knows.”

You laughed quietly.

“And Princess laughed so hard she snorted in front of an entire trauma team.”

“No…”

“Yes.”

Your laughter grew a little louder. Jack couldn’t help smiling. So he kept going.

He told you about Mohan accidentally wearing two different shoes through half a shift before anyone noticed.

About Perlah and Dana arguing for fifteen minutes over who had stolen whose pen, only for Robby to quietly pull it out of his own pocket at the end of the conversation.

About Javadi trying so hard to look confident during a procedure that she walked straight into a supply cabinet immediately afterward.

One story became another, then another. And for the first time since leaving the hospital, your apartment didn’t feel quite so empty. For a little while, it almost felt like you had never left the ER at all.

Your laughter slowly faded, leaving behind a comfortable silence. The empty pizza boxes sat forgotten on the coffee table between you, two half-finished beers beside them. Outside, the evening had slipped quietly into night, the city lights glowing through the apartment windows. You looked down at the bottle in your hands, turning it slowly between your fingers.

“I miss it.”

The words came out so quietly that Jack almost thought he had imagined them. He looked over at you.

“The hospital,” you clarified with a small smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “The ER.” Your gaze drifted toward the window. “I miss everyone.” A pause. “I even miss the stupid alarms.”

Jack smiled faintly. “That’s concerning.”

“It is.”

“I was hoping you’d say you missed me first.” That earned him an amused look.

“Don’t push your luck.”

He chuckled, but let the joke settle without adding anything else. Because beneath it, he could hear what you weren’t saying. You missed your life, the chaos, the noise, the purpose. The version of yourself that had existed before everything fell apart.

He waited a moment before asking gently, “So…” You looked back at him. “What do you actually do all day?”

You let out a long sigh. The kind that seemed to come from somewhere much deeper than your lungs. “Nothing.”

Jack stayed quiet.

“I sleep.” You shrugged. “I watch television.” Another shrug. “I walk around the apartment for five minutes pretending I’m being productive.” A small, self-deprecating smile crossed your face. “And then I sit back down again.” Your fingers tightened slightly around the bottle. “The boredom is…” You searched for the right word. “…it’s exhausting.”

Jack listened without interrupting.

“I always thought I liked being alone.” Your eyes stayed fixed on the label peeling slightly beneath your thumb. “I genuinely believed I was one of those people who could disappear for weeks and be perfectly happy.” You laughed softly to yourself. “Turns out…” You shook your head. “I don’t think I am.”

The realization seemed to surprise you even as you said it aloud. “I thought I was.” Your voice softened. “But this…” You looked around the apartment. “This isn’t peaceful.” A long silence followed. “It just feels…” You hesitated. “…empty.”

Only after the word had left your mouth did you realize how much you had just admitted. You looked toward Jack, almost embarrassed by your own honesty.

He didn’t look surprised. He just nodded slowly. “We’re social animals,” he said quietly. His voice carried the same calm certainty it always did when he explained something to a patient. “We’re built to need each other.” He leaned back slightly into the couch. “It doesn’t matter how independent you are.”

His eyes found yours. “Everyone needs contact.” He smiled gently. “Conversation. A reason to leave the house.A reason to laugh.” He paused. “And people who make ordinary days feel a little less ordinary.”

The apartment fell quiet again. “But somewhere along the way,” he continued, “you convinced yourself that needing people was the same thing as depending on them.”

You lowered your eyes.

“I don’t think those are the same thing.” His words settled over the room with surprising gentleness. “You can be strong, you can be independent, you can spend time alone.” He smiled softly. “And still miss the people who make your life feel like yours.”

For a few seconds, you stayed silent. The words were still hanging between you. Your own words, and especially his. And somehow, that made them feel even heavier. You looked down at the almost empty beer bottle in your hand, watching the last drops move slowly against the glass before setting it down on the coffee table.

“Sorry.”

Jack’s eyes lifted toward you immediately.

You shook your head slightly. “I didn’t mean to…”

You stopped yourself. Didn’t mean to what? Open up? Need someone? Be honest? You hated that you didn’t even know.

“I didn’t mean to make this about me.” Your voice became quieter. “I hate that.”

Jack watched you carefully.

You let out a small breath, frustrated more with yourself than anything else. “I don’t want to sit here and make everyone listen to me complain.”

The words came faster now, almost like you were trying to take them back by explaining them away. “I don’t want to be the person everyone has to worry about.”

You lifted both hands and covered your face for a moment. Just for a few seconds, trying to hide, trying to collect yourself. Because you didn’t understand why you had said all of that. Why, after weeks of keeping everyone at a distance, you had suddenly let the walls slip. And especially why it had happened with him, with Jack.

You lowered your hands and looked away. “I don’t even know why I said all that.”

The honesty of the sentence almost annoyed you. You stood up before he could answer. Your body still reminded you to be gentle, even with something as simple as standing from the couch. You started collecting the empty pizza boxes from the table.

Jack remained seated, quiet. He watched you move around the apartment, picking up the small pieces of the evening as if cleaning up the evidence of a moment you wished you could take back.

The cardboard folded in your hands. The empty bottles moved to the kitchen counter. You were already trying to put yourself back together. Back into the version of yourself that didn’t need anything, that didn’t admit things, that didn’t let people see too much.

Jack didn’t stop you immediately. Because he knew this, he knew the instinct. The moment where you realized you had been vulnerable and immediately wanted to retreat. So he stayed silent for a little while. He just watched you, not judging, not pitying, just understanding. Because maybe, for once, you didn’t need someone to fix what you had said. Maybe you just needed someone who wouldn’t make you regret saying it.

Jack stayed quiet for a little while longer. Long enough for you to finish throwing away the last piece of the pizza box. Long enough for you to start believing the conversation was over. Then his voice broke through the silence. “You don’t usually open up to people, do you?”

You froze slightly. Not because the question was surprising, because it was too accurate. You turned your head toward him. A small, almost embarrassed laugh escaped you. “No.” You leaned against the kitchen counter, looking away. “No, I don’t.” There was no shame in your voice. Just honesty. “I really don’t.”

Jack’s lips curved into a small smile. Something soft, almost compassionate. Because he knew. He had known for a while. You were the person who stayed after shifts to help everyone else. The person who listened. The person who remembered details about everyone’s lives. But the second someone tried to do the same for you, you disappeared. You changed the subject. You made jokes. You insisted you were fine.

Jack pushed himself up from the couch slowly. You watched him from the corner of your eye, expecting him to say something, to make a comment, to give you some kind of advice. Instead, he simply walked a few steps away. Then he laid down on the floor, completely casually on top of the rug in the middle of your living room.

You stared at him. For a second, you wondered if you had somehow missed something. You turned around fully. “Jack?” He looked up at you. “What are you doing?”

He looked perfectly comfortable, almost too comfortable. “Getting comfortable.”

You blinked. “On my floor?”

“Yes.”

A small laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “You are strange.”

“I’ve been told.”

You shook your head, still smiling slightly.

Then he looked at you and simply said, “Come here.”

You frowned. “What?”

He patted the space beside him on the rug. “Come lay down.”

You stared at him. “Jack, I’m not five.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you asking me to lie on the floor?”

“Because sometimes people need to stop sitting upright and pretending they’re okay.”

The answer was so unexpectedly simple that you didn’t know what to say. He didn’t say it like a doctor. He didn’t say it like someone trying to analyze you. Just like someone who knew you had spent too much time alone inside your own head.

You looked at him for a few seconds. Then you sighed. You slowly walked over lowered yourself carefully onto the rug beside him, still trying to understand what exactly was happening. The floor was not exactly the most comfortable place in your apartment. And yet, somehow, lying there felt easier than sitting on the couch. Maybe because the couch belonged to the version of you that had spent weeks hiding under blankets. Maybe because the floor felt like a reset.

You turned your head slightly toward Jack. He was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling like this was the most normal thing in the world. You watched him for a few seconds because there was no way Jack had suddenly decided that lying on your living room floor was a normal evening activity. There was always a reason with him, a purpose.

Finally, you turned your head slightly. “So…”

Jack glanced over. “So?”

You raised an eyebrow. “What are we doing?”

A small smile appeared on his lips. “You’ll see.”

You immediately narrowed your eyes. “I don’t like that answer.”

“I know.”

“Jack.”

“Trust me.”

That made you pause. Because he said it so simply. You looked at him for a moment longer before letting out a small sigh. “Fine.”

Jack looked back toward the ceiling. “Close your eyes.”

You hesitated, again.

He noticed. “You don’t have to do anything weird.”

You almost smiled. “That’s exactly what someone would say before doing something weird.”

A quiet laugh escaped him. “Fair point.”

But after a moment, you listened. Slowly, you closed your eyes. The room changed immediately. Without the distraction of looking around, you became more aware of everything else. The warmth of the apartment, the quiet sound of the city outside, your own breathing.

“Okay,” he said softly. You stayed still. “Now relax your body.”

You almost laughed, because that was easier said than done. Your shoulders were tense without you even realizing it, your hands were slightly curled, your jaw tightened. Like your body had forgotten what it felt like not to be ready for something.

“I am relaxed.”

Jack hummed. “No, you’re not.”

Your eyes remained closed. “You really do have an annoying habit of knowing everything.”

You shook your head slightly.

“Just try.” His voice became quieter. “Don’t fight it.”

You took a slow breath, then another. Your head rested back against the rug as you looked toward the ceiling behind your closed eyelids.

For a few more seconds, Jack said nothing. You almost thought that was it. That maybe this was the whole exercise, just lying there, breathing. Trying to remember how to exist without constantly being on alert.

Then his voice came quietly beside you. “Now…”

You opened your eyes slightly.

“Tell me everything.”

You frowned. “What?”

Jack kept looking at the ceiling. “Everything.”

The simplicity of it almost made you laugh. Because it sounded impossible. Like he had just asked you to explain something simple. Like he had asked you what you wanted for dinner.

You stared at him. “Jack…”

He turned his head slightly toward you. “Close your eyes again.”

You hesitated. But after a second, you did.

“Pretend I’m not here.”

You stayed still.

“Pretend you’re alone.” His voice remained calm. “You don’t have to look at me. You don’t have to worry about my reaction. You don’t have to make sure I’m okay with what you’re saying.”

A pause. “Just say it.”

Your throat tightened.

“Say everything you need to say.”

You immediately opened your eyes. “No.”

The answer came too fast. Too instinctively. Jack looked at you. You shook your head slightly, almost embarrassed that your reaction had been so immediate.

“I told you.” Your voice softened. “I don’t do that.” You looked away. “I can’t.”

For a moment, Jack didn’t say anything. Then he turned his head fully toward you. Not with disappointment or frustration, just understanding.

“You’re right.” That surprised you and he continued quietly. “You’re not someone who does that.” You looked back at him. “And I’m not going to force you.” The words were immediate, certain. “You know that, right?”

You stayed silent. Jack shifted slightly on the rug, keeping his eyes on you. “I don’t want you to do this because I asked you to.”

A small pause.

“I don’t want you to feel like this is another thing you have to do for someone else.” His voice softened. “But…” He looked back toward the ceiling. “I do think it would help.”

You swallowed.

“Not because it changes anything. Not because suddenly saying things out loud fixes everything.” He took a slow breath. “But because you’ve been carrying all of it by yourself for a long time.”

The words settled quietly between you both as you looked down. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Jack nodded. “That’s okay, you don’t have to start at the beginning.” A small pause. “You don’t have to make it make sense.”

His eyes found yours again. “You can ramble, you can be angry, you can say things that don’t sound nice, you can say nothing for five minutes and then suddenly talk.”

A faint smile appeared. “I promise I won’t grade your emotional organization.”

Despite yourself, you almost smiled. Then his expression became gentle again. “But I want you to try.”

You looked at him.

“Just try.” A patient silence followed. “And if you can’t…” He shrugged slightly. “That’s okay too.” His voice dropped. “But I think you might surprise yourself.”

You stared at him for a long moment, because the hardest part wasn’t talking. It was the idea of letting someone hear you, really hear you. And Jack seemed to know that. So he didn’t push, he just stayed there beside you, waiting.

You looked back up at the ceiling and for a long moment, you simply stared at it. Your chest rose slowly before you drew in one long, unsteady breath. You held it for a second, then let it escape through parted lips, the exhale loud enough to fill the quiet apartment. Almost like you were trying to breathe out every excuse, every instinct telling you to stop before you had even begun.

Your eyes closed again. Immediately, your heart started beating a little faster. It felt ridiculous. Talking, just…talking. You had faced dying patients without hesitating, you had pronounced deaths, held strangers while they cried, made impossible decisions in seconds. Yet somehow, lying on your own living room floor with your eyes closed frightened you far more than any trauma bay ever had.

Because this wasn’t about saving someone else. It was about letting yourself be seen. You stayed silent. One minute passed, then another. The apartment remained perfectly still. Jack didn’t move, he didn’t clear his throat, he didn’t ask if you were okay, he didn’t remind you that you didn’t have to do this. He simply stayed exactly where he was. Present and patient.

Without realizing it, your breathing slowly began matching the quiet rhythm of the room around you. The distant hum of traffic outside. The refrigerator running somewhere behind you. The faint ticking of the clock in the kitchen. Nothing else.

By the time the third minute slipped by, something had changed. Not around you, but inside you. The awareness of Jack lying beside you had slowly faded into the background, you no longer found yourself wondering whether he was looking at you. Whether he was judging you, whether he was waiting for you to finally speak. It almost felt as though he wasn’t there at all. Just as he had asked, just you, your thoughts and a silence that no longer felt quite so frightening.

“I hate myself.” Another pause. “I really do.”

Your voice was calm, almost detached, as if admitting something you had spent years refusing to acknowledge.

“I hate the way I am. I hate the way my brain works. I hate the way I think, the way I react to things, the way I always seem to make everything harder than it has to be.”

You swallowed, your eyes still closed as the confession came easier now.

“I don’t trust people. I always think they’re going to leave eventually. Or disappoint me. Or use me. Or realize that I’m not worth staying for.”

Your breathing remained steady, but your chest felt tighter with every sentence. Your fingers curled slightly against the rug beneath you.

“So I don’t let them get close. I keep everyone just far enough away that, if they leave, it won’t destroy me.”

A quiet, bitter laugh escaped you.

“At least… that’s what I tell myself. But the truth is…The truth is that I push people away long before they ever have the chance to hurt me. I make the decision for them.”

Your voice cracked for the first time.

“I decide they probably won’t stay. So I leave first. I shut down. I disappear.”

Silence lingered for only a heartbeat before the words continued pouring out, faster now, as though years of restraint had finally cracked.

“I don’t talk about myself. I don’t tell people how I’m feeling. I don’t ask for help. Because if I do…”

Your throat tightened.

“…they’ll see me. They’ll see every part of me that I spend so much energy trying to hide. They’ll see that I’m scared all the time. They’ll see that I’m not nearly as strong as everyone thinks I am. They’ll see every flaw, very insecurity, every weakness.”

Your voice became almost a whisper.

“And once people see those things…I’m terrified they’ll decide I’m too much. Too broken. Too complicated. So I never let them see. I smile. I joke. I tell everyone I’m okay. I take care of everybody else. And I keep every ugly part of me locked away where nobody can touch it.”

A tear escaped from beneath your closed eyelids, rolling silently across your temple into your hair.

“Because if nobody ever sees how vulnerable I really am…then maybe nobody will ever have the chance to use it against me.”

The words came more easily now, as though a door had finally opened inside you.

“I spend my life taking care of other people. Everyone. Anyone who needs something.”

A small, broken smile appeared on your lips, though your eyes remained closed.

“I always volunteer. I stay late. I cover shifts. I listen. I fix things. I make sure everyone else is okay. And everyone always says it’s because I’m kind.”

A quiet laugh escaped you.

“But I don’t think that’s the whole truth.”

Another tear slipped down your cheek.

“I think…I think I do it because it makes me feel useful. And if I’m useful…then maybe people will keep me around.”

You swallowed against the lump growing in your throat.

“Because without that…What am I? I genuinely don’t know. How could anyone like me…if I wasn’t doing something for them?”

Your chest tightened painfully.

“What is there to like? If I’m not helping. If I’m not fixing something. If I’m not making someone else’s day easier. So I keep giving. I keep doing. I keep making myself available. I make sure everyone else is taken care of before I even think about myself. Not because anyone asked me to. Not because anyone expected it. Because somewhere, a long time ago, i had started believing that love had to be earned. That affection came with conditions. That staying in someone’s life required constant payment. So everything I do…”

Your voice cracked again.

“…is for somebody else. Every extra shift. Every favor. Every time I put someone else’s needs before mine.”

Another tear rolled silently toward your ear.

“I think… I think I’m just hoping…that if I do enough…someone will love me enough to stay. So maybe that’s why I don’t know how to let people take care of me. Because if I’m not the one giving…I’m terrified there won’t be any reason left for anyone to choose me.”

The words came almost immediately, as if they had been waiting their turn.

“And I overthink everything. I mean… everything. Every conversation. Every text. Every silence. I analyze people’s faces all the time. The smallest change in their expression. The way they look at me. The way they stop looking at me.”

Your voice remained steady, but there was an exhaustion behind it that hadn’t been there before.

“I listen to every change in their voice. If they sound a little shorter than usual. If they answer a little too quickly. If they don’t laugh at a joke they would’ve laughed at yesterday.”

A bitter smile crossed your face.

“I notice everything. Probably things that aren’t even there.And then my brain fills in the rest. I convince myself they’re annoyed, or disappointed, or tired of me. That I’ve said too much, or not enough. That I was awkward, that I stayed too long, that I bothered them.”

Another tear slipped down.

“And once I have that idea…I can’t get rid of it. It just keeps growing. So I leave. I disappear before they have to ask me to.”

You took another slow breath.

“If I think someone is upset with me…even a little…I’m gone. I stop texting, I stop calling, I avoid them, I convince myself I’m doing them a favor.”

A quiet laugh escaped you, though there was nothing humorous about it.

“I don’t even give them the chance to tell me I was wrong. I just assume I already know.”

The silence stretched for a heartbeat before you whispered,

“I’ve walked away from so many people…not because they wanted me to leave…but because I was convinced they eventually would.”

A long silence followed. You almost thought you were finished.Your breathing had become uneven now, your chest rising and falling a little faster than before. Every confession seemed to leave something behind, as though each sentence had carried a piece of weight out of you. Then, quietly, almost in a whisper, you spoke again.

“And do you know what I hate the most?”

You didn’t wait for an answer.

“I don’t push people away when I don’t care about them.”

A tear slipped silently into your hair.

“I push away the people I care about the most. The second someone starts meaning something to me…the second I realize I actually like them…or…”

You swallowed hard.

“…love them…”

The last word almost disappeared before it reached the room.

“That’s when I leave. Because that’s when it becomes dangerous. That’s when they have the power to hurt me. So I start looking for reasons. Reasons to convince myself it won’t work. Reasons to believe they’ll leave. Reasons to walk away before they get the chance. I tell myself I’m protecting myself.”

A small, broken laugh escaped you.

“But it never works. I still get hurt. Every. single. time.”

Your voice cracked completely now.

“The only difference is…I’m usually the one who caused it. I create the distance, I close the door, I push people away. And then…I sit alone and wonder why nobody stayed.”

Your face tightened as another wave of emotion rose unexpectedly.

“I keep doing the very thing I’m terrified other people will do to me.”

The realization hung heavily in the quiet apartment.

“I abandon them first. And I think…I think I’m getting tired. Tired of running. Tired of hiding. Tired of being so scared of losing people…that I never really let myself have them in the first place.”

That was where you stopped. Not because there was nothing left to say. But because there was finally nothing left inside you that you could force yourself to keep holding. The words disappeared first. Then the strength to pretend you were okay. You stayed there silently, your eyes still closed, your breathing uneven as tears slipped down the sides of your face and disappeared into your hair.

You didn’t wipe them away, you didn’t try to stop them. For once, you didn’t try to regain control. You simply let them fall. The ceiling above you slowly came back into focus when you finally opened your eyes. Everything felt strangely quiet. Like the entire world had paused to give you this one moment.

You turned your head slightly. And that was when you looked at Jack. He was already looking at you. Not with pity or sadness, not with that worried expression people usually had when they saw you break. Just…there.

His eyes were soft, carrying everything he hadn’t said, and somehow, that almost made it harder. Because he wasn’t looking at you like you were fragile. He wasn’t looking at you like you were a problem to solve. He was just looking at you, seeing you.

Neither of you spoke. You couldn’t. The words were gone. Your throat felt too tight, your chest too heavy. So you just looked at him, tears continuing to fall silently.

Jack didn’t move, he didn’t rush to fill the silence, he didn’t tell you it was okay. He didn’t try to make the pain disappear with a few comforting words, he knew better. Some things needed to be felt before they could start healing.

So he stayed. He gave you the time to understand what had just happened. The time to realize that you had actually said all of it, out loud, to someone. And that person was still there. After a while, when the silence had stretched long enough, your lips finally parted.

“I’m sorry.”

The words were barely a whisper, but they carried everything. The guilt, the embarrassment, the fear that you had just shown too much. You looked at him with the same hurt expression you had been carrying for years. Like you were already expecting him to regret hearing all of it.

Jack’s expression changed immediately. Not because he was upset, but because he understood. And this time, he didn’t let you retreat. He moved, slowly, carefully, he shifted closer on the rug and turned toward you. Then his arms wrapped around you. Enough for you to know you could let yourself fall.

You didn’t resist, you couldn’t. The moment you felt his arms around you, everything you had been holding back for years finally broke. You buried yourself against him, your face hidden against his chest as the tears came harder. Jack held you tightly, one hand moved to the back of your head, gently keeping you close, while the other slowly moved along your back in steady, soothing motions.

His chin rested lightly against the top of your head, and he don’t say anything. Because there was nothing he could say that would mean more than staying. So he stayed, he let you cry. He let you release every fear, every insecurity, every piece of pain you had spent years hiding from everyone else.

And for the first time in a very long time…you let someone hold the weight with you.

Taglist ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

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[sole-jpeg]

Somewhere Between Hate And Whatever This Is — Jack Abbot

(Chapter 16/?)

pairing : jack abbot / f!reader

words count : 6.1k

previous chapters : Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15

summary : The night shift at the Pitt teaches you two things very quickly: how to keep people alive, and how to survive the ones you can’t.

You are a newly assigned intern doctor who is brilliant, stubborn, and entirely incapable of backing down — which becomes a serious problem when your supervising attending, Jack Abbot, seems to make a sport out of challenging you at every possible opportunity. Between impossible trauma cases, sleepless nights, and arguments sharp enough to cut through the entire ER, the rivalry between them slowly turns into something far more dangerous.

contain : enemies to lovers, rivals, slow burn, sarcasm, mentions of medical trauma, injuries, tension.

a/n : hi 🫣 sorry for the late update but the last few weeks were crazy but I’m settling up in my new apartment just well haha anyway enjoyyyy

archiveofourown link Spotify playlist link

Chapter 16 : Still Here

Five days.

Five days of darkness, three days of machines breathing and monitoring and waiting. And then slowly, very slowly— you came back. Your eyes opened only slightly at first, everything felt heavy, your body, your head, even your eyelids. Like waking up after sleeping for years instead of days.

You stayed still, too exhausted to move, too exhausted to think. Your vision remained blurry, covered by a haze that refused to disappear completely. You simply looked, analyzed.

Sound first, soft rhythmic beeping nearby, air flowing quietly somewhere, the occasional distant footsteps beyond the room. Voices, muffled far away.

Then smell, hospital, immediately recognizable. Antiseptic, clean sheets, plastic. That familiar sterile scent you had spent years breathing every day.

Then your eyes slowly wandered around the room. The lights were off, only a weak orange glow from outside filtered through the blinds, casting soft shadows across the room, enough to make out shapes, furniture, the chair near the window, the counter, the monitors. Muted colors, gray, blue, white.

Your eyes blinked slowly still trying to focus, still trying to understand. Then you felt it, something beside you. No— Someone.

On your right. Very slowly you turned your head, the movement alone made exhaustion wash over you again. But eventually your eyes found the shape sitting beside your bed.

At first he was only a blur, dark hair, dark clothes, head lowered and arms folded loosely, sleeping. Then your vision focused a little more. And your heart seemed to stop for an entirely different reason this time.

Jack. Jack was sitting beside your bed, asleep, his head rested against the side of the mattress near your arm, one hand still laying over the edge of your bed. Close enough that his fingers almost touched yours.

He looked terrible. Not hurt, just… exhausted. His hair was messy, his face looked tired. There were faint shadows beneath his eyes, like he hadn’t slept properly in days. Like sleep had simply taken him by force while sitting there beside you.

Everything slowly started coming back to you. Not in one brutal wave, thankfully. Instead, it arrived piece by piece, like memories carefully rising through thick fog, giving you just enough time to process one before another appeared.

The balcony came first. The cold morning air against your skin, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself while the city slowly woke beneath you. You remembered staring ahead without really seeing anything, feeling empty in a way that was difficult to explain. Then your voice returned to you.

“I think you should leave.”

You remembered his face turning toward you, the frustration in his eyes, the anger in his voice, and underneath all of it, something much worse. Hurt. You remembered every word he had said. And the worst part was that you remembered knowing he was right.

Then came Pitt Fest. The music. The crowd. Then the sudden screams, gunshots, people running, blood…so much blood.

The horrible pain exploding through your side before adrenaline drowned it enough for you to keep moving. Faces flashed through your mind, some clear, some already blurred by exhaustion and trauma. People you had tried to help, people you had touched, people you had told were going to be okay even when you had no idea if they would be.

Then the hospital. Bright lights above you, voices around you, Dana holding your hands while telling you to breathe, Robby shouting orders somewhere beside you. And then Jack.

Your eyes stayed on him now, on his sleeping face resting beside your bed. Because out of everything, out of every memory forcing its way back into your mind, that was what stayed with you the most. The fear in his eyes. You had never seen him look like that before, not really. You had seen him worried, irritated, stressed, even angry. But that had been something different. That had been fear, real fear. Fear because of you.

Your throat tightened immediately. Your eyes moved slowly across his face, noticing details you had not at first. The shadows beneath his eyes were darker than usual. His hair was slightly messy, like he had run his hands through it too many times. Even sleeping, he looked exhausted.

How many times ? Twelve hours ? Four days ? Two months ? More ? You did not know. But he looked like someone who had not really slept during any of them.

Tears slowly gathered in your eyes again, slipping quietly down the sides of your face and disappearing into your hair. Not because of the pain, not entirely. You just kept looking at him, trying to understand why he was still here. After the apartment, after the argument, after you pushed him away, after all of it.

Very slowly, you lifted your hand. The movement alone felt difficult. Your body still felt weak, heavy, like every muscle had forgotten how to work while you had been gone. But after a few seconds, your fingers finally reached him.

You touched the back of his hand softly. Barely anything, just enough. Warm skin met your fingertips immediately, real. Your hand stayed there, resting gently against his, almost hesitantly, as if some part of you still wondered whether you had the right to touch him.

And for a moment, you simply stayed like that. Feeling his warmth beneath your fingers. Feeling tears continue falling silently down your face. Feeling something inside your chest loosen slightly. Because despite everything that had happened, despite every reason he had to walk away…he stayed.

The sudden touch made Jack wake almost instantly. Not in a startled way, not in confusion, but in a way that suggested he had never fully fallen asleep in the first place. Like his body had been waiting for this exact moment, refusing to drift too far, refusing to miss it if it finally came.

His eyes opened slowly at first, heavy with exhaustion, adjusting to the dim light of the room. For a fraction of a second, there was nothing but instinct, the quiet awareness of a hospital room, monitors, machines, the familiar weight of responsibility.

And then he saw you, really saw you. His breath caught, almost imperceptibly, as his gaze locked onto your face. There was no dramatic reaction at first, no words, no movement, just stillness, as if he needed a moment to confirm that what he was seeing was real.

You were awake, your eyes were open and your hand was touching his. For a second, he didn’t move at all. He simply stared at you, like any sudden motion might break the moment, like if he blinked too hard you might disappear back into unconsciousness again.

His expression shifted slowly, something subtle passing through his features, relief first, sharp and immediate, followed by something heavier, something that had clearly been sitting inside him for far too long. Exhaustion, fear, and something almost fragile softened his gaze as he processed the fact that you were finally back.

His hand, the one you were touching, remained still beneath yours, as if he was afraid that even pulling away would make this feel less real.

Jack swallowed once, his throat working slightly, but he didn’t speak. Not yet. Instead, he just looked at you. As if he was memorizing the fact that your eyes were open. As if he needed to make sure you were truly here before he allowed himself to do anything else.

You gave him a small smile. It was weak, tired, almost fragile, but it was there. It barely lifted the corners of your mouth, like your body still wasn’t sure it remembered how to do it properly. Tears were already drying on your cheeks, while new ones kept forming quietly, slipping down without much resistance.

A soft breath left you. A whisper, barely audible in the quiet of the room.“…Hey.” That was all you managed. And somehow, it seemed to say everything you couldn’t.

Jack didn’t answer immediately. He just looked at you for another second, as if anchoring himself in the fact that you were truly awake, truly here, truly looking back at him.

Then he moved. Carefully, almost as if he was afraid of hurting you, he stood and leaned closer, closing the distance between you without hesitation but without rush either. His hands found the back of your head first, one settling gently into your hair, the other guiding you with a quiet certainty that felt instinctive rather than thought out.

And then he pulled you into him. Not abruptly, not forcefully. Just enough for you to feel him fully there, solid and real, sitting at the edge of your bed as he held you close. His arm supported your shoulders while his hand stayed at the back of your head, steadying you against him as if he had been waiting days for this exact moment and still didn’t trust it enough to let go.

You let yourself lean into him immediately. All the strength you had been holding onto dissolved at once, leaving nothing behind but exhaustion and emotion that you no longer had the energy to contain.

Your face pressed against the side of his neck, and that was where it broke, quietly, completely. Tears returned, heavier this time, soaking into his scrub top as you finally let yourself cry properly, not holding back, not trying to be strong, not trying to understand anything anymore.

Jack didn’t say a word. He only held you tighter, one hand still cradling the back of your head, the other resting firmly against your shoulder, grounding you without pressure, without expectation. He stayed like that, unmoving, letting you fall apart in silence against him, as if that was the only thing he had been waiting to do since the moment everything went wrong.

It wasn’t rushed, and it wasn’t awkward either. It was just quiet, heavy with everything that had been held back for too long. Your tears soaked into his scrubs as they kept coming, not steady, not controlled, but real. Relief was there, tangled with pain, fear, exhaustion, and something deeper that you couldn’t quite name anymore. It all sat in your throat at once, making it hard to breathe properly, like your body had forgotten how to sort through any of it.

Jack didn’t move away, he just held you, one hand still at the back of your head, steady and grounding, the other resting against your shoulder like an anchor keeping you from drifting too far. His presence was solid, quiet, and unwavering, as if he had decided that as long as you were like this, he wasn’t going anywhere.

Minutes passed like that, or maybe seconds, it was hard to tell. Time didn’t feel very clear anymore. Then, very softly, almost swallowed by everything you were feeling, you spoke. “I’m sorry…”

The words were small, but they hit the space between you immediately. Again. That same apology. For what had happened, or the argument, for the distance. For everything you couldn’t seem to stop carrying alone.

Jack’s entire expression shifted at that, something tightening in his face, not anger, but something far more complicated. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if steadying himself, as if trying to hold something inside him that was threatening to spill over.

Then he pulled back just slightly, enough to create space between you, but not enough to let you go. His hands came up immediately to your face, warm and careful. He cupped your cheeks gently, thumbs resting just beneath your eyes, forcing you to look at him.

And you did. Even through tears. Even exhausted. Even shaking slightly in his hold. His gaze held yours firmly, unwavering, as if he needed you to see him just as much as he needed to see you.

He didn’t speak right away. He just looked at you, really looked at you, like he was trying to make sure the next thing he said reached you properly.

And when he finally did speak, it wasn’t to correct you or to argue. But to stop you from carrying something alone again. “What are you apologizing for?”

The question wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t confused either. It was careful, like he already knew the answer but needed to hear you say it out loud.

And that was what broke you again. Your breath hitched immediately, your lips parting as if you wanted to answer right away, but nothing came out properly. The words tangled in your throat, stuck behind everything you had been holding since the moment you saw him in that hospital room. Tears blurred your vision again, spilling faster now, as if his question had opened something you had been barely keeping shut.

“I… I’m sorry,” you tried, your voice breaking almost instantly. You swallowed, trying again, but it came out uneven, fractured between breaths. “For— for everything, I just— I shouldn’t have— I shouldn’t have said that, I shouldn’t have pushed you away, I shouldn’t have—” Your voice cracked completely, cutting itself off as another wave of tears took over.

You shook your head slightly, frustrated with yourself, trying to find the words that refused to line up properly anymore. “I don’t know how to—” you started again, quieter this time, but it fell apart halfway through. “I just keep messing things up and I— I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”

Your breathing turned uneven again, not from pain now, but from emotion that had nowhere left to go. You couldn’t finish sentences properly, couldn’t organize your thoughts, everything coming out in fragments between sobs you were no longer trying to hide.

“I’m sorry,” you repeated again, smaller this time, almost lost. Like it was the only thing you could still hold onto. Like it was the only thing you knew how to say. And Jack just stayed there, holding your face in his hands, watching you fall apart without letting go of you for even a second.

His expression changed again as you spoke, like each broken sentence you managed to push out was settling somewhere heavy inside him. For a moment, he didn’t answer. His hands stayed on your face, steady, warm, but there was something different in his gaze now. Something quieter. More exposed. Like he had been holding his own words back for just as long as you had been holding yours.

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower than before. “I’m sorry too.”

That made you blink through your tears, confusion cutting through the fog of emotion for a second. Your eyes searched his face, trying to understand, trying to catch up with what he meant. Sorry? For what? You didn’t say it out loud, but he saw the question anyway.

Jack’s thumbs slowed slightly under your eyes, his jaw tightening for a brief moment before he continued, as if choosing each word carefully.

“For not being there sooner,” he said quietly. “For walk away that morning like that. For not stopping when I should’ve. For not staying with you.”

He paused, exhaling slowly, his gaze flickering for a second before returning to yours. “For letting things get to a point where you thought you had to deal with everything alone.”

His hands shifted slightly on your cheeks, grounding rather than restraining, like he needed you to stay with him through this. “I kept telling myself you were fine,” he admitted more softly now, almost like it cost him something to say it out loud. “That you’d come back around. That you didn’t want me involved.”

A faint, bitter breath left him, not quite a laugh. “That I should respect the distance.” His eyes held yours again, sharper now, but not angry. Honest. “But I should’ve known better,” he added, voice rougher at the edges. “I should’ve stayed anyway.”

For a moment, he just looked at you in silence, like he was letting the weight of that sit between you. Then, quieter, almost barely audible, he finished, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there the way you needed me to be.”

You stayed quiet after that, not because you had nothing to say. Actually, it was the opposite, there were too many things. Too many emotions still sitting heavily inside your chest, too many thoughts tangled together, too many words trying to push themselves out at the same time. His apology settled somewhere deep inside you, slowly, carefully, and you could almost feel yourself trying to understand it, trying to process hearing those words come from him. Because while you had spent days blaming yourself for everything, it had never crossed your mind that Jack had been carrying his own guilt too.

Your eyes stayed fixed on him, studying him, taking him in. And he stayed there quietly, still holding your face gently between his hands, watching you while you took everything in. He didn’t rush you. Didn’t interrupt the silence. He knew you well enough by now to recognize that look on your face. The one where you disappeared inside your own head.

Slowly, you moved your head from side to side, just slightly, a weak little movement. “No…” you whispered automatically, your voice still rough from days of disuse and tears. You opened your mouth again, trying to speak properly this time, trying to tell him something, anything. Maybe that none of it had been his fault, maybe that you had pushed him away, maybe that you—

But Jack stopped you before the words could come out, not harshly, never harshly. One of his thumbs brushed softly against your cheek while his expression softened. “Hey.” His voice was quiet, gentle. “There’ll be time.” Your lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. “There’ll be plenty of time for this later,” he continued, giving you a small smile that looked exhausted around the edges. “For talking, for arguing, for you trying to convince me I’m wrong.”

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly, very slightly, but just enough to bring a little warmth into the room. “But right now…” he said softly, “right now I need to do my job.” His hands slowly left your face, though his fingers lingered against your skin for an extra second before pulling away completely.

He stood from the chair beside your bed, and for the first time since waking up, you really noticed how tired he looked. His shoulders looked heavier somehow. His scrubs were wrinkled, his hair still messy from sleep, and there was a deep exhaustion sitting beneath his eyes that no amount of coffee could hide. He looked like someone who had spent days carrying something too heavy, and maybe he had.

Jack looked toward the monitors briefly before turning back to you. “I need to check your vitals,” he said softly. “And I should probably warn everyone before Dana murders me for not calling the second you opened your eyes.”

That earned the smallest reaction from you, barely there. But he saw it, the tiny movement of your lips, the beginning of a smile. And something in his face relaxed immediately. Jack pulled his phone out of his pocket quickly, his movements almost automatic now. His thumb moved over the screen for a few seconds, typing something fast before slipping the phone back into his pocket without another glance. You did not ask who he had texted, because you already knew. Dana, Robby, probably everyone.

Your eyes followed him silently while he moved around the room, still feeling heavy with exhaustion. Everything still felt slower than normal, like your mind had woken up before the rest of your body had decided to catch up. Even turning your head felt like effort.

Jack had shifted completely into doctor mode now, focused. You watched him glance toward the monitor beside your bed before checking the numbers displayed there. Heart rate. Blood pressure. Oxygen saturation. Familiar numbers. Familiar routine. His hand wrapped gently around your wrist for a few seconds while his eyes moved between you and the monitor. He picked up your chart from the end of the bed, writing a few things down quickly. The room stayed quiet, only the soft beeping beside you filled the silence.

And you found yourself watching him, watching the little things. The way he frowned slightly while concentrating, the way exhaustion still sat heavily beneath his eyes, the way his fingers tightened around the pen for a second before relaxing again.

Then, weakly, almost absentmindedly, you spoke. “How long?” Jack’s movements slowed slightly, and for a second he didn’t answer. Maybe because he wasn’t sure what you meant, or maybe because he already knew. Your eyes stayed fixed somewhere ahead of you, still fogged with exhaustion. “How long since, everything?”

His eyes lifted immediately toward you, and for a brief moment, he simply looked at you. “It’s been five days,” he said quietly. Your eyes moved toward him slowly. “Five days since Pitt Fest.” He paused. “Five days since you got here.” The words settled heavily between you.

Five days. Five entire days had simply disappeared. Five days of darkness. Five days of not knowing. Five days where everyone else had kept living while you had been… nowhere.

Jack looked at you carefully, watching your face while you processed it. “You lost a lot of blood,” he continued softly, his voice keeping that familiar calmness he always used with patients, except this wasn’t really his patient voice anymore. It was gentler than that. Closer. “You coded in Trauma Two.” His eyes dropped briefly before lifting again. “We got you back, but after surgery things were still unstable.”

His hand rested lightly against the bed rail beside you. “You were intubated for a while because your body needed help.” He paused slightly, choosing his words carefully. “And they kept you in an induced coma.” He looked at you for a moment before continuing. “It wasn’t because something was wrong with your brain,” he added quickly, already knowing where your thoughts were probably trying to go. “Your body had just been through too much. The surgeries, blood loss, your heart stopping…” He exhaled quietly. “You needed rest more than anything.”

His eyes softened. “So we let your body do exactly that.” Silence settled between you again, not uncomfortable silence, just…heavy silence. The kind that comes when reality finally catches up. Five days. Five days that Jack had apparently spent sitting beside your bed.

Slowly, Jack moved around to the other side of the bed before looking back at you. His expression softened immediately when he noticed you were still staring at him. “I’m going to check your wound, okay?” he said quietly. You gave a small nod. Jack moved carefully, gently folding the blanket lower with slow movements, making sure not to jostle you too much. Then he lifted the edge of your hospital top just enough to examine the injury.

Your eyes dropped instinctively. A large white dressing covered the left side of your abdomen and lower ribs, secured firmly against your skin. You stared at it for a moment, because seeing it somehow felt different. You remembered the pain, pemembered the blood, remembered your hand pressed against your side while walking into the ER.

But this…this made it real. Because beneath that dressing sat proof that all of it had actually happened. Proof that your heart had stopped and that you almost hadn’t woken up at all.

Jack’s eyes moved carefully over the dressing, checking for bleeding, swelling, any signs of concern. His expression remained calm while he worked, professional.

Jack examined the dressing carefully for a few more seconds, his eyes moving over every detail with the same concentration you had watched him use countless times in the ER. His fingers pressed gently around the edges, checking for swelling, checking for fresh bleeding, checking for anything that could worry him.

Then his shoulders loosened slightly. “That looks good,” he said quietly, looking back at you. “No bleeding, no signs of infection.” Something about hearing him say that made a small knot inside your chest loosen. You hadn’t realized how much you needed to hear that.

Carefully, he lowered your top back into place and pulled the blanket up over you again, making sure you stayed covered before his hand rested briefly over the sheets near your arm. A simple movement, gentle and unconsciously reassuring. Then he picked your chart back up and wrote a few final things down. The room had gone quiet again. You simply watched him from the bed, your eyes still heavy with exhaustion, still studying him while he moved around the room. There was something strangely comforting about it. Watching him work. Watching him exist around you like everything had not nearly fallen apart.

Then suddenly—

The room door opened quickly. The sound cut through the silence so abruptly that both of you looked up immediately, and you flinched slightly against the mattress.

Jack turned first then you did. Dana stood in the doorway and for a moment, she didn’t move. She just stared at you. Her eyes were wide, already shining beneath the dim light of the room, tears gathering there before they had even started falling. One hand was still gripping the door handle while the other had frozen at her side, like she had walked in expecting something completely different and forgotten what to do now that you were actually awake.

She looked at you as if she was trying to convince herself you were real, trying to convince herself she wasn’t imagining this. Trying to make sure you weren’t going to disappear again if she blinked.

You stared back at her. And despite everything hurting, despite the exhaustion weighing down every part of your body, despite the tears still drying on your cheeks…you smiled, small and weak. The exact same way you had looked at Jack only minutes before. And softly, almost shyly, you whispered, “Hey.”

And Dana’s face broke instantly. Whatever composure she had been holding onto for the past three days simply disappeared. She crossed the room before either of you could say anything else. Jack barely had time to step aside. “Dana—” But she was already there.

She reached your bed quickly and leaned down toward you, wrapping her arms around you with all the urgency of someone who had been terrified for days and had finally been given permission to breathe again. Still, even through emotion, she was careful. Always Dana. Her arms circled around your shoulders gently, avoiding your left side immediately, protecting your injuries without even thinking about it. She held you like she was scared of hurting you and scared of letting go at the same time.

You felt her press her face into the side of your head. And then you heard it. Her breathing, loud, uneven and shaky. The kind of breathing people did when they had been holding themselves together for far too long and were suddenly failing at it.

“Oh my God…” she whispered beside your ear. Then again. “Oh my God…” One of her hands moved into your hair, pushing it away from your face automatically. “You scared me so much.” Her voice cracked. “You scared all of us so much.” She laughed weakly through it, though it sounded nothing like an actual laugh. “You absolute idiot…” Her forehead rested against the side of your head now. “You couldn’t just take a vacation like a normal person?” A tear escaped her anyway. Then another. You felt them against your skin, and suddenly your own tears returned too.

Your hand lifted slowly and curled into the fabric at the back of her shirt. You buried your face slightly into her shoulder and closed your eyes. Relief settled somewhere deep inside your chest, relief, and warmth.

Somewhere during the hug, quietly enough that neither of you really noticed it at first, Jack stepped back. He did not interrupt, did not say anything. You only caught the movement from the corner of your eye, a familiar figure crossing the room slowly, giving you both space without making it obvious that he was doing it. Classic Jack.

The door opened softly, then closed again, and suddenly it was just you and Dana. Slowly, she pulled away from the hug, though not without keeping one hand on your arm for an extra second, like she still needed physical proof that you were actually there. She sat carefully on the edge of your bed afterward, turning slightly toward you.

For a moment, she did not speak, she simply looked at you. Her eyes moved over your face, taking in every little detail as if she had to make up for five days of not being able to do this. The dark circles beneath your eyes, your tired expression, the paleness of your skin, the dried tear tracks on your cheeks.

She brushed at her own face quickly then, wiping away tears she had not even realized were still there. Then she laughed softly through a shaky breath, not because something was funny. Just because relief sometimes came out strangely. “You look horrible,” she whispered. Her lips trembled immediately afterward. “And I am so happy to see you.” Her eyes glistened again.

You stared back at her quietly, still exhausted, still emotionally raw, and suddenly it hit you all over again. You had almost never seen Dana cry. Not really, not like this.

Dana was always the one holding things together, always the one standing straight during chaos, always the one comforting everybody else. And now she was sitting beside you trying to wipe tears away while looking at you like she had just gotten something back that she thought she had lost.

You looked at her quietly, your eyes softening almost immediately. Worry sat there first, then guilt. Then that familiar sadness that had followed you around for what felt like forever now. Your fingers curled slightly around hers before your eyes dropped for a second. “I’m sorry…” you whispered again.

Dana immediately sighed. Not an annoyed sigh, a Dana sigh. The kind that carried affection and exhaustion and please stop doing this to yourself all at once. “Oh my God,” she murmured dramatically, shaking her head while taking your hand completely into hers.

“No.” She pointed a finger at you immediately. “No. Absolutely not.” You blinked slowly at her

“No more apologizing,” she continued, narrowing her eyes at you with fake seriousness. You blinked at her.

“Seriously, I’m begging you at this point.” Her voice softened immediately afterward, the small teasing tone still there but weakened by exhaustion and emotion. “If you say sorry one more time, I’m pulling your IV out myself.”

The corner of your mouth lifted slightly, only slightly. But she noticed. Dana stared at you for a moment, looking relieved just to see even the smallest reaction on your face.

Then her expression slowly changed, the smile faded. Not completely but just enough. She lowered your hands carefully into your lap but kept holding them. “So…what happened?” she asked quietly.

You looked down for a second. “There isn’t really much to say,” you answered softly, your voice still rough. “I went out walking and…” You swallowed slightly. “…I passed by the festival.”

Dana immediately shook her head. “No.” You looked up. Her eyes were fixed on you now, serious. “What happened before that?” Silence. You just stared at her, because you knew. You knew exactly what she meant. And judging by the way she was looking at you, she knew that you knew.

You looked back down at your hands slowly. Dana watched you for a few seconds, then she sighed quietly. “I know something happened.” Her voice was softer now, gentler. “Jack told me.”

You stayed still and Dana looked away for a moment, shaking her head slightly. “I kept asking questions,” she admitted quietly. “I was stressed, okay? I was scared and angry and completely losing my mind because nobody was telling me anything.” She laughed weakly through her nose. “And every time I asked how you ended up walking around alone and bleeding half to death, Jack kept giving me these vague answers.”

She looked back at you. “But I kept pushing.” Her hand squeezed yours gently. “So eventually…” she paused, exhaling quietly, “he told me.”

Silence filled the room again, not uncomfortable, not angry, just…heavy. Dana looked at you carefully. “I know about you and Jack.” Her voice stayed soft. “I know about the apartment.” Then her eyes softened even more, trying to catch your eyes. “And I know he spent the last five days sitting beside your bed looking like he forgot how to be a human being.”

You stayed looking at your hands because suddenly they had become very interesting, because looking at Dana right now felt a little too hard. And because some part of you already knew what she was going to ask next.

She did not rush to fill the silence. She knew you too well for that. She knew that when things became too heavy, too personal, you had a habit of retreating somewhere inside yourself, disappearing behind thoughts and walls and silence.

So she simply looked at you. Her thumb slowly brushed over the back of your hand while she watched you stare down at your lap. Then she sighed softly, not out of frustration, just out of sadness.

“Do you love him?” There it was. The question.

Not do you like him?

Not what happened between you two?

Not are you together?

Just that, simple, direct.

The room suddenly felt quieter, the monitors kept beeping beside you, footsteps moved somewhere far outside the room, a cart rolled by in the hallway. Normal sounds, normal life continuing.But inside the room, everything felt suspended.

Your eyes stayed on your hands. You did not answer. Because you couldn’t. Not because you wanted to avoid it, not because you were hiding, but because you genuinely did not know. Or maybe…maybe you did know. Maybe that was the problem.

Your mind replayed things automatically. Jack showing up in the middle of the night without hesitation. His voice telling you that you were okay. Him remembering your address. Apparently sleeping beside your hospital bed for five days. Looking terrified while you were dying. Looking relieved when you woke up.

Your throat tightened and you swallowed slowly. “I…” The word came out weak, then nothing. Your eyes burned again, you shook your head slightly. “I don’t know…”

And it was honest, painfully honest. Because you really didn’t know. Or maybe you just didn’t know how to say it out loud yet.

Dana looked at you for a long moment, really looked at you. Then the smallest smile appeared on her face. Because somehow, she had the feeling your silence had answered more than your words ever did.

Dana looked at you for a few seconds longer, her expression softening as she watched you struggle with thoughts you could not even put into words yet. She had known you for too long, long enough to know when you were confused, long enough to know when you were scared. And long enough to know that pushing you now would only make you retreat again.

So instead of asking more questions, instead of trying to pull answers out of you, she simply lifted her hand and gently moved a loose strand of hair away from your face, tucking it carefully behind your ear. The movement was slow, comforting, familiar. The kind of touch that asked for nothing.

“You don’t have to figure it out right now,” she said quietly. Your eyes lifted toward her. Dana smiled. Not a big smile, just a small one, warm and tired around the edges.

“Don’t worry so much about it.” Her hand stayed resting against your cheek for another second before dropping back down into her lap. “You’ll know.”

You looked at her silently, confused, still carrying that uncertainty tightly inside your chest. Dana let out a small breath through her nose. “You always do eventually,” she continued softly. “You just have this really annoying habit of taking the longest possible route to get there.”

That earned the tiniest reaction from you. Then she carefully pushed herself up from the side of your bed. The mattress shifted beside you as she stood, adjusting her scrubs absentmindedly before looking back down at you. “Right now,” she said, pointing gently toward you, “your only job is to rest.” Her expression softened again. “I’ll come back later today.”

Then after a small pause, she leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss against your forehead. “And for the love of God,” she added quietly, brushing her fingers through your hair one last time, “stop almost dying. You’re terrible at it.”

You watched her walk toward the door slowly, still exhausted, still emotional, your eyes following her figure. She looked at you, making sure you were still there, making sure your eyes were still open. Then she smiled again, and left.

Taglist ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

@slowburnsky @gandalfthegoatsblog @nosebeers @chaotic-taco-collector-blog @yosoylaprincesa2004 @thehockeynerd30 @slut4jackabbottt @torntaltos @jennataurus @pinkgarnet @stoptheinnocence @lacy1986 @itwas-maroon16 @lonelyghosts-stuff @wwhitenednostalgia

[sole-jpeg]

Somewhere Between Hate And Whatever This Is — Jack Abbot

(Chapter 15/?)

pairing : jack abbot / f!reader

words count : 5k

previous chapters : Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14

summary : The night shift at the Pitt teaches you two things very quickly: how to keep people alive, and how to survive the ones you can’t.

You are a newly assigned intern doctor who is brilliant, stubborn, and entirely incapable of backing down — which becomes a serious problem when your supervising attending, Jack Abbot, seems to make a sport out of challenging you at every possible opportunity. Between impossible trauma cases, sleepless nights, and arguments sharp enough to cut through the entire ER, the rivalry between them slowly turns into something far more dangerous.

contain : enemies to lovers, rivals, slow burn, sarcasm, mentions of medical trauma, injuries, potential death, blood.

a/n : so sorry for the late update but I feel better now so here’s the new chapter !!!!! Alexa…play Lover, You Should’ve Come Over by Jeff Buckley……. 🥲

archiveofourown link Spotify playlist link

Chapter 15 : I’m Sorry

“Jack…”

The name barely existed by the time it left your lips. A whisper, a breath, a surrender. For a second the entire world seemed to pause. Not because anyone else heard how different it sounded, but because you did. It had never been Jack, always Abbot, always distance, always another layer between you, a wall, a defense. Something safe.

But standing there beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, exhausted and bleeding and barely conscious, none of those defenses existed anymore. And somehow “Jack” felt right, the only thing that felt right.

Then your legs gave out, completely without warning, no chance to catch yourself. One moment you were standing, and the next the floor rushed toward you. The last of your strength vanished. Gone. Your knees buckled. The room tilted violently, and suddenly you were falling.

“Y/N!” The scream echoed through the department. Several voices at once. Dana, Robby, someone else. But one voice cut through everything. “Y/N!” Jack.

You never hit the floor alone. By the time your body collapsed, he was already moving, one second he was across the nurses’ station, the next he was there.

Dropping to his knees beside you so hard they struck the floor. His hands were immediately on you, steady, careful, one hand supporting your shoulder, the other pushing your hair away from your face.

His fingers trembled, just slightly. Enough that you noticed, enough that he probably didn’t.

“Hey.” The word sounded strained, terrified. Far more terrified than you had ever heard Jack Abbot sound. “Hey, look at me.” Your vision swam, blurred. But eventually you found him, found his face, his eyes, the fear inside them.

Behind him Dana appeared, then Robby, then half the department. “What happened?” Dana was already kneeling, already assessing, already seeing things she didn’t like, very much didn’t like.

“Get a stretcher!” Robby’s voice exploded across the ER. “Now!” Everything happened at once, people moving, running. The controlled calm of the emergency department vanishing instantly.

Because now the emergency wasn’t in Trauma Three, or Room Twelve, or any of the remaining Pitt Fest victims.

Now it was you. You were the last remaining Pitt Fest victims.

After Jack left your apartment, you stayed exactly where you were. At first on the balcony floor, then eventually in your bed, still wearing the same clothes, still hearing his words.

“You never ask how long they spent trying to stay.”

You slept, woke up, cried, stared at the ceiling, slept again. The apartment felt unbearable, every room carried traces of him. The blanket, the scent lingering on the couch, the memory of his hands, the memory of him leaving.

By late afternoon, the walls felt like they were closing in, so you left. No destination, no plan. Just walking. Because moving hurt less than thinking. You wandered through streets without paying attention to where you were going.

Hours passed, people moved around you, you barely noticed. Until eventually you heard music, crowds and voices. Pitt Fest. You hadn’t even realized where your feet had taken you. For a moment you considered turning around.

Then the gunshots started and everything changed instantly. Screams. Panic. People running. Bodies hitting the ground. The world exploding into chaos. And every instinct inside you took over. Resident, doctor, protector.

You were moving before you even consciously decided to, pulling people to safety, applying pressure to wounds, keeping terrified victims conscious, directing others, improvising triage.

The same way you’d done a hundred times before. Only this time there were dozens.

Then came the impact, a sudden punch against your side. So violent it stole your breath. For a second you didn’t understand. Then the heat arrived, the pain, the realization…you’d been shot. But adrenaline was already flooding your system, drowning everything.

So you ignored it, pressing a hand against your side, telling yourself it wasn’t that bad, telling everyone else it wasn’t that bad. Focused on the people around you, a teenager crying for his mother, a woman losing blood, someone trapped beneath fallen equipment. You kept helping, kept moving, kept working. Because there were people worse off than you, because there always were.

Hours passed, blood soaked your clothes, and your vision slowly worsened. The adrenaline slowly faded but you kept telling yourself: One more patient, one more ambulance, one more person.

By the time the final victims were transported, the crowd was gone, the sirens were gone, the gunman was gone. And suddenly there was nobody left to save…only you. And for the first time you were forced to acknowledge the blood covering your hand, the weakness, the dizziness, the fact that every step hurt. The fact that maybe…maybe you had waited too long.

Still, instead of calling an ambulance, instead of calling for help, instead of calling Dana or Robby or anyone else, you did what you always did. You kept going, alone. Walking yourself to the hospital, until eventually the bright lights of the ER appeared in front of you. The place where you always brought everyone else. Never imagining you’d arrive there as the patient.

And by the look on Jack’s face when he saw the blood between your fingers—maybe you should have come sooner.

Jack’s hand slid lower toward your side, toward the hand you’d been pressing there for hours. And then he felt it, the wetness, the warmth. His eyes dropped, followed the trail, saw your fingers, saw the blood. So much blood. For a moment he stopped breathing. The color disappeared from his face. “No.” The word escaped him before he could stop it. A whisper, a denial.

Dana saw it too. Her expression immediately changed. “Oh my God.”

You wanted to tell them it was okay, wanted to tell them not to look at you like that, wanted to explain, but your thoughts felt heavy. Slow and distant.

The lights above seemed impossibly bright, the sounds around you stretched and warped. Somewhere nearby a stretcher appeared, people shouting, someone calling for supplies, for trauma, for blood. The entire department moving around you but none of it felt real anymore.

The only thing that felt real was Jack, still kneeling beside you, still holding onto you. As if letting go wasn’t an option. As if the sight of you lying there had cracked something open inside him. His hand tightened slightly around yours, not enough to hurt but just enough to remind himself you were still there.

“Stay with me.” His voice was low, raw, almost pleading. And for the first time since you’d walked through those doors— The fear in his eyes was worse than the pain. Someone was pushing a stretcher closer, Dana was asking questions, Robby was barking orders. But all of it felt distant, far away. Like it was happening on the other side of a wall.

You were crying now. You hadn’t even realized it at first, tears slipped silently down your cheeks, mixing with sweat, with exhaustion, with everything you’d been holding inside since that morning. Your hands shook, both of them stained dark red, blood covered your fingers. Your sleeves, your clothes, your skin. Some of it was yours. A lot of it wasn’t. Victims, atients, eople you’d tried to save, hours of trying to keep everyone alive painted across your hands. You looked down at them, for a second you could still see Pitt Fest, still hear the screaming, still smell gunpowder.

Then another wave of dizziness hit. Your head rolled slightly. Your eyes searched for him again, Jack. Still kneeling beside you, still holding you together.

You swallowed, your voice barely worked, “O negative.” It came out weak, automatic, professional. The resident in you speaking before the patient could. “They’ll need O negative…”

Jack’s eyes snapped back to your face and whatever words he’d been about to say vanished, because he was looking at you now, really looking. And you could see it, the panic. Not concern, not worry. Panic. Raw and unfiltered. The kind he’d spent years learning how to hide, the kind you’d almost never seen.

His jaw tightened, his hand moved to the side of your face, trying to keep your attention on him, trying to keep you present. “Stay with me.” His voice sounded steady but his eyes weren’t. You stared at him and suddenly another sob escaped, because you knew that look, you knew exactly what it meant… you were scaring him. The realization hurt worse than the wound.

“I’m sorry.” The words slipped out immediately, a broken whisper. Jack’s expression shattered. “No.”

“I’m sorry.” Tears continued falling. “I’m sorry.” Again, and again and again, like you couldn’t stop, like the words were stuck inside you. Jack shook his head immediately. “Y/N—”

“I’m sorry.” His hand tightened slightly against your cheek. “Stop.” But you couldn’t, because it wasn’t about the blood or the gunshot, or even the fact that you’d walked into the ER half-dead. It was everything, the apartment, the balcony, the argument, the silence. Watching him leave, the phone calls you never answered, the fact that the last thing he’d heard from you before tonight had been you pushing him away.

And now here he was, holding you together while you bled in his arms. You saw the moment he understood, the moment the pieces connected. His eyes softened just slightly, and somehow that hurt even more. Because he knew, he knew exactly what you were apologizing for. Not for making him work, not for being injured. For him, for what happened between you, for every wall you’d built, for every time you’d pushed him away, for making him leave.

Your breathing grew faster, shallower as panic climbed higher. Jack immediately noticed. “Hey.” His voice dropped lower, gentler, closer. “Look at me.”

You tried, you really did but the fear in his eyes was still there, and that terrified you more than anything. Because Jack Abbot wasn’t supposed to panic. Jack Abbot was supposed to know what to do, yet right now he looked like a man trying desperately not to lose something…or someone.

“Y/N.” His forehead almost touched yours, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re not allowed to apologize right now.” Another tear slid down your cheek.

The stretcher finally reached you, people crowded around, hands moving, preparing to lift you. “On three.” Robby’s voice cut through the chaos. “One. Two. Three.” Together, Jack, Robby, and Dana carefully lifted you from the floor. Even that small movement sent a sharp wave of pain through your side, your face twisted immediately, a strained sound escaping before you could stop it.

Jack noticed and his hand immediately moved to stabilize you. “Easy.” The word was almost automatic, protective. The stretcher slid underneath and the second your weight settled onto it, the team was already moving, fast.

The wheels rattled against the floor, staff stepped aside instantly, everyone recognizing the urgency. “Trauma Two!” Robby shouted.

The room was ready before they arrived, the stretcher rolled through the doors, bright lights flooded your vision, the familiar room felt strangely foreign from this angle. You’d stood here hundreds of times, but never like this, never on the bed, never looking up at everyone else.

The brakes locked. Immediately the room exploded into motion. Perlah appeared at your side, Princess on the opposite. Both moving with the efficiency of people who had done this a thousand times.

“Pulse ox.” “On.”

“Blood pressure.” “Running.”

“Cardiac monitor.” “Connected.”

Cold adhesive pads were pressed against your skin, leads attached across your chest, a pulse oximeter clipped onto your finger. The monitor above you immediately came alive.

Rapid heart rate. Oxygen levels. Blood pressure.

Numbers appearing one after another, none of them particularly reassuring. Princess was already placing oxygen tubing beneath your nose. “Deep breaths for me.” You tried but the attempt ended in another wince. Perlah didn’t hesitate, trauma shears appeared in her hand. “Sorry.”

The apology came automatically then she cut straight through your shirt, the fabric fell away. Exposing blood-soaked clothing underneath and then the wound. The room changed instantly, the atmosphere shifted. Not panic, but urgency.

A deep red stain covered most of your left side, blood had soaked through layers of fabric continuing seeping despite the pressure you’d maintained. Princess immediately pressed fresh gauze against it. Your entire body tensed, pain flashed white-hot through your abdomen. “There it is.” Robby’s voice, focused, clinical. “Single entry wound.” Jack stood beside the bed, his face unreadable to everyone except perhaps Dana. Because Dana could see it. The effort it was taking him to remain the physician instead of becoming something else, something personal.

“How long ago?” Robby asked. Nobody answered immediately, because nobody knew. Jack looked down at you. “Y/N.” His voice was calm, steady, professional. But his eyes weren’t. “How long ago were you shot?”

You blinked trying to think. Time felt strange, meaningless. “Pitt Fest…” The answer immediately made several heads turn. Dana’s expression dropped, Robby swore under his breath, Jack went completely still. Because Pitt Fest had started hours ago. Hours. Not minutes. Hours. The realization landed heavily in the room. You had been walking around with this wound for hours. Helping victims, refusing treatment, bleeding.

The monitor continued beeping rapidly overhead. Jack looked at the blood covering your side, then at your pale skin, then at the blood pressure reading, then back at you. His jaw tightened. “O negative.” The order came instantly. “Now.”

A nurse was already moving. Princess replaced another soaked dressing, perlah started a second large-bore IV. Fluids were connected, blood tubes drawn, lab labels printed. Everything happening simultaneously. The room moving around you like a machine, and through all of it, Jack never stepped away from the bedside, not once, not even for a second.

Your breathing was getting worse, too fast, too shallow. Every breath felt incomplete like no matter how much air you pulled in, it wasn’t enough. The monitor above you reflected it immediately. Heart rate climbing, respirations increasing. The oxygen tubing beneath your nose doing little to stop the panic threatening to overwhelm everything.

Robby looked up from the wound, he recognized it instantly. Not just pain, not just blood loss. It was fear, exhaustion, shock. “She’s spiraling.” His eyes moved toward Dana. “Dana.”

That was all he needed to say. Dana was already moving, stepping around the bed and came to your left side, away from the wound, away from the procedures, away from the blood. She took your hand in hers, firmly, warmly. Grounding you. “Hey.” Her voice was calm, steady. The same voice she’d used with terrified patients for years. The same voice she’d used with you more times than either of you could count.“Look at me.”

You tried, tears continued sliding down your cheeks, you couldn’t seem to stop them. Dana squeezed your hands gently. “Good.” One hand released yours briefly. She brushed damp hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear. A simple gesture, one that felt strangely comforting. “Stay with me.”

You stared at her, your vision blurred, sharpened, blurred again. The room around you continued moving. People talking, machines beeping, Jack giving orders, Princess working, Perlah hanging blood, but Dana remained perfectly still. “Follow me.” She exaggerated a slow breath. “In.”

You tried, your chest shook. The breath caught halfway, pain flared immediately, a tear escaped. “I’m trying.” Your voice cracked.

“I know.” Dana’s thumb brushed gently across your knuckles. “I know.” Another breath, slow, controlled. Dana demonstrated again. “Just look at me.” You did and suddenly you felt very young, not because Dana treated you that way but because you were tired. So unbelievably tired. Hours of adrenaline were crashing all at once, the fight was disappearing. Leaving only pain, fear and heartbreak.

Your eyes remained fixed on hers, tears continuing to fall. There was so much you wanted to say but none of it seemed possible. Dana’s expression softened. She knew you, well enough to recognize the look, the sadness, the guilt, the exhaustion, the loneliness. All of it.

“You don’t need to talk right now.” Your lower lip trembled, another breath, another failed attempt to stop crying. Across the bed, Jack glanced up briefly, his eyes finding yours, then Dana’s, then returning immediately to work. But not before Dana saw it, the fear is still there, still growing.

You followed his movement watching him. And somehow that made everything worse.

Because he was here still here after everything. After the apartment, after the balcony, after you told him to leave. A fresh sob escaped, small and broken. Dana immediately squeezed your hands. “Hey.” Your eyes returned to her. “You stay with me.” Another slow breath. “In.” You copied her, this time slightly better. “There you go.” Her hand moved to your forehead brushing away more hair. The same way someone might comfort family. Not a coworker, not a resident. Family.

You looked up at her, sadness filling your eyes. And for a moment Dana’s heart broke, because she had known you for months. Had seen you angry, brilliant, stubborn, terrifying, determined. But she’d never saw you look this lost. And as tears continued slipping down your face, she held onto your hands a little tighter. Refusing to let you drift away while the rest of the team fought to keep you alive.

While Dana kept your focus anchored on her, Robby and Jack were entirely focused on the injury. The wound sat along your left side, just above your hip, an awkward location. One that made neither of them happy. Especially given how long you’d been walking around with it. Princess peeled back another blood-soaked dressing immediately replacing it with fresh gauze.

More blood welled up. Not pouring, not spurting, but enough. Far too much for someone who had already lost blood for hours. Robby leaned closer carefully examining the wound. “Single entry.” His voice remained calm, professional. “No obvious exit.”

Jack was already gloved. His hands moving automatically. Years of trauma experience taking over, yet there was a tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there earlier. Not when he was treating strangers. Only now, only with you. “Let’s see what we’ve got.” The words were directed at the wound, not you. Because if he looked at your face for too long, it became harder to remain objective.

Robby applied pressure around the area, carefully, methodically. Trying to determine the path, trying to estimate internal damage. You immediately flinched and a sharp gasp escaping your lips. Dana squeezed your hand. “You’re okay.” No, you weren’t, everyone in the room knew that but the reassurance came anyway. Jack’s eyes flicked briefly toward the monitor. Blood pressure lower than he liked, heart rate still too fast.

The first unit of O negative arrived. Princess immediately connected it, dark red blood beginning its journey through the IV line. Jack watched it for a moment, then returned his attention to the wound. “We need imaging.” Robby nodded immediately. “FAST exam first.” The ultrasound machine was already being rolled into the room. Perlah positioned it beside the bed. Gel, probe, preparation. Everything moving quickly, efficiently.The way trauma teams functioned.

Robby took the probe, applied cold gel against your abdomen, his eyes fixed on the screen, searching, analyzing. The room grew quieter, everyone watching, waiting. The ultrasound image flickered, gray, black, shifting shapes.

Robby moved the probe carefully checking each view, checking for blood, checking for fluid where it shouldn’t be. Jack watched the monitor over his shoulder. Neither man spoke for several seconds, which was somehow worse. Because silence in a trauma room usually meant thinking, not relaxing.

Finally Robby exhaled, not relief and panic, but something in between. “We’ve got fluid.” The room instantly tightened again.

Jack’s jaw clenched. “How much?”

“Enough.” Not the answer anyone wanted. Enough meant internal bleeding, enough meant surgery might become necessary, enough meant the bullet had done more damage than you’d hoped.

Dana saw the change immediately, she saw Robby’s expression, she saw Jack’s. And tightened her grip on your hands. Across the bed, Jack pressed fresh gauze against the wound, applying firm pressure trying to slow bleeding that had already stolen hours from you.

His movements remained controlled and precise but underneath them was urgency. The kind that couldn’t be hidden anymore. Because every new piece of information led to the same conclusion. You hadn’t just been shot, you’d been shot hours ago then spent the evening walking, working, treating victims.

Robby shook his head slightly. “We need to drain what we can and get a better look at where that bullet ended up.” He was already moving. Princess was opening sterile supplies. Perlah was preparing additional instruments. The blood transfusion continued beside the bed, dark red flowing steadily through the tubing into your arm. Jack remained at your right side, close enough to touch, close enough to see every change in your face.

The fresh gauze over the wound was already stained, more blood, more evidence of what hours of untreated bleeding had done. A sterile drape was placed around your side, the area cleaned quickly and efficiently. Everyone working with the practiced rhythm of people who had done this countless times before. Only this time the patient was one of their own.

You felt hands against your skin, pressure, movement, the cold sting of antiseptic. Robby explained anyway even though you already knew, even though you were a doctor. “Stay with us.” His voice remained calm. “We’re going to remove some of the fluid that’s collecting.”

You nodded weakly, or at least tried to. The room kept drifting in and out of focus.Dana still held one of your hands refusing to leave your side. “You’re doing good.” You weren’t sure if that was true, you weren’t sure of much anymore. The pressure in your abdomen felt unbearable, like something heavy was crushing you from the inside.

Robby worked carefully guided by imaging, trying to relieve pressure, trying to determine the extent of the damage, trying to buy you more time. Because ultimately they all knew the same thing. If the bullet had damaged something significant, this room would only be a stop on the way to the OR.

Jack’s attention never left the monitors for long. Heart rate. Blood pressure. Oxygen. Respirations. Constantly watching, constantly calculating. Then something changed, the monitor gave a sharper beep. Jack looked up immediately. The number climbing, higher, and faster. Another beep, then another, the rhythm becoming more urgent, more aggressive.

Robby noticed it too. “What’s her pressure?”

Princess read the screen. The answer wasn’t good. Jack was already looking at you, really looking. Your face, your eyes, your breathing, because that was changing too. The rapid breaths from earlier were gone and now each breath seemed harder to find. Long pauses between them, like your body was forgetting, like it was getting tired…too tired.

Dana felt it first. The hand she’d been holding seemed weaker, limp. Your grip disappearing. “Y/N.” Dana’s voice sharpened immediately. Your eyes found her, slowly. Like the request had to travel a long distance to reach you. Everything felt distant now, the lights above, the voices, the people. Even the pain, especially the pain. It wasn’t disappearing, it was just getting farther away.

Jack’s stomach dropped, because he knew that look. Every physician in the room knew it. The dangerous moment when someone stops fighting because they don’t have enough energy left.

“Hey.” Jack moved closer immediately. “Stay with me.”

Your eyes shifted toward him, heavy, so heavy. The effort seemed enormous. The monitor screamed another warning, faster now, more insistent. Princess glanced at the screen, then at Robby, then back at Jack. No one liked what they were seeing.

“Y/N.” Jack’s voice was firm now, not pleading, commanding. The attending physician taking over, the one who refused to lose patients. “Look at me.” He took your face in his hands making you look at him, and you tried. Your eyelids felt impossibly heavy, like someone had attached weights to them, every blink lasted longer than the last, the room blurred, sharpened then blurred again.

Dana’s grip tightened. “Stay here.” Your breathing slowed again, another pause too long. The monitor immediately reacted. A chorus of alarms beginning to rise around the room. And for the first time since you’d walked into the emergency department, real fear spread across every face in Trauma Two. Because suddenly it wasn’t just about the bullet anymore, it was about keeping you awake long enough to survive it.

The room was fading, the lights above had become nothing more than pale blurs. Voices echoed from somewhere far away.

Dana’s hand around yours, Robby’s orders, Princess moving, Perlah hanging another unit of blood. None of it felt real anymore.

Then you find him through the haze. Jack, standing beside the bed. Watching you, refusing to look away. The same eyes that had watched you walk into the ER. The same eyes that had watched you push him away. The same eyes that were now terrified of losing you.

Your lips parted. The effort felt enormous, every ounce of energy you had left. “Jack…”

His head immediately lowered closer. “I’m here.” The answer came instantly without hesitation. “I’m here.”

Your eyes filled again, one final tear slipping down your cheek. A weak breath escaped, barely audible. “I’m…sorry…”

Jack’s face broke, completely. “No.” The word came out rough, immediate and desperate. “No.” But your eyes were already closing, too heavy. And this time they didn’t open again. The monitor changed. One heartbeat. Then another. Then nothing. A single continuous tone filled the room. A long—

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.

For one fraction of a second, nobody moved. The sound seemed impossible, unreal, wrong. Then the entire room exploded.

“She’s coding!”

“Start compressions!”

“Move!”

The stretcher shook as people repositioned instantly. Dana stumbled backward, shock flooding her face, Robby was already moving around the bed, Princess reaching for the crash cart, Perlah grabbing equipment, the long tone continued screaming through Trauma Two.

Jack didn’t hesitate, not for a second as he was already climbing onto the side of the bed before anyone finished speaking, already placing his hands at the center of your chest, already positioning himself. His face had gone completely white but his voice remained sharp. “Starting compressions.” His hands came down hard, your body jolted beneath the force.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

The rhythm began immediately, fast, precise and relentless. The way he’d done hundreds of times before. Thousands. “Come on.” The words escaped before he could stop them.

Another compression.

Another.

Another.

Blood stained his gloves, his sleeves, his forearms, but he didn’t care. “Charge the defibrillator.” Robby was already checking rhythm, calling medications and rrunning the code. But for the first time in years, Robby felt something close to panic clawing at his chest.

Dana stood frozen for half a second, watching, unable to reconcile what she was seeing. Then training took over, she moved. Everyone moved.

But Jack never stopped compressions, never stopped talking, never stopped fighting. Every push forced blood through a body that refused to do it itself, every push accompanied by one thought.

One prayer.

One desperate demand.

Not her.

Not now.

Not after all this.

Not after she’d finally come back.

Not after she’d said his name.

The monitor remained flat, the room moved faster, the code intensified and Jack kept pressing down against your chest as if he could physically force your heart to remember how to beat.

He never stopped. His hands remained locked together at the center of your chest, pressing down with controlled force over and over again. The movement had become rhythmic. Mechanical almost.

Down.

Release.

Down.

Release.

Down.

Release.

Your body moved beneath every compression, shoulders shifting slightly against the mattress, your head turning just barely from the force of it.

The room around him had gone strangely quiet, ot truly quiet, machines still beeped, packaging still tore open, people still moved but it felt quieter. Like everyone was holding their breath without realizing it, like nobody wanted to be the first one to think about what happened if this didn’t work.

Jack didn’t look at anyone, not Robby, not Dana, not the monitor. Only you, only your face. Nothing mattered except keeping blood moving through your body, keeping oxygen reaching your brain, keeping you here.

“Rhythm check.” Robby’s voice cut through the room.

Immediately Jack stopped compressions and everyone stepped back slightly, nobody spoke, nobody moved. The room seemed to freeze around the monitor.

The green line flickered.

Moved. Paused. Changed.

Robby stared. Princess stared. Dana stared. Jack stared.

For one second—

Two—

Three—

Nothing.

Jack’s jaw tightened. “Resume.” His hands immediately returned to your chest.

Again.

Again.

Again.

No hesitation. No pause, like stopping even for a second felt dangerous, like if he stopped moving, something horrible would catch up to him.

Princess was already standing beside the defibrillator, hands hovering over the controls, eyes moving between Robby and the screen. “Charging.”

The machine released its familiar high-pitched sound. The noise instantly tightened something inside everyone’s chest, because everyone knew that sound and everyone hated that sound.

Dana stood near your shoulder, hands pressed together against her mouth now.

Robby’s face had gone hard, professional, but his eyes kept drifting toward Jack. Because he’d known Jack for years, long enough to see things nobody else noticed, and right now he could see it. Jack was scared, actually scared. Not worried or concerned. Scared.

The machine finished charging. “Ready.”

Robby looked around the bed. “Clear.”

Hands lifted instantly and everyone stepped back. Silence swallowed the room whole. Jack’s eyes stayed fixed on you. Your face, our closed eyes, the tear track still visible against your cheek.

Then your body jerked beneath the shock, just slightly.

And immediately every eye in the room snapped back toward the monitor.

Nobody breathed, nobody moved, nobody said a word. Because now came the worst part. Waiting.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Too long, far too long. Jack stared at the screen.

Because everyone in Trauma Two knew that the next thing they heard—

The next sound—

The next heartbeat—

Could either bring you back… or take you away completely.

Taglist ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

@slowburnsky @gandalfthegoatsblog @nosebeers @chaotic-taco-collector-blog @yosoylaprincesa2004 @thehockeynerd30 @slut4jackabbottt @torntaltos @jennataurus @pinkgarnet @stoptheinnocence @lacy1986 @itwas-maroon16

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Guys I’m almost done with the next chapter w_w im doing my best to post it today, sorry that I left with a cliffhanger like this haha

[sole-jpeg]

Somewhere Between Hate And Whatever This Is inspo board 💉

(Sorry guys I can’t post the next chapter cause I’ve been sick for the past 4 days so I couldn’t really write :( so instead here’s my little inspo/mood board for this work 🫣)

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Somewhere Between Hate And Whatever This Is — Jack Abbot

(Chapter 14/?)

pairing : jack abbot / f!reader

words count : 5.6k

previous chapters : Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13

summary : The night shift at the Pitt teaches you two things very quickly: how to keep people alive, and how to survive the ones you can’t.

You are a newly assigned intern doctor who is brilliant, stubborn, and entirely incapable of backing down — which becomes a serious problem when your supervising attending, Jack Abbot, seems to make a sport out of challenging you at every possible opportunity. Between impossible trauma cases, sleepless nights, and arguments sharp enough to cut through the entire ER, the rivalry between them slowly turns into something far more dangerous.

contain : enemies to lovers, rivals, slow burn, sarcasm, mentions of medical trauma, injuries, blood, argument.

a/n : yay new chapter…Alexa play The Cut That Always Bleeds by Conan Gray 🥲

archiveofourown link Spotify playlist link

Chapter 14 : No Answer

A coward.

That was the first coherent thought that had managed to survive the night.

A coward.

The word had been sitting in your chest for nearly an hour now, heavy and impossible to ignore. The morning air was cool against your skin as you sat on the floor of your balcony.

Barefoot. Your knees pulled up beneath your chin and your arms wrapped tightly around your legs.

The city stretched out in front of you, quiet, but not sleeping, not anymore. The sun was beginning its slow climb over the skyline, painting the buildings in pale gold and soft orange.

Down below, life was already moving. A delivery truck rumbled through an intersection, a cyclist cut through nearly empty streets, lights flickered on in apartment windows.

Some people were waking up, others had never gone to sleep. Somewhere, nurses were ending their shifts, somewhere else, residents were starting theirs.

You stared at the horizon andthought about the fact that Jack was still inside, still asleep.

At least you thought he was, you hadn’t checked, you couldn’t bring yourself to. Because the moment you looked at him, everything would become real again.

The kisses, the night, the way you’d fallen asleep against his chest, the way he’d held you.

You squeezed your arms tighter around your legs. A coward. Because he’d wanted to talk, and you hadn’t.He’d been ready to ask the questions, the difficult ones, the necessary ones.

And you’d stopped him.

Don’t talk. Let’s just stay like this.

At the time it had felt like exactly what you needed, now it felt suspiciously close to running away.

The irony wasn’t lost on you. You, the woman who had marched into trauma bays and operating rooms and impossible situations without hesitation. You, who had risked your career four days ago because standing by had felt worse than acting.

And yet one honest conversation with Jack Abbot had sent you fleeing to the balcony before sunrise. You let out a humorless laugh, the sound disappeared into the morning air.

What exactly were you afraid of? That he’d regret it? That you’d regret it? That the answer to what happens now? might be something neither of you wanted to hear?

The balcony door remained closed behind you, quiet and still.

You hadn’t heard movement yet but somehow you were aware of him anyway, of his presence inside the apartment and the fact that for the first time since you’d met him, there was no professional distance left to hide behind. No pretending, no misunderstanding, no unfinished tension.

You didn’t know. That was the worst part. If you regretted it, at least there would be certainty. If you knew it had been the right thing, there would be certainty too. But there was nothing, just confusion.

A thousand emotions tangled together so tightly that you couldn’t separate one from another.

Was it a mistake? Maybe.

Was it the right thing? Maybe.

Did you regret it?

The question circled endlessly in your mind. And every time you tried to answer it, the answer changed. You lowered your forehead onto your knees, closing your eyes.

Trying to think, trying not to think. None of it worked because every path led back to the same place…him.

The feeling of waking up and realizing he was still there. The memory of falling asleep against him. The terrifying reality that what had happened wasn’t some fantasy anymore.

It existed now, inthe daylight, in the real world. And suddenly you felt uncomfortable in your own skin, likeyou didn’t know where to put your hands, didn’t know where to put your thoughts, didn’t know who you were supposed to be now.

The resident? The woman who had spent months arguing with him? The woman who had spent the night in his arms? You didn’t know.

The apartment behind you remained quiet. Until it didn’t.A faint sound, movement. The soft creak of the mattress. Your heart immediately tightened. You froze. Then came footsteps, slow and unhurried.

Of course he would wake up, of course he would notice you were gone, of course he would come looking. For a brief second, you considered getting up, going back inside, pretending to be normal. Pretending you weren’t currently having an existential crisis on your own balcony.

Instead, you stayed exactly where you were, curled into yourself, arms wrapped tightly around your legs as though making yourself smaller might somehow protect you.

The footsteps moved through the apartment then the balcony door slid open behind you. The sound seemed impossibly loud in the quiet morning. For a moment, neither of you spoke and you didn’t turn around, you couldn’t.

You stared stubbornly at the city instead, at the traffic, the rooftops, anything but him.

You heard his footsteps cross the balcony, then stop. The silence stretched between you, like both of you were standing at the edge of a conversation neither one knew how to begin, and somehow, without even looking at him, you knew he was watching you.

Jack sat down beside you quietly, close enough that you could feel his presence. You still didn’t look at him, you couldn’t. Because the second you did, all the thoughts you had been desperately trying to keep organized would fall apart again.

The silence stretched, the city continued waking up below, cars moved through intersections, people started their days.

And neither of you knew what to do with this one. After a while, you felt him shift. Then, carefully, slowly, his hand came to rest against your arm.

A simple touch, gentle and tentative. The kind of touch that was asking a question rather than making a demand.

You flinched, only slightly but enough, enough for him to feel it, enough for you to hate yourself for it immediately afterward.

Several seconds passed, neither of you speaking, neither of you moving. Then suddenly you couldn’t do it anymore, so you pulled away. Getting to your feet before your courage failed. The movement forced his hand to fall away, the loss of contact felt immediate.

You crossed the balcony before you could stop yourself, putting distance between you, putting distance between the questions waiting in his eyes.

You stopped near the railing staring out over the city, your arms folding tightly across your chest, protective, maybe defensive..

Behind you knew he was looking at you. You knew he was trying to understand what had just happened. And maybe that was exactly why you couldn’t turn around. Because if you saw the hurt on his face, you weren’t sure you’d survive it.

Your throat tightened, the words came out rougher than you intended. “I think…I think you should leave.” The moment they left your mouth, the balcony seemed to go completely still. Even the city noise felt distant.

Behind you, Jack didn’t answer immediately. And somehow the silence hurt more than if he had. You closed your eyes. Your hands gripping your own arms tighter.

Jack stood. For a moment, you thought he was going to do what you asked, leave, walk back inside, pick up his things. Let you hide behind the walls you were already rebuilding around yourself.

Instead, you heard him let out a sharp breath, not angry, not at first. Frustrated. Deeply frustrated. “Stop.”

You closed your eyes. Your arms tightened around yourself. “Please—”

“No.” His voice cut through yours. For the first time in a long time, he sounded genuinely fed up. “You don’t get to do this.”

You stared at the city. The traffic. The rooftops. Anywhere but him. “I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” Silence. “You call me when you need me.”

“I know.”

“You let me in, and then the second things become real, you slam every door shut.”

The words landed harder than you wanted them to. Because they weren’t wrong. You swallowed. “I know.”

His laugh wasn’t amused. It was exhausted. “That’s the problem, Y/N.” You flinched. “You always know.” Another silence. “You know when you’re pushing people away, you know when you’re being unfair.”

“I know.”

“You know when you’re hurting yourself.”

“I know.” Each answer came quieter than the last. Smaller. Like pieces of yourself breaking off. But Jack kept going. Months of frustration finally spilling out. “You act like nobody understands you.” You stared ahead. “But you never actually let anybody try.”

Your jaw tightened. “I know.”

“You want people to stay but you make it impossible.”

The words struck something deep. Something uncomfortable. Something true. Still, you couldn’t look at him, couldn’t face him. Because if you did, you would have to see what was in his eyes, and right now, you couldn’t survive that.

Behind you, Jack fell silent for a second. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, more controlled. Which somehow made it worse. “You know what drives me insane about you?” You didn’t answer. “You think leaving first protects you.”

The tears started before you realized it, one slipping down your cheek, then another, silent, invisible from where he stood.

“You think if you push everyone away, you won’t get hurt.” Your throat tightened. “But you never stop to think what it does to the people who keep coming back.”

The tears were falling steadily now, you wiped one away quickly, then another, still refusing to turn around, still refusing to let him see. And then Jack said the thing that finally broke you. The thing that was so brutally honest neither of you could take it back.

“You keep asking why people leave…” The balcony fell silent. “…You never ask how long they spent trying to stay.”

The words hit like a physical blow. This time, you didn’t answer. Behind you, Jack waited. For an “I know.”, or an argument, or anything. Nothing came. The silence stretched.

And suddenly something felt wrong. Jack didn’t say anything after that. The words hung between you, suspended in the cool morning air.

You never ask how long they spent trying to stay.

Neither of you moved, neither of you spoke, he just stood there behind you, waiting. Not for a grand gesture, not for an explanation, not even for an apology. Just something, a word, a glance, a reason to stay, a sign that you wanted him to.

But it never came. You stood frozen at the edge of the balcony, tears sliding silently down your face. Your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, your eyes fixed stubbornly on the city, as if looking anywhere else would shatter whatever fragile control you still had left.

Behind you, Jack waited a little longer, a few more seconds. Then a few more. Long enough for hope to become acceptance. Long enough to realize you weren’t going to stop him.

Eventually, you heard him move, the sound was small, almost imperceptible. But it felt enormous. The balcony door slid shut, his footsteps crossed the apartment, the quiet sounds of someone gathering their belongings, his jacket, his keys. The things he’d left scattered around your apartment the night before, when neither of you had been thinking about morning.

Each sound felt like a countdown. And still, you couldn’t move, couldn’t call after him, couldn’t make yourself speak. The guilt was already crushing you, but somehow not enough to break through the fear.

Then came the final sound, the apartment door opening. A pause. And then— Click. Silence, complete silence. He was gone. For several seconds, you didn’t react, you just stood there, staring at the city, listening to the emptiness behind you. As though your mind hadn’t quite caught up yet. As though some part of you still expected to hear his footsteps, his voice, the sound of him moving through the apartment.

But there was nothing, only silence. And suddenly the reality of what had happened crashed into you all at once. Your knees gave out, you sank to the balcony floor so quickly you barely registered the movement. A broken sound escaped your throat, then another. And then the tears came harder, the kind you couldn’t hold back…the kind that hurt.

You buried your face against your arms crying openly now. Not because he had left but because you had made him. Because after everything—after him answering your call, after him coming for you, after his patience, his honesty, his vulnerability… you had done exactly what he accused you of doing. You had pushed him away, again.

The guilt sat so heavily in your chest it was hard to breathe. And the worst part was knowing he hadn’t been wrong, not about any of it.

You thought about him standing behind you, waiting. Giving you chance after chance to stop him. And all he got in return was silence.

The sunrise continued over the city, people went to work, cars filled the streets, life moved forward. But curled up on the cold balcony floor, your face hidden against your arms, it felt like the world had stopped. Because for the first time since you’d met Jack Abbot, you weren’t afraid that he would leave. You were afraid that this time, he finally had.

———————

5:48PM

The emergency department had been loud all day. Not unusual loud, hospital loud. Phones ringing, monitors beeping, patients complaining, residents rushing. The kind of chaos everyone who worked there eventually learned to tune out.

At almost 6 p.m., that noise changed, dana noticed it first. Not because of something she heard, but because of what suddenly stopped.

Dana was in the middle of a conversation when her phone rang. She answered, listened, and immediately went pale. The room seemed to shift, like the atmosphere itself had tightened.

“What happened?” Princess asked.

Dana looked up. “A mass casualty.” The words landed like a bomb. Every conversation nearby stopped, every head turned.

Robby was already moving. “How many?”

Dana shook her head. “They don’t know yet.”

Nobody ever knew yet, not at the beginning, at the beginning there was only confusion, pieces of information, rumors, half-finished reports. Then another phone rang, and another, and another. Suddenly everyone was talking at once. Security. EMS. Hospital administration. Trauma surgery.

The department transformed within seconds. Years of training snapping into place. People stopped being tired, stopped being distracted, stopped being human for a moment, they became professionals, machines.

Robby was already issuing orders. “Clear every available trauma room.”

“Dana, get disaster protocol started.”

“Call everyone.”

“Everybody.”

The department exploded into motion. Stretchers disappeared.

Equipment carts rolled through hallways, nurses began discharging anyone who could safely leave, every available bed became valuable, every available pair of hands became essential.

Still, nobody knew exactly what had happened, only that something terrible had occurred at Pitt Fest.

6:04PM

The ambulance bay had become a blur of flashing lights and shouting voices. Robby stood in the center of the chaos, turning in every direction at once.

Trying to see everything, Trying to miss nothing.

“Dana!”

Dana looked up from the charge desk.

“Call the night shift.” Robby pointed toward the waiting room, already overflowing. “Call everybody.”

The words came sharp and immediate. “No exceptions.” He looked toward the ambulance entrance where even more sirens were arriving. “Get Abbot., get Y/N, get every resident.” Another ambulance door slammed. “Every attending.” The situation was growing by the second. “Everyone.”

Dana nodded immediately already reaching for the phone, already pulling up contact lists.

Mass casualty staffing protocols. Emergency call-ins. The things everyone hoped they’d never need.

She call everyone, one after another, attendings, residents, nurses. Anyone available. The calls were short, no explanations necessary.

“Pitt Fest mass casualty.”

“Hospital needs you.”

“Now.”

Nobody asked questions, the tone in her voice was enough. Dana grabbed the next number. Jack Abbot.

The phone rang once, twice, then connected. “Abbot.” His voice sounded rough, tired, like someone who hadn’t had much sleep.

Dana closed her eyes for a second, relieved he answered. “Jack.”

Immediately his tone changed. “Dana?” Something in her voice had given it away. “What happened?”

Around her, the emergency department erupted into another wave of noise. Dana pressed a hand against her forehead. “We have a mass casualty incident.”

Silence. Then— “How bad?”

Dana looked toward the ambulance entrance. The paramedics were preparing many stretchers near the doors. She swallowed. “Bad…We’re getting victims from Pitt Fest.”

Jack was already moving on the other end. She could hear drawers opening, the rustle of clothing, his keys. “What happened?”

“We’re still getting conflicting reports.”

Dana rubbed at her temple. “But it was intentional.”

The words felt strange even saying them, heavy, terrible. “Multiple victims. Gunshot wounds. Trauma. We’re activating disaster protocols.” Dana lowered her voice. “Robby wants everyone here.”

A brief pause. Then, “I’m leaving now.”

Of course he was.

She had expected nothing less.

“Good.”

“I’ll be there in ten.” Tonight she just nodded, the line disconnected.

Dana lowered the phone, selecting the next number.

You.

She pressed call, the phone rang. One beep. Two. Three. Dana waited. Nothing. No answer. She frowned. Not because you missed a call, everybody missed calls sometimes. But because you almost never missed her calls. Especially not if she was calling more than once. The line disconnected.

Dana immediately pressed call again. Around her, somebody shouted for additional IV pumps, a nurse rushed past carrying blood products, the overhead speakers announced another trauma activation.

The phone rang again. One beep. Two. Three. Four. Still nothing.

Dana felt a small knot form in her stomach and stared at the screen for a second. Then tried again. “Come on, kid.” The words escaped under her breath.

Another nurse appeared beside her. “We need two more attendings in Trauma.”

“I’m working on it.” Dana dialed again. Straight to voicemail this time.

Her frown deepened. She quickly sent a message.

“Mass casualty at Pitt Fest. Call me immediately. Hospital needs all available staff.”

Then she hit send. For a second she stared at the delivered notification. Waiting. Nothing. No typing. No response. Just silence. A silence that felt increasingly wrong.

“Dana!” Robby’s voice carried across the department. “We need another physician in Trauma Three!” Dana shoved the phone into her pocket. “I’m coming!”

And for the next several minutes she was swallowed back into the chaos.

6:23PM

Dana looked toward the ambulance entrance. Nothing yet, just the distant wail of sirens. The realization spread through the department, they’re coming. Questions filled the air. “What happened?” “How many?” “Who’s critical?”

The emergency department had somehow become even louder. Until finally the real information arrived. A police lieutenant entered through the ambulance bay and headed straight for Robby.

The conversation lasted less than thirty seconds. Dana watched Robby’s expression change, whatever he was hearing wasn’t good, not that anything tonight had been good.

The lieutenant left immediately to continue coordinating outside.

Robby stood motionless for a moment then he climbed onto a step near the nurses’ station. “Listen up!”

The words cut through the noise, not enough to stop the department, but enough that nearby staff looked over while continuing to work. Robby didn’t waste time. “We have confirmation.” The room seemed to tighten around him. “A gunman opened fire at Pitt Fest.”

Several people froze only for a second. Then went right back to work.

“A single shooter.” His voice remained steady, professional, even though the reality of the words was horrific. “Multiple victims.” Another stretcher rushed past behind him. Robby continued. “Law enforcement believes the threat has been contained, but assume we’re still receiving patients for several hours.”

Heads nodded, nobody needed further explanation. The disaster had a face now, a cause, a reason. And somehow that made it worse. The uncertainty was gone, the reality wasn’t.

Then suddenly the ambulance bay doors burst open again. And through the chaos strode Abbot. Dark shirt and jeans, hair slightly disheveled. Like he’d thrown on the first clothes he found before racing out the door.

A duffel bag hung from one shoulder. Without breaking stride he tossed it behind the nurses’ station, the bag landed with a thud. He was already scanning the department, already assessing, already switching into physician mode.

“Where do you need me?” No greeting, no small talk, straight to work. Dana felt relief immediately, real relief. The kind that physically loosened something in her chest. Robby looked equally relieved. For the first time in nearly an hour, they had another experienced attending, and they desperately needed one.

Robby jumped down. “Trauma Four just lost their attending.”

Jack was already moving. “Got it.”

“Two incoming criticals.”

“Got it.”

“OR’s backed up.”

Jack nodded once. “Got it.” Then he was gone.

Disappearing into the chaos as if he’d been there all day.

Dana watched him go, only briefly before her eyes drifted back to her phone sitting beside the charge desk.

Still dark. Still silent. No missed call. No message. No response. Jack was here, every available attending was arriving, residents were showing up one after another. The entire night shift was being pulled in.

And somehow, despite all of that—there was still no sign of you. No answer. No text. Nothing.

7:13PM

The emergency department had stopped feeling like a hospital. It felt like a battlefield. Not because of what it looked like, but because of how it moved. Nobody walked anymore, everyone ran.

Doctors. Nurses. Techs. Security. Transport staff.

Every hallway was full of motion, every room was occupied, every available space had been turned into a treatment area.

The normal rhythm of the ER had disappeared completely, this was survival mode. Stretchers continued pouring through the ambulance bay, one after another, sometimes three at a time, sometimes five.

Paramedics barely had enough time to give reports before rushing back outside for the next patient.

The noise was relentless, monitors alarming, phones ringing, people shouting names, calling for medications, calling for blood, calling for equipment. The overhead speakers announcing trauma activations so frequently they almost blended together.

Dana moved through the department like a storm, checking rooms, reassigning staff, opening additional treatment areas. Trying to stay five steps ahead of a disaster that kept growing faster than she could manage.

Across the room, Robby was directing triage, making impossible decisions in seconds. Who needed immediate intervention. Who could wait. Who needed surgery. Who needed blood. Who needed a chance. The hardest part wasn’t treating patients, it was deciding where limited resources would do the most good, every decision mattered, every second mattered.

A teenager arrived with severe blood loss. Two nurses were on him immediately. A woman with multiple injuries was rushed toward imaging. A terrified father searched every stretcher for his daughter.

The waiting room had become a sea of fear, people crying, people calling family members, people demanding information nobody could give.

A nurse sprinted through the hallway carrying emergency supplies. Another nearly collided with a resident pushing a stretcher. Nobody stopped, nobody complained.

Everyone adjusted and kept moving. The air itself felt charged. Adrenaline. Exhaustion. Fear. Determination. All mixed together. And still the ambulances kept coming.

The worst part was the uncertainty, nobody knew how many victims existed, nobody knew if more were on the way, nobody knew if another attack had happened elsewhere.

But there was no time to dwell on any of it, because every few seconds another patient arrived, another injury, another crisis, another life depending on them.

8:37PM

Time had stopped making sense sometime around the tenth ambulance. The emergency department existed in its own reality now. A reality measured in blood pressure readings, heart rates, trauma activations, units of blood, and whether the patient in front of you was still breathing.

The first death had happened forty-three minutes earlier. A young man. Massive injuries. The entire team had worked him for nearly thirty minutes. Nobody had wanted to quit, nobody had wanted to call it. But eventually there was nothing left to do. The room had fallen silent. A silence that lasted all of five seconds before everyone moved on to the next patient.

The second death came twenty minutes later. A woman who had arrived already beyond saving. The kind of case that stayed with you, the kind every physician carried home afterward. If they ever allowed themselves to think about it. Nobody was thinking about it now. There wasn’t time, there was only the next patient, and the next, and the next.

Across Trauma Three, Javadi was helping stabilize a teenager with multiple injuries. Her face was pale, exhausted, sweat stuck loose strands of hair to her forehead. But her hands remained steady. Focused and professional. “Pressure’s dropping.” A nurse handed her another set of vitals. Javadi immediately adjusted course. “Get another unit ready.” No hesitation, no panic, just action.

Nearby, Santos looked like she’d been running for three straight hours, because she practically had. She bounced between rooms, helping wherever the need was greatest. Transporting patients, assisting procedures, holding pressure on wounds when nobody else was available. At one point she looked up and realized she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, or sat down, or even taken a full breath.

Then another patient arrived, and the thought disappeared. King had blood on her scrubs, nobody’s clothes were clean anymore. She was helping coordinate patient flow while simultaneously managing treatment plans. Every few minutes somebody called her name, every few minutes another decision had to be made. The strain showed around her eyes but she kept moving.

Everybody did. Mohan was assisting in one treatment bay after another, checking injuries, reviewing scans, helping wherever the system was weakest.

The department had become one giant organism, everyone adapting constantly, filling gaps, supporting one another. Because no single person could manage this alone.

At the center of it all, Dana continued working the charge desk. If anyone looked closely, they would have noticed she hadn’t sat down in hours, hadn’t eaten, had barely stopped moving. The patient board behind her looked terrifying, names everywhere, statuses changing constantly.

Beds filling, beds opening, patients transferred, patients admitted, patients waiting. And still more arriving. The stream had slowed but it hadn’t stopped, not completely.

Across the department, Robby emerged from another trauma room. His face looked older than it had at six o’clock. Exhaustion sat heavily on his shoulders, yet he kept moving. Because everybody was watching him. And if he stopped, they might too. He glanced through the department.

McKay working.

Whitaker running.

Dana coordinating.

Princess and Perlah assisting.

Nurses moving between rooms. Residents doing the work of people twice their experience.

And Jack. Abbot had barely stopped since arriving, one trauma after another, one procedure after another, one patient after another. Like a machine.

Except tonight there was something different about him, something harder, quieter. Even Dana had noticed it. He wasn’t distracted, far from it. His focus was almost frightening. As though he had buried every personal thought under layers of work. And maybe he had.

The emergency department was good for that, good at giving people somewhere to put their pain.

Across the room, Dana’s eyes drifted toward her phone again. Still nothing, no call, no text, no voicemail. You remained absent. The empty space felt increasingly strange. Because you should have been here, you would have been running between trauma rooms, arguing with attendings, taking impossible cases, refusing breaks, driving everyone crazy.

You belonged in this chaos. And yet your name remained absent from every room assignment, every patient board, every conversation. A ghost-shaped hole in the department.

9:24PM

The emergency department was finally breathing again. Not resting, Not recovering, Just…breathing. The panic that had consumed the hospital for the last three hours had begun to loosen its grip.

The ambulance bay sat mostly empty. For the first time all evening, there weren’t flashing lights reflecting against every wall, no sirens screaming toward the entrance, no paramedics sprinting through the doors with another critical patient. Just quiet. Or at least the hospital version of quiet.

Monitors still beeped, phones still rang, patients still called for nurses. But compared to what the department had been two hours earlier, it felt almost surreal. The worst wave had passed, most of the survivors had been stabilized, others had gone to surgery, several had been admitted upstairs, some had already been transferred to specialized units.

The emergency department was no longer drowning. Now it was dealing with the aftermath, and sometimes the aftermath was harder. Because adrenaline began wearing off. People started thinking again, started feeling again, started remembering what they’d just lived through.

At one nursing station, a day-shift attending was giving report to the night team. “Room twelve’s stable. Trauma surgery already consulted.” A tired resident scribbled notes. “Room fourteen still needs repeat labs.” Another nurse nodded. Information passed from one exhausted team to another. One patient at a time, one room at a time.

Across the department, people who had been running for hours finally slowed to a walk.

Some sat down for the first time all night, others drank cold coffee they had forgotten existed. A few simply stood still, as though their bodies had forgotten how.

Javadi leaned against a counter while reviewing charts, for the first time all evening, she looked her age. Young, exhausted, human.

Santos sat heavily in a chair near a workstation. A nurse handed her a bottle of water. She looked genuinely surprised by it. Like she had forgotten water was a thing people needed.

Whitaker was still working through patient lists. Still coordinating admissions, still refusing to stop.

McKay had finally managed to remove her blood-stained gloves, her hands looked tired. Everything about her looked tired, everyone looked tired.

At the center of the department, Dana was finishing another handoff, her voice was hoarse, her shoulders ached. The patient board behind her was still crowded but no longer terrifying, manageable for the first time all night.

Nearby, Robby stood watching the department. Not doing anything for a moment, just looking, taking inventory, making sure everyone was still standing. Making sure the machine was still functioning. His eyes landed briefly on the names of the two patients who hadn’t made it.

Across the ER, Jack emerged from a patient room. His scrubs were wrinkled, his face exhausted. There was dried blood on one sleeve. He looked like every other physician in the department, completely drained. Yet somehow still moving. He paused near the nurses’ station next to Robby. Listening to a report, asking a question, reviewing a chart, never truly stopping.

The mass casualty surge was over. Dana looked across the department, toward Jack, toward Robby, toward the exhausted staff slowly beginning to process the night. Then back to her phone. Something felt wrong, she couldn’t explain it, couldn’t justify it, couldn’t prove it. But the feeling remained, heavy, persistent and impossible to ignore.

Because you should have been here. You should have walked through those doors hours ago. And the fact that you hadn’t was becoming harder and harder to explain.

9:26PM

Outside, the night air felt cold, or maybe that was just you. Everything felt cold now, your hands, your skin, your thoughts. The world around you seemed strangely distant, muted like you were hearing it through water.

You weren’t entirely sure how long you’d been walking, only that eventually the hospital had appeared in front of you. Bright, familiar and safe. A beacon in the darkness. The emergency department entrance glowed beneath harsh white lights.

You focused on it, one step, then another, then another. Just keep moving. The automatic doors opened. Warm air washed over you. You crossed the threshold and for a moment, relief almost hit. You made it.

Then the dizziness returned, hard, your vision blurred again, the floor shifted beneath your feet. You stumbled slightly. Instinctively your left hand pressed harder against your waist. Against the spot that had been hurting for far too long now.

You caught yourself against the wall, breathing carefully. Waiting. The bright lights overhead felt vicious. Needles behind your eyes. You closed them briefly. Just for a second, just long enough for the room to stop spinning.

Then you pushed yourself upright again, kept moving, because stopping felt dangerous. Because if you stopped now, you weren’t sure you could start again.

The second set of doors slid open and suddenly you were inside. The ER. Your ER. The familiar sounds hit immediately. Monitors, phones, voices, footsteps, nurses moving quickly between rooms, doctors discussing patients, the controlled chaos that had become home.

You stood there for a moment trying to focus, trying to orient yourself. Everything seemed too bright, too loud, too far away. Your eyes drifted across the department past treatment rooms, staff stations, patients. Until they landed on the nurses’ station. Robby was standing there chart in hand talking to Jack.

The sight of them felt strangely unreal. Like seeing people from another life. For a second neither noticed you, they were focused on a chart.

Then Jack looked up, not directly at you, just a casual glance. Something caught his peripheral vision. You. His head turned and immediately everything changed. His entire body froze, the chart lowered, the color drained from his face. Dana noticed instantly, following his line of sight. Then she saw you too and her expression collapsed.

Robby turned next, confusion first, then alarm, then something much worse. The three of them were staring now, not moving, not speaking.

And suddenly you realized why. Because they weren’t looking at you the way people looked at a coworker arriving late. They were looking at you the way doctors looked at a patient.

You swayed slightly, the room tilted again. Your eyes never left Jack, standing here across the department, frozen, staring. As if he’d just seen a ghost.

Your hand remained pressed firmly against your side, fingers trembling slightly. You’d stopped noticing the pain a while ago, but you still felt it—the slow, warm liquid slipping between your fingers, soaking your palm a little more with every step. You didn’t dare look down. You already knew what you would find.

Your throat felt raw, dry. The single word barely made it out. Weak and broken. Almost lost beneath the noise of the ER.

“Jack…”

Taglist ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

@slowburnsky @gandalfthegoatsblog @nosebeers @chaotic-taco-collector-blog @yosoylaprincesa2004 @thehockeynerd30 @slut4jackabbottt @torntaltos @jennataurus @pinkgarnet @stoptheinnocence

[groovyangelkisses]

OH MY GOD HE LOOKS SO GOOD ARE YOU KIDDING??????

[sole-jpeg]

Somewhere Between Hate And Whatever This Is — Jack Abbot

(Chapter 13/?)

pairing : jack abbot / f!reader

words count : 10.5k

previous chapters : Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12

summary : The night shift at the Pitt teaches you two things very quickly: how to keep people alive, and how to survive the ones you can’t.

You are a newly assigned intern doctor who is brilliant, stubborn, and entirely incapable of backing down — which becomes a serious problem when your supervising attending, Jack Abbot, seems to make a sport out of challenging you at every possible opportunity. Between impossible trauma cases, sleepless nights, and arguments sharp enough to cut through the entire ER, the rivalry between them slowly turns into something far more dangerous.

contain : 18+ content MDNI!!, enemies to lovers, rivals, slow burn, sarcasm, drunk sex, soft romance, explicit sexual content, p in v, NSFW, smut, unprotected sex, consensual sex, soft intimacy.

a/n : this is it 🫣 still figuring out how to write nsfw without doing too much lol hope you liked it and be ready for the next few chapters haha

archiveofourown link Spotify playlist link

Chapter 13 : The Space Between Us

Four days.

Four days since the trauma bay.

Four days since you ignored every instinct telling you to protect yourself and focused entirely on protecting the patient instead.

Four days since the disciplinary meeting.

Four days since being told, in very careful administrative language, that what you did was reckless, unauthorized, and absolutely not something a resident should have attempted.

Four days off. Only four days because you actually saved the patient. That was the final decision. Four days away from the hospital. Four days away from patients. Four days away from the ER. Four days away from Abbot.

The first day, you slept. Mostly because the adrenaline crash finally caught up to you.

The second day, you cleaned your apartment twice and reorganized your kitchen despite never caring what your kitchen looked like before.

The third day, you spent six straight hours staring at random television without remembering a single thing you watched. At some point you’d spent twenty minutes staring out your living room window watching a pigeon fight another pigeon over a piece of bread.

That was where your life was now. A thrilling descent into bird-related entertainment.

Your phone rang. You glanced at the screen. Ethan. For a second you actually forgot about him. Then you remembered. You answered. “Hello?”

“Hey, Doctor.”

A smile immediately appeared in his voice. You rolled your eyes. “I’m off duty.”

“Good. Then you can’t use work as an excuse.”

You laughed despite yourself. “What do you want?”

“Ouch.”

“You’re surviving.”

“Barely.” His dramatic sigh made you snort. “I was wondering if you wanted to go out tonight.”

You leaned back against the couch. “Out where?”

“Nothing fancy. Just a bar. A drink. Maybe two.” He paused. “A normal evening.”

The words actually sounded appealing. A normal evening. No trauma pages. No crashing patients. No disciplinary meetings. No Abbot. Just… normal. And God, you were bored.

“Okay.” The answer left your mouth before you could overthink it. The silence on the other end lasted a second.

Then, “Wait. Really?”

You laughed. “Don’t make me change my mind.”

“Nope. Too late.” His grin was practically audible. “We’re going.”

A few hours later, you found yourself sitting in a crowded bar wondering how exactly you’d ended up here. The place wasn’t fancy. Just warm lighting, decent music, and enough people talking that individual conversations disappeared into the background.

Normal. Exactly what Ethan had promised. He sat across from you with a drink in hand, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“What?” you asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“You have a face.”

“A face?”

“A face.”

“I always have a face.”

“You know what I mean.”

His grin widened. “I honestly thought you’d cancel.”

“That’s rude.”

“It’s realistic.”

You took a sip of your drink. “I showed up.”

“You did.” His eyes softened slightly. “And I’m glad.”

You looked away first. Not because the comment was particularly intense. Just because it was easier. The conversation drifted naturally after that.

Work. Movies. Terrible patients. Terrible dating stories. You found yourself laughing more than expected. More than you had in days. Maybe weeks.

It felt good. Easy. Comfortable. And for a little while, you almost forgot everything waiting for you back at the hospital.

Almost. Because every now and then, completely without warning, your mind would drift. To a trauma bay. To a pair of hands removing your gloves. To a quiet voice saying:

“You’re going to be okay.”

You immediately took another drink. Ethan noticed. “You alright?”

You blinked. “Yeah.”

A lie. Not a huge one, not a devastating one. Just enough to keep the evening moving. Across the table, Ethan smiled and launched into another story and you forced yourself to listen. Because tonight wasn’t supposed to be about Abbot. Tonight was supposed to be about moving on.

The night had gone surprisingly well. A few drinks, a lot of laughing. Enough alcohol that both of you were feeling it. Not…drunk. Not really. Just comfortably loose around the edges, or at least you had been.

Ethan had moved his chair closer at some point. You hadn’t really thought about it. Until his hand landed on your knee. You froze for half a second, not dramatically, but just enough to notice it. Ethan smiled. “You okay?”

You gently moved his hand away. “Yeah.” The smile didn’t disappear. “You sure?” Something about the question immediately made you uncomfortable. Maybe because you’d only been here a few hours. Maybe because of the alcohol. Maybe because you suddenly realized where he thought the evening was headed.

You took a sip of your drink. “I think I’m gonna head home soon.”

His expression changed slightly. “Already?”

“It’s almost midnight.”

“Yeah, but…” His grin returned. “Night’s still young.”

You laughed awkwardly. “No.”

“No?”

“No.” You knew exactly what he was suggesting now. And you weren’t interested. Not tonight. Probably not with him. Ethan leaned back.

“Oh.” The disappointment was obvious. You felt bad for about three seconds. Until he kept talking. “I thought that’s where this was going.”

You blinked. “What?”

“The date.”

You stared. “The date?”

“Yeah.”

The irritation arrived instantly. “What exactly gave you that impression?”

He laughed. Not kindly. More like you were being difficult. “You gave me your number.”

You put your drink down. Slowly. “And?”

“You agreed to come out.”

“And?”

He threw his hands up. “Come on.”

“No, seriously.” You could feel your patience disappearing. “And?” The alcohol wasn’t helping either of you now.

His annoyance started showing. “I don’t know why girls do this.” You actually laughed. A short, disbelieving laugh. “Oh, we’re doing that?”

“I’m just saying—”

“No.” You cut him off. “We are absolutely not doing that.” Ethan rolled his eyes. “I’m not saying you owe me anything.”

“Good.”

“But don’t act like I completely misread the situation.”

You stared at him. And suddenly the entire evening felt different. Like all the easy conversations and jokes had been built on a completely different expectation. One you hadn’t agreed to. One he assumed. And worse?

He seemed annoyed that you weren’t fulfilling it. You pushed your chair back. The sound scraped loudly against the floor.

“Y/N.”

You stood. “No.”

“Come on.”

“No.”

His frustration was obvious now. “So that’s it?” You grabbed your jacket. “Yep.”

“Seriously?”

You looked down at him. “You know what?”

“What?”

For a second, you almost didn’t say it. Then you remembered the last five minutes. And didn’t feel particularly charitable anymore. “If you weren’t such an asshole, tonight actually would’ve been nice.”

His face immediately hardened. “Wow.”

You shrugged. “Goodnight, Ethan.”

And before he could say anything else, you turned around and walked straight out of the bar. The cool air hit your face immediately. And somehow being alone on the sidewalk felt infinitely better than spending another minute inside.

For a second, you just stood there. Breathing. Trying to let the anger settle. Trying to convince yourself you didn’t care.

But then reality slowly crept in. You looked around once. Then again, and it hit you a little too late. You didn’t actually know where you were.

The bar had been easy enough to find earlier—Ethan had driven you here, talking over the music in the car as he led you out like it was nothing. Now there was no Ethan, no direction. Just a dim street, unfamiliar buildings, and a silence that felt too wide.

You pulled your phone out. Still a little warm from the bar lights. First instinct was simple: Call Dana. Ring. No answer.

Princess. Ring. No answer.

Perlah. Ring. Nothing.

Each call sent you deeper into that uncomfortable awareness that it was late—really late—and everyone you knew was exactly where they should be right now. Sleeping. Recovering from shifts. Living normal lives while you stood on a random sidewalk at nearly midnight wondering how your night had ended up here.

You lowered your phone slowly. A small, tired laugh escaped your lips. Of course. Of course no one was picking up. You glanced down the street again. Empty. Too empty.

Your frustration from earlier didn’t fully leave—but it shifted into something else now. Less anger. More inconvenience. More… stuck. “Great,” you muttered under your breath.

And for the first time tonight, the thought wasn’t about Ethan anymore. It was about how badly you wanted to be anywhere else. And how inconveniently far away that place was.

You lowered your phone and looked around again. The street was nearly empty. A few cars passed in the distance, but that was it.

You opened a ride app anyway. Just in case. A minute later, you were staring at the screen with growing irritation. No drivers available. Of course. The bar was far enough out of town that getting a ride this late was apparently impossible. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

You shoved a hand through your hair and sighed. You looked up at the dark street, then back at your phone, then back at the street.

For a horrifying moment, a thought appeared. You immediately rejected it. No. Absolutely not.

A few seconds passed. The thought came back. Stronger this time. You groaned out loud. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Because there was one person. One single person who was probably awake. Or at least awake enough to answer a phone. One person whose schedule was so ridiculous that normal sleeping hours barely applied. One person who would probably pick up.

Abbot.

You closed your eyes. “No.” The answer was immediate. Absolutely not. Anyone but him. You’d rather walk.

Actually, no. You looked down the road. You would not rather walk. Not that far. Not in heels. Not slightly drunk. Not at midnight.

You groaned again. Longer this time. Because somehow this night kept finding new ways to punish you.

You really didn’t want to call him.

After everything. After spending an entire evening trying not to think about him. After getting stranded and needing rescuing like some complete idiot. You really, really didn’t want to call him. But you also really didn’t want to spend the night sitting outside a bar waiting for sunrise.

Your thumb moved before your pride could stop it. Contacts. Scroll. Scroll. Scroll.

And there it was. Abbot, Jack. You stared at the name. Just stared. Your thumb hovering over it. Not pressing. Not calling. Just looking. As if the contact itself might suddenly disappear and save you from having to make the decision. Unfortunately, it stayed exactly where it was. Waiting. Just like you were.

Your thumb slipped. Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe some reckless part of your brain had finally gotten tired of arguing with the rest of you. Either way, the next thing you knew, the screen had changed.

Calling…

Jack Abbot

Your eyes widened. “Oh, shit.” Too late. The phone was already ringing. You stared at it for half a second as if you could somehow undo what had just happened. You immediately brought it to your ear, as if that somehow made the situation less ridiculous.

Your heart started pounding. This was a terrible idea. An absolutely terrible idea. What were you even going to say?

“Hi, Abbot. Sorry to bother you on your day off. I went on a date with another guy, got stranded in the middle of nowhere, and now I need you to rescue me.”

Fantastic. No notes. The call connected. And before you could even think—

“Y/N?” A silence. “What’s wrong?” You froze.

Not hello, not who is this?, or why are you calling? Just— “What’s wrong?” Immediate. Instant.

Like the possibility of you calling him at midnight automatically meant something had happened.

For a second, you completely forgot what you were going to say.

“Hum, I—” You stopped. A nervous laugh escaped you. “Oh my God.”

“What?” The concern in his voice hadn’t changed. Which somehow made this worse. You rubbed a hand over your face.

“No, nothing.”

“Y/N.”

“No, seriously.” Another embarrassed laugh. “I shouldn’t have called.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Then why are you calling me at midnight?” That was unfortunately a very reasonable question. You closed your eyes. “This was a dumb idea.”

“Y/N.”

You groaned. “I’m sorry, okay?” You started pacing the sidewalk. “I shouldn’t have called this late. Forget it.”

“Y/N.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“What happened?”

You shook your head even though he couldn’t see it. “It’s fine.”

“No, it isn’t.” You stopped walking. Something about the certainty in his voice made you pause. He continued before you could speak. “Where are you?”

You blinked, damn him. You hated when he did that. You looked down the empty street. Suddenly feeling twelve years old.

“It’s embarrassing.”

“I don’t care.”

“Fine.” You kicked lightly at the sidewalk. “I went on a date.”

Silence, not long, just enough.

Then— “I know.” You immediately frowned. “What?”

“Dana told half the department.” Of course she did. You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Great.”

“What happened?”

You groaned. “He was kind of an ass.”

“Hm.”

“And then I left.”

“Hm.”

“And…” You looked around again. Empty street, closed stores, no rides, no friends answering, no solutions. “…and now I’m stranded.”

The silence that followed lasted longer. Long enough to make you wish the ground would open beneath your feet. You laughed nervously.

“And you don’t know where you are.”

“…Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“I know what state I’m in.”

A sound escaped him. Small, brief. Dangerously close to a laugh. Then his voice became serious again. “Send me your location.” You froze. “Abbot—”

“Send me your location.” You looked down the street. Then at the phone. Then back at the street. “…you don’t have to do that.”

“Y/N.” The tone left very little room for argument. And somehow that made your stomach do something deeply unhelpful.

Because despite everything, despite the distance, despite the fights., despite the hurt, despite everything you did to him. Despite the fact that you had literally called him after a date with another man…he hadn’t hesitated for even a second.

You stared at the screen for a second before finally opening your maps. Then, with all the dignity you still had left—which wasn’t much—you sent him your location. The three little dots appeared almost immediately. Then disappeared. Then his voice came back through the phone. “Got it.”

You swallowed.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

You leaned against the wall beside the bar. “Abbot, you really don’t have to—”

“Stay where there are people.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Until I get there.” His voice had shifted into that familiar tone. The one that wasn’t asking. The one that expected to be listened to. “Don’t walk anywhere alone.”

There was movement on the other end of the line. A door opening. Footsteps. Then the unmistakable sound of keys being picked up. Something in your chest tightened. Not because he was coming but because he was already moving, already on his way.

There hadn’t been a discussion, no hesitation, no negotiation. You opened your mouth. “Thank you.” The words came out quietly. Genuine. And immediately he cut you off. “It’s okay.” Simple. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like driving across town in the middle of the night wasn’t an inconvenience. Like finding you stranded after a date with another guy was somehow perfectly normal. You looked down at the pavement.

“I’ll see you soon.” Then the line disconnected. Leaving you alone with the silence.

Twenty-five minutes later, you were still waiting. The temperature had dropped enough that you could feel it through your jacket. At some point you’d given up pretending to stand.

Now you were sitting on the ground beside the building, your arms wrapped around your knees, your forehead resting against them. A position that was equal parts cold, tired, and defeated. Mostly defeated. You stared at the pavement between your shoes. Thinking.

Which was unfortunate. Because thinking never helped. You thought about the date.

About Ethan. About how spectacularly that had gone. You thought about the argument. The embarrassment. The fact that you’d somehow managed to get stranded.

Then your brain helpfully moved on to the even more humiliating part. Calling Abbot. You groaned softly into your knees. What a disaster. Of all the people. Of all the phone calls. Of all the possible outcomes. You’d called him. And he’d answered on the first ring. Not annoyed. Not confused. Just immediately asking what was wrong. Your stomach twisted.

You thought about the trauma room. About him taking your shaking hands. Taking your gloves off. Telling you that you were going to be okay. You thought about the way he’d gone quiet after your argument. About how much that silence had bothered you. More than it should have. Far more than it should have.

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Stop.” The command was directed entirely at yourself. It didn’t work. Because unfortunately your brain had decided tonight was an excellent time to revisit every unresolved feeling you’d spent months avoiding.

And sitting alone on a sidewalk at midnight wasn’t helping. So you stayed there. Arms wrapped around your knees. Face hidden. Trying not to think. Failing completely. Waiting for the sound of a car you were becoming increasingly aware you wanted to hear.

The sound of a car engine broke through the silence. You heard it pull over somewhere nearby. A door opened, then closed. Your stomach immediately tightened. He was here. You didn’t move, not even a little. You stayed exactly where you were, sitting on the cold pavement with your arms wrapped around your knees and your face hidden against them.

Because now that he was actually here, the embarrassment felt unbearable. You had spent the last twenty-five minutes replaying every decision that had brought you here.

The date. The argument. The phone call. The fact that, out of everyone, you’d called him. And now he had driven all the way out here to find you.

The sound of footsteps reached you, steady, unhurried and familiar. You’d spent enough months working beside him to recognize the way he walked without even looking. The footsteps moved closer then stopped a few feet away. “Y/N?” You heard him looking around searching.

Another few steps then silence. He’d found you.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You couldn’t see him, but you knew exactly what he was seeing. A resident who was usually stubborn, sarcastic, and impossible to help. Curled up on a sidewalk like she’d run out of strength. You hated it, you hated that he was seeing you like this.

The footsteps came closer then stopped directly in front of you. You heard fabric shift and a quiet exhale. And then the faint sound of him crouching down, bringing himself to your level.

Not standing over you, not forcing you to look up, just meeting you where you were. The gesture alone nearly broke your heart.

Then “Hey.” Just that, soft and careful.

You closed your eyes. For some reason, that single word hurt more than if he’d asked a hundred questions, because there was no judgment in it.

No frustration, no annoyance. Just concern. And you hated yourself for doing this to him. Slowly, you lifted your head, only a little. Just enough for your eyes to appear above your arms. Your gaze found his.

There was too much in your chest, too much exhaustion, too much shame, too much sadness. And the alcohol hadn’t helped. Neither had the last few weeks. You felt exposed like he’d caught you at your absolute lowest.

For a second, neither of you spoke. His face remained calm, but his eyes… his eyes saw everything. The embarrassment, the humiliation, the fact that you wished you hadn’t needed to call him, the fact that you were convinced you’d become a burden the moment he picked up.

And somehow that made it worse. Because he understood. You could tell he did, there was no confusion on his face, no questions, no need for explanations. He simply looked at you like someone looking at an injury they couldn’t quite fix.

The silence stretched between you and you didn’t know what to say.

Sorry felt inadequate.

Thank you felt inadequate.

Nothing seemed right, so you stayed quiet, and to your surprise, he let you. He simply stayed there crouched in front of you, present and patient. As if he understood that right now, the thing hurting most wasn’t being stranded, it was being seen like this. And somehow, without saying a single word, he was trying to make that hurt a little less.

Abbot looked at you for another moment. Then, softly, he said, “C’mon.”

The word was gentle, almost impossibly gentle, like he knew you were already carrying enough embarrassment without him adding to it.

He stood first then held out a hand. You hesitated, not because you didn’t want to take it but because accepting it somehow made all of this real. But after a second, your hand found his. His grip tightened just enough to steady you, nothing more.

He carefully pulled you to your feet and the world tilted slightly, the alcohol still lingering, the exhaustion worse than you’d realized. Immediately, his hands shifted to your arms steadying you, making sure you were balanced. “You good?”

You nodded, not trusting your voice. His hands lingered for only a second before he let go, giving you back your space. Then the two of you started walking side by side toward his car.

Neither of you spoke. You didn’t know what to say. Every sentence that came to mind sounded wrong, too small, too awkward, too embarrassing. So you stayed quiet. And thankfully, he didn’t push.

The passenger door opened and you climbed inside. He closed it behind you and a moment later, he was in the driver’s seat. The silence inside the car felt different, smaller and more intimate. The soft hum of the engine filled the space between you, streetlights passed one after another, painting brief flashes of gold across the dashboard.

You sat with your head resting against the cold window watching the darkness slide by outside, not really seeing it, just looking. Your reflection stared back at you in the glass, tired, pathetic, a little drunk and a little heartbroken. Though you weren’t entirely sure over what anymore.

The date ? The last few weeks ? Him ? Everything. Your chest felt heavy, so heavy, and somehow having Abbot beside you made you more aware of it.

Because he had seen you tonight, really seen you and there was nowhere to hide from that.

You swallowed, still unable to bring yourself to look at him. The silence continued. Occasionally, you caught movement in your peripheral vision a brief glance, then another. Abbot checking on you, making sure you were alright, making sure you hadn’t fallen asleep, making sure you were still there.

Every time, he looked away before you could acknowledge it, ever calling attention to it, never asking questions, just…just checking. The way he always did. You wondered if he’d always been like this or if you’d only started noticing recently. The thought made your throat tighten.

The familiar buildings eventually began to appear outside the window. Your neighborhood, your street, your apartment building.

Only then did you realize something. You had never actually given him your address, not tonight, not during the call and not in the car.

Yet he had driven straight here without hesitation or wrong turns. Like he’d known exactly where to go. The realization settled quietly in your chest because of course he remembered. Of course he did.

The car finally rolled to a stop in front of your building and for a moment, neither of you moved, streetlights washing pale gold across the windshield.

You sat up a little straighter, your fingers twisting into the fabric of your dress, suddenly aware that the drive was over.

That you were home. That you needed to say something. Anything. A thank you. An apology. An explanation. You didn’t know. You just knew you couldn’t let him leave without saying something.

You swallowed. Turned slightly toward him. “Abbot, I—” Before the words could fully leave your mouth, he had already opened his door. The sound made you stop.

You watched him step out into the night then close the door behind him. For a second, confusion crossed your face. Until you saw him moving, walking around the front of the car. His figure briefly illuminated by the headlights.

And before you fully understood what he was doing, the passenger door opened, cool night air slipped inside.

Jack stood beside the open car door, one hand resting lightly on the edge of it, a small smile sat on his face. It was not a big smile, it was not forced. Just something gentle and reassuring, as though he was trying to tell you that this was not nearly as terrible as you believed it was.

You remained seated for another moment, the embarrassment still sat heavily in your chest. You could not stop thinking about the fact that he had come all the way out here for you. That he had found you curled up on a sidewalk. That he had driven you home without asking a single question.

Eventually, you forced yourself to move, you pushed yourself out of the car and stood in front of him.

For a second, neither of you spoke. The cool night air brushed against your face. You looked down at the pavement before finally finding the courage to say it. “Thank you.” Your voice was quiet, genuine.

Jack’s smile softened. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do.”

He shook his head. “No, you really don’t.”

You looked at him.

“I called you in the middle of the night.”

“You called me because you needed help.” A faint amusement crossed his face. “Believe it or not, that is usually why people call me.”

A small laugh escaped him. It was clearly an attempt to lighten the mood, to make this feel less serious, less humiliating.

You understood what he was doing, you appreciated it. But the embarrassment still lingered. So all you managed was the smallest smile. Barely there.

Jack noticed. The smile faded from his own face, replaced by something gentler, something understanding. He was not going to force you to feel better before you were ready.

You glanced toward the apartment building entrance. “It’s okay from here.” You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “I can make it to my apartment.”

Jack immediately shook his head. “No.”

You blinked. “No?”

“I’m walking you to your door.”

“Abbot”

“You called me to drive you home.” His tone was calm. Matter-of-fact. Like this was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m making sure you get inside.”

You sighed softly. “Seriously, I’m fine.”

“I know.” The answer came immediately. That was what caught you off guard. Not I don’t believe you. Not you don’t look fine. Just, “I know.”

He looked at you for a moment. Then added quietly, “I’m still walking you to your door.”

You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it again. Because there was absolutely no point. You knew that look, the stubborn attending look. The one that meant a decision had already been made.

Jack seemed satisfied by your silence. He stepped away from the car and locked it, the soft chirp echoed through the empty street.

The two of you began walking toward the building entrance. The night remained quiet around you. For several moments, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were your footsteps and the distant noise of the city.

When you reached the doors, Jack simply held one open for you and followed you inside.

The lobby was empty, warm compared to the cold outside. The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead.

You pressed the elevator button, a few seconds later, the doors slid open, you stepped inside and Jack followed. The doors closed behind you and suddenly the space felt much smaller, much quieter. Just the two of you.

The elevator began its slow climb. You stared at the floor numbers above the door. Anything to avoid looking at him. Anything to avoid thinking about how humiliating tonight had been. How humiliating you must look now.

Still wishing tonight had gone differently. Still wishing he had not needed to see you like this. As if sensing exactly where your thoughts had gone, Jack spoke without looking at you.

“You know.” His voice was quiet. Not enough to startle you. Just enough to pull your attention away from the numbers above the door. You looked over. Jack was still looking forward, his expression thoughtful. “I’ve seen you do a lot more difficult things than ask for a ride.”

The words settled somewhere deep inside your chest as you immediately looked away. Because he had no idea what those words did to you.

The elevator continued upward and Jack finally glanced at you, only briefly. Long enough to see the way your shoulders had tensed. The way your gaze had dropped. “You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

A small laugh escaped you. Not because it was funny but because it wasn’t. You shook your head. “That’s easy for you to say.”

Jack’s eyes softened. “Why?” You looked down at your hands, because the answer felt obvious, because tonight felt obvious. Because you had called him. Because he had found you sitting on a sidewalk in the middle of the night. Because he had driven across town on his day off. Because you had needed him. “I don’t know.”

The answer came out quietly. You swallowed, “I just…” You sighed, frustrated with yourself, with how difficult it was to explain. “I hate needing help.”

The confession lingered in the space between you, honest, more honest than you had intended. Jack didn’t answer immediately.

The elevator continued climbing floor after floor, then he said quietly, “I know.”

Of course he did. You almost laughed. Because if anyone knew that about you, it was him. And probably Dana. You leaned your head back lightly against the elevator wall.

“You know what I think?” You glanced over at him. He shrugged slightly. “I think you’re being a lot harder on yourself than anybody else is.” The elevator slowed, you arrived.

But neither of you moved, you just looked at him. Because the worst part was that he was probably right. And because there was something in his expression that made your chest ache. Something gentle, something patient, something that looked suspiciously like concern.

The elevator doors opened.

Neither of you stepped out immediately. For one brief moment, the world outside the elevator disappeared. And it was just the two of you standing there in the quiet, looking at each other. Like there were a hundred things neither of you knew how to say.

You walked down the familiar hallway with him a step behind you. The building was quiet at this hour, most of your neighbors were asleep. The only sound was the soft echo of your footsteps against the floor. You stopped in front of your apartment door and pulled your keys from your bag.

Your hands felt strangely clumsy. Whether from exhaustion, alcohol, or the conversation in the elevator, you weren’t sure.

The lock clicked and you pushed the door open. Warm darkness greeted you from inside. Home, safe. You should have felt relieved. Instead, there was still that weight sitting heavily in your chest. You turned around. Abbot was standing a few feet away, his hands in his jacket pockets. For the first time that night, he seemed ready to leave.

A small smile appeared on his face, soft, “Well.” He nodded toward your apartment. “You made it home.” Jack shifted his weight slightly. “I think that means my mission is complete.” The corner of his mouth lifted a little, “You are officially delivered.”

His attempt at humor was gentle and careful, the same way he had been all night. He took a small step backward. “Get some sleep, Y/N.”

But before he could turn away, your voice stopped him. “Why?” Abbot froze. His expression changed slightly. Not confused, just attentive.

You swallowed, suddenly feeling exposed. But the question was already out, so you forced yourself to continue. “Why are you being so kind to me?”

The hallway seemed to become very still. Jack didn’t answer. You looked down for a second before forcing yourself to meet his eyes again. “After everything.”

Your voice was quiet now, fragile. “After everything I’ve said.”

The memory flashed through your mind, all the times you’d pushed him away, all the times you’d assumed the worst, the things he’d overheard, the distance that had followed, the hurt you’d seen in his eyes afterward.

Your throat tightened. “After everything I’ve done.” You shook your head. “I don’t understand…Why?”

Jack didn’t move, didn’t interrupt, didn’t look away. He simply stood there looking at you, really looking at you. As if he were trying to understand what was happening beneath the question. Because the question itself wasn’t really the point. He could see that.

You watched his eyes move across your face. Several seconds passed. Jack’s expression softened. Not with pity, never pity. Just understanding. The kind that somehow hurt more. His gaze lingered on yours. And for a moment, it looked like he was choosing his words very carefully. As if he understood that whatever he said next mattered. More than either of you wanted it to.

The silence stretched between you in the hallway, heavy but not uncomfortable. More like something unfinished, something neither of you quite knew how to hold properly.

Then, finally, he spoke. “Because I don’t really know how to be anything else with you.”

The words were calm and simple. But they landed in a way that made your chest tighten anyway.

Not an explanation, not a confession. Something in between, something quieter than that. Your lips parted slightly, but nothing came out. Because you didn’t know what to do with that answer.

Jack seemed to notice, a faint, almost tired smile appeared on his face again. Not amused. Not distant either. Just… soft in a way that didn’t ask anything from you. Like he wasn’t expecting you to solve it, or respond correctly.

He shifted his weight back a little. “Get some sleep.” His voice was gentler now, but steadier too, like he was gently closing the moment before it could become too heavy.

Then he turned, slowly, no urgency., no hesitation either. Just a natural step away from you. He began walking down the hallway toward the elevator, his hands back in his pockets, shoulders relaxed.

As if the conversation hadn’t changed anything about the fact that you were still standing there in your doorway, overwhelmed and silent. The distance between you grew with each step. And for some reason, that felt louder than anything either of you had said tonight.

Suddenly something inside you snapped before you could stop it. You didn’t even really think.

One second you were standing in the doorway, the next you were already stepping forward. “Wait !”

The word left your mouth sharper than you intended. Jack stopped immediately. He turned back toward you, standing a few steps away in the hallway, already half in the direction of the elevator.

For a second, he just looked at you. Not questioning. Just… waiting. Like he was trying to understand what had changed in the space between leaving and this moment.

You walked toward him before your mind could catch up, fast, too fast to overthink it. When you reached him, your hands found his jacket instinctively, gripping it lightly like you needed something real to hold onto.

His breath hitched. “Y/N—” He didn’t get to finish. Because you pulled him in and kissed him. It wasn’t gentle or careful. It was sudden, messy with everything you hadn’t been able to hold in all night—embarrassment, exhaustion, frustration, and something underneath it that you hadn’t wanted to name.

You closed your eyes the moment it happened, like seeing it would make it too real.

For a second, Jack froze completely. Completely still. Then slowly, almost cautiously, he softened. The tension in his body easing as if he’d finally understood you weren’t going to pull away.

One of his hands lifted slightly, uncertain for a heartbeat—like he wasn’t sure if he should stop you or hold you.

But he didn’t stop you, he didn’t push you away. And the space between you stopped feeling like distance at all, it became something else, something neither of you were ready to name yet.

And when you finally began to pull back, your breath uneven, the silence that followed felt heavier than anything that had been said all night.

Your hands were still gripping the front of his jacket. Your body was still close to his. Close enough to see the surprise that hadn’t completely left his face. Close enough to see the way he was looking at you, as though he was trying to understand whether this was really happening.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The hallway felt impossibly quiet. Then Jack looked down at you, his brow furrowed slightly. A mixture of confusion, concern, and something deeper you couldn’t quite bring yourself to name.

“Y/N…” His voice was low, careful. “What-what are you doing?”

The question wasn’t a rejection. If anything, it sounded like the opposite, like he genuinely needed to understand, like he knew this wasn’t just about a kiss. It was about everything that had happened before it. Everything neither of you had said.

You looked into his eyes. And suddenly every explanation felt inadequate, every word felt wrong. You had spent weeks pretending not to care, months avoiding things you didn’t want to admit. And now, standing in the hallway outside your apartment, exhausted and emotionally raw, you didn’t have the energy to hide anymore.

So instead of answering, you stepped closer, just enough to erase the small space between you. Your hand slid slightly higher against his chest andyou kissed him again. This time there was no suddenness, no desperation, no impulse. Just certainty. Slow and deliberate.

The kind of kiss that said more than any explanation could. For a brief moment, Jack stood still. Then his hand came up, resting lightly against your arm. Not pulling you closer, not stopping you either. Just there, steady and grounding.

When he finally leaned into the kiss, it was with the same care he seemed to give everything when it came to you. And somehow that hurt your heart even more. Because after everything that had happened between you, after all the misunderstandings and distance and hurt, there was still so much gentleness in the way he looked at you.

The way he held himself around you. The way he seemed more concerned with making sure you were okay than with anything else.

You kissed him more passionately now, guiding him to your apartment at the same time. The moment you stepped inside, the tension that had been building for weeks seemed to come rushing to the surface all at once.

The apartment door closed behind you with a soft click. Neither of you paid much attention to it. Your hands found his again.

His jacket. His shoulders. Anything that kept him close.

The kiss deepened, not because of desire alone, but because of everything that had been left unsaid for so long. The hurt. The distance. The nights spent thinking about each other and pretending not to.

You guided him a few steps further into the apartment. Jack followed, but there was a hesitation beneath it now. A carefulness. The same carefulness that had defined everything he’d done tonight.

Your fingers found the collar of his jacket. You started to pull it from his shoulders. And that was when he stopped, not abruptly, not harshly. One moment he was kissing you back, and the next he was gently catching your wrists.

The kiss broke, and the room suddenly felt very quiet. You were both breathing a little harder than before. Standing close enough to feel the warmth between you. Jack looked down at you, really looked at you. At the exhaustion in your eyes, the alcohol still lingering, the emotional wreckage of the night, the fact that only an hour ago you’d been stranded outside a bar, humiliated and hurting.

His hands loosened around your wrists but didn’t let go completely. As if he wanted to make sure you were listening. “Y/N.” His voice was soft, oncerned.His eyes searched yours. “Are you sure?”

The question hung between you. You swallowed. Jack continued looking at you steadily. “Not tomorrow.” His voice dropped slightly. “Not next week.” A small pause. “Right now.”

The concern in his expression made your chest ache. Because even now, after everything, he was thinking about you before himself.

Making sure this wasn’t loneliness, or alcohol, or a bad night. Making sure this was actually what you wanted. His thumb brushed lightly across your wrist. A tiny gesture. Almost absentminded.

“Talk to me.” There was no pressure in his voice. No expectation. Just patience. The same patience he’d shown all night. The same patience he’d always seemed to have when it came to you. And standing there in the quiet of your apartment, looking into his eyes, you realized this wasn’t really the moment that mattered. The moment that mattered was what you chose to say next.

“Right now, yes.” Your voice was barely above a whisper. But it was steady. For the first time all night, there was no hesitation in it, no embarrassment, no apology, just honesty.

Jack held your gaze. As if he was making absolutely certain. As if he wanted to find even the smallest trace of doubt before he allowed himself to believe you. But he didn’t find it.

The silence stretched between you. Neither of you moving. Neither of you looking away. Then something softened in his expression.

Not relief exactly, not victory, just the quiet acceptance of an answer he had needed to hear. Slowly, he stepped closer. This time it was him closing the distance. His hand lifted, brushing gently against your cheek. The touch was so careful that it almost hurt. Like he was still afraid you might disappear. Then he leaned down and kissed you.

Nothing rushed, nothing desperate. Just slow and tender. The kind of kiss that felt less like a question and more like an understanding.

You immediately answered it. Your hands finding him again. Not because you needed to pull him closer but simply because you wanted to. The tension that had followed you throughout the entire night began to loosen little by little.

Jack’s hand slipped from your wrist. His fingers briefly brushing against your arm before moving away.

The kiss broke naturally after a moment. Foreheads almost touching, you stood there in the quiet apartment. Neither of you speaking. Neither of you needing to.

For once, there was no misunderstanding between you. No assumptions. No walls. Just two exhausted people who had spent far too long pretending certain feelings didn’t exist. And for the first time in weeks, standing there with him, the loneliness that had followed you everywhere felt a little less overwhelming.

The tension between you hadn’t disappeared. If anything, it had only grown stronger. Weeks of confusion, frustration, hurt, and longing had finally collapsed into the same room, leaving neither of you quite sure what to do with it.

You kissed him again and he kissed you back. For a moment, it was easy to stop thinking. Easy to let the rest of the world disappear.

Your apartment. The hospital. The suspension. The disastrous date. All of it faded into the background.

You started to take off his jacket, your hands falling on his belt as you’re slowly unbuckling it. Then suddenly, Jack pulled back. His hand gently caught yours.

“Wait.” His voice was quiet.

A dozen worries flashed through your mind. “What?”

Jack exhaled slowly. His gaze dropped briefly before returning to yours. “There’s something I need to tell you.” The sudden seriousness in his tone made your stomach tighten.

The room seemed to become quieter. You searched his face. Trying to figure out what was coming, trying to prepare yourself. But he was impossible to read. For the first time all night, he looked nervous, not much but just enough that you noticed. Enough to make your own heart start beating faster.

Jack gave a small, humorless laugh. The kind someone makes when they’re trying to find the right words. “I should have said it a long time ago.”

Your chest tightened. His hands lingered on yours for a moment before he stepped back slightly. Not far but just enough to create a little space between you. “There’s something you should know.” The nervousness in his voice immediately caught your attention. Abbot wasn’t usually nervous. At least not where other people could see it.

You felt your stomach tighten. “What is it?”

He looked away briefly, then he let out a slow breath. “This isn’t exactly how I imagined telling you.” Your confusion only grew. Jack rubbed the back of his neck. Then he looked back at you. “I just don’t want you to be surprised.”

The concern in his expression was genuine. Like he was more worried about your reaction than his own feelings.

Slowly, he sat down on the couch. You watched silently. Not understanding, then understanding began to dawn. Little by little.

Jack looked up at you. His voice was quiet. “I have a prosthetic leg.” The words settled into the room. Simple, direct and honest. He gave a small shrug, trying to make it sound less significant than it clearly felt to him. “I lost it years ago.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. Watching. Waiting. Not because he expected you to be cruel, not because he thought you would reject him. But because this was something vulnerable, something deeply personal.

He swallowed. Then added quietly, “I just wanted you to know.” A small, self-conscious smile touched the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t want you finding out unexpectedly.” His gaze softened. “And I didn’t want you to be scared by it.”

The moment the words left his mouth, something in your chest twisted. Because all this time, he had been worried about your comfort, even now, even in a moment where he was the one making himself vulnerable. He was still trying to take care of you, still trying to make things easier for you.

Jack searched your face carefully, trying to read your reaction, trying to figure out what you were thinking. And for the first time that night, the confident attending physician wasn’t standing in front of you. Just a man who cared what you thought. A man brave enough to show you something he usually kept protected. And suddenly the only thing you could think was how much courage that must have taken.

You stayed quiet for a moment, not because you were shocked, not because you were unsure. Just because you were taking it in. Letting it settle properly. Jack watched you carefully, still a little tense, as if waiting for the exact moment your expression might change.

For rejection, for discomfort, for anything other than acceptance. Instead, you moved. You sat down beside him on the couch, close, not hesitant, not careful in the way he probably expected. Just… there.

You tilted your head. Your voice came out softer now, but there was a faint edge of humor underneath it. “Is this supposed to stop me?”

He looked at you, clearly thrown for a second. “What?”

You gave a small, almost amused exhale. “This,” you said quietly. “Was this meant to make me back away?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. There was the faintest stutter in his response. “I—no, I just thought you should know—”

You didn’t let him finish, ot because you didn’t care, but because you did. Because you already understood exactly why he had said it. And something about that made your chest tighten in a different way. So instead of letting the moment spiral into overthinking again, you simply leaned in and kissed him.

This time it wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t confused, it wasn’t driven by panic or adrenaline or anything chaotic.

It was steady, clear and intentional. A quiet answer to everything he hadn’t said out loud. Jack froze for a fraction of a second. Then his hand came up gently, resting against you as he leaned into it, letting go of whatever doubt he had been holding onto just moments before.

The kiss didn’t break, it only changed. Slower at first, then deeper, like the hesitation between you had finally disappeared completely. Jack’s hands came up carefully, one settling at your jaw, the other at the side of your neck, holding you like he was still afraid this might shift into something uncertain again if he wasn’t steady enough.

Your fingers moved into his hair, grounding yourself there, pulling him just slightly closer without thinking about it.

There was no rush in it anymore, no confusion. Just the quiet certainty of two people who had already crossed every line of hesitation earlier in the night. You shifted closer without breaking the kiss, drawn to him like it was the most natural thing in the world, sitting on his lap.

Jack adjusted with you immediately, instinctively, keeping you close, his hold careful but firm enough to make sure you never felt like you were falling out of it.

The world outside the couch, the apartment, the night itself—everything faded down to something small and distant.

His large hands slide up your back as he holds you to him, his tongue sliding into your mouth. His breathing quickens as you straddle his lap, pressing your body against his.

The kiss deepened as you caress his showing skin, his fingers slide under the hem of your dress, finding bare skin on your legs as he kisses you deeper.

Your breathing had turned uneven, and for a moment, neither of you seemed interested in pulling away long enough to think. Then the pace shifted.

Not into urgency, but into something deeper, quieter in a different way—less about hesitation, more about surrendering to what had already been building between you for too long.

Jack's head falls back as your lips trail down his neck, his breathing becoming shallow and quick. His hands slide up your sides, gripping your waist, guiding you slowly over him.

"Ahhh..." Jack groans, his body arching into your touch automatically. His shirt starts to ride up as your cold hands explore his abs and chest.

He let out a breath against you, the sound unguarded, breaking through the control he usually held so tightly. It made something in your chest tighten. Not triumph. Not possession. Just the realization that he wasn’t made of distance and restraint the way you had always thought.

Jack's hands slide up your thighs, pushing the fabric of your dress up with them. The sensation made you stop the kiss on his neck and lock your eyes to his, as he makes you move deeper over his lap.

Jack's jaw clenches as he watches your breasts rise and fall with your heavy breathing. His thumbs hook into the waistband of your underwear, slowly pulling them down your thighs.

You gently lift his shirt off, revealing his muscular chest and abs. He watches you with hungry eyes as you still straddle his lap, his hardness pressing against your core.

You move your hands over his warm body and drop them to his belt and finish to unbuckle it, his pants start to tenting heavily with his hardness straining against his underwear.

Jack's breath hitches as he watches you kneel in front of him, his cock obvious even through the fabric of his underwear. He spreads his legs wider instinctively, his hands gripping the couch cushions tightly.

"Fuck..." He groans softly, his hips lifting slightly as you caress him through the fabric. His hard cock springs free, bobbing slightly as it's released from the confinement of his underwear.

For Jack, it wasn’t excitement that took over first. It was disbelief. The kind that comes when something you’ve quietly wanted but never allowed yourself to fully imagine is suddenly, unmistakably real.

His breath caught, uneven, as his head tilted back slightly—not in performance, but in instinct, like his body was reacting before his mind could organize anything at all.

He wasn’t in control of the moment the way he usually was in every other part of his life.

For you, it wasn’t just desire either. It was release. All the tension you’d been carrying since the bar, since the hospital, since everything unsaid between you and him, seemed to collapse inward all at once, leaving you suspended in something that felt dangerously close to honesty.

He couldn’t wait and he pulls you up from your knees instantly, crashing his lips against yours in a desperate, hungry kiss. His hands work quickly, stripping your dress down your body and tossing it aside until you're completely bare. He lifts you effortlessly, settling you back onto his lap, your naked bodies pressing flush together.

"Are you sure..." He pants against your mouth.

You were also breathing heavily but managed to say, “yes…”

He groans deeply as you kiss him again, his hands gripping your hips tightly. He lifts you easily, positioning you over his thick head before slowly lowering you down.

"Ahh, fuck..." You breathe out shakily, your hands gripping his shoulders. You gasp feeling him stretch you. He feels every inch of his girth pulsing inside you as you sink down slowly, his hands steadying your hips as he helps you adjust. "You okay?" He whispers, his own voice strained from holding back.

As an answer, you move slowly, getting used to him, as his eyes roll back slightly, your tightness adjusting to his size.

He watches your breasts bounce gently with your movements, his fingers digging into your hips possessively. He matches your pace, lifting his hips gently to meet your faster rolls.

"That's it...fuck..."

The faster pace makes Jack groan around your nipple, sucking harder as you ride him. One hand moves from your hip to your ass, helping you move faster, deeper onto his cock. The other stays on your breast, squeezing gently.

"God, you feel so good..." you says, as you can’t stay silent anymore.

Without a second thought, Jack gets up from the couch, carrying you to the bed, his thick cock still inside you. He throws you onto the mattress gently before crawling over you.

Jack starts by kissing your neck softly, moving down to your collarbone, between your breasts, your stomach... he takes his time kissing every inch of your body until he reaches your inner thighs. He spreads them wide, his mouth hovering over your pussy before he dives in.

You instantly arch your back from the immediate pleasure he’s giving you. He wraps his arms underneath your thighs, pulling you closer to his mouth as he continues to devour you. His tongue finds your clit, circling it slowly before flicking faster. He can feel you squirming above him, your legs tightening around his head.

"What do you want…?"

Jack hums against you, the vibration sending waves of pleasure through your body. He somehow knows you need this closeness, this slow intimacy—not just the rough sex you both crave.

“I want this…exactly this…” you were finally relaxing, even though you never thought you could relax with him this way.

His tongue laps at your pussy gently, not rushing, just savoring. He feels you unclench gradually, your thighs softening around his head, still shaking under his touch.

Jack pulls back from your pussy, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He moves up your body, kissing you deeply so you can taste yourself on his tongue. His hard cock presses against your entrance.

He just watches you deeply, asking in silence. You put your arms around his neck and nod, letting him know that it’s exactly what you want, and need. He slides into you slowly, filling you completely, setting a steady rhythm, each thrust hitting your deepest spots deliberately. His mouth stays on yours, swallowing your moans as he moves over you.

He smiles against your lips, his pace picking up slightly, giving you something different—something sweeter, slower. His hand slides between your bodies to rub your clit in circles.

He stayed present with you in a way that felt almost grounding—like even in the most overwhelming part of the moment, he was still him. Still watching you. Still checking, in the smallest ways, without breaking what was between you.

For you, everything felt like too much and not enough at the same time. Too much emotion all at once—relief, fear, confusion, longing. And not enough clarity to name any of it properly.

But what you did know, even through the chaos of it, was that he was here with you in it. And that changed everything about the way it felt.

Because underneath everything physical, everything overwhelming, there was still that same thread that had been there all night. Care. Even now. Especially now.

And somewhere in the quiet that existed between breath and silence, it became clear that this wasn’t just about what was happening. It was about everything neither of you had managed to say before it started.

You look down as he watches your eyes follow where his body disappears inside yours, the visual making him groan deeply. He keeps the rhythm slow and steady, the friction overwhelming as his thumb continues to rub tight circles on your clit.

He captures your mouth in a passionate kiss, muffling your loud moan as he suddenly thrusts deeper. His hand between your legs increases its pace, rubbing faster and harder as he hits that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.

"…fuck…" He whispers against your lips.

Jack feels your pussy starting to tremble around his cock, your breathing hitching as he continues the slow, deep thrusts. He knows you're close. He leans down, his lips finding your neck as he starts to move with a more determined pace.

"Let it go..." His voice is strained, his hips moving faster now. He's trying to hold back his own orgasm.

“I can’t-I can’t keep it…fuck…” He feels your pussy fluttering around his thick length, squeezing him tight as your orgasm builds. He doesn't speed up, keeping the deep, measured strokes that drive you insane.

He groans, his thumb pressing harder on your clit, pushing you right to the edge. "Let it go..."

Your entire body clenches around him as your orgasm crashes through you. Your legs wrap around him tightly, pulling him impossibly deeper as your walls ripple and squeeze his thick cock relentlessly.

“That’s it…god…” He groans into your neck, his control snapping. He thrusts harder now, chasing his own release as you come undone beneath him.

Even as you're shaking from your orgasm, Jack continues to move inside you, his thrusts becoming more desperate and ragged. He's seeking his own release now, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside you.

He pants against your lips, his hips snapping faster, deeper. "I'm gonna..." With a loud groan, Jack buries himself deep inside you and comes. His body shakes with the force of his orgasm, holding you tightly against him as he rides it out. "Fucking hell..."

When the intensity finally began to fade, neither of you spoke. The room was quiet. Your breathing slowly settled. Jack’s forehead rested against yours. Neither of you seemed ready to create distance. As though moving away would somehow break whatever fragile thing had finally formed between you.

For a long moment, you simply stayed there. Exhausted, emotional, overwhelmed. And beneath all of it was a feeling that neither of you quite knew how to handle.

You lay curled against his side, your head resting on his chest right above his heart. One arm was draped loosely across his stomach while his arm stayed wrapped around your waist, holding you close without effort. With every slow breath he took, you felt the gentle rise and fall beneath your cheek, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat seemed to fill the quiet room.

Then he drew another breath, you felt it beneath your cheek. A subtle rise of his chest. The beginning of words he hadn’t spoken yet. You already knew what was coming. Not the exact question but the weight of it.

The what now?

The what does this mean?

The was this a mistake?

You couldn’t bear any of them. Not yet, not tonight.

Before he could speak, your hand lifted. Your fingers found his lips. A gentle interruption. Jack immediately fell silent. You didn’t look up at him, you couldn’t. If you looked at him right now, you were afraid all the doubts waiting at the edges of the room would rush in.

So you kept your eyes fixed on the darkness ahead. Your hand resting lightly against his mouth. And quietly, almost pleadingly, you whispered, “No.”

A pause, then softer. “Don’t talk…” You swallowed. The words catching slightly in your throat. “Let’s just…” You closed your eyes. “…let’s just stay like this.”

The room became completely still. For a second, you wondered if he would insist, if he would tell you that you needed to have the conversation now. That avoiding it wouldn’t change anything.

But Jack understood. Because for once, he didn’t want the answers either. His hand covered yours where it rested against his face. Carefully, warm. He lowered your hand just enough to press a brief kiss into your fingertips.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing that demanded anything. Just acknowledgment. Then he settled back against the pillows. His arm tightening around your waist again.

Keeping you close, keeping you exactly where you were. And neither of you spoke. Not because there was nothing to say.

There was too much, too many questions, too many consequences waiting for morning. The hospital. The fact that he was your attending. The fact that everything between you had changed. Those things would still be there tomorrow. Neither of you could stop that. But tonight neither of you had the strength to untangle it all.

So instead you listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to stop fighting. Not forever, noteven until morning, just for a few hours, just long enough to rest.

Jack’s fingers traced absent-minded circles against your side. A quiet reassurance, a promise without words. And slowly, little by little, the tension in your chest began to loosen. The questions were still there, the uncertainty was still there. But so was he.

And for tonight, that was enough.

Taglist ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

@slowburnsky @gandalfthegoatsblog @nosebeers @chaotic-taco-collector-blog @yosoylaprincesa2004 @thehockeynerd30 @slut4jackabbottt @torntaltos @jennataurus @pinkgarnet @stoptheinnocence

[sole-jpeg]

Somewhere Between Hate And Whatever This Is — Jack Abbot

(Chapter 12/?)

pairing : jack abbot / f!reader

words count : 11k

previous chapters : Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11

summary : The night shift at the Pitt teaches you two things very quickly: how to keep people alive, and how to survive the ones you can’t.

You are a newly assigned intern doctor who is brilliant, stubborn, and entirely incapable of backing down — which becomes a serious problem when your supervising attending, Jack Abbot, seems to make a sport out of challenging you at every possible opportunity. Between impossible trauma cases, sleepless nights, and arguments sharp enough to cut through the entire ER, the rivalry between them slowly turns into something far more dangerous.

contain : enemies to lovers, rivals, slow burn, sarcasm, forbidden, mentions of medical trauma, injuries, blood, urgency, panic attack, stress.

a/n : guys be ready for the next few chapter it’s gonna be WILD !! Anyway enjoy this chapter full of tension <33

archiveofourown link Spotify playlist link

Chapter 12: You’re going to be okay

Sleep never really came. Not properly. The night blurred into fragments instead, half-dreams, quick awakenings, turning under blankets that suddenly felt too warm, too heavy.

Every single time your eyes closed, your brain replayed it.

The argument. His voice. Your confession.

The kiss.

God. The kiss.

You buried your face deeper into the pillow with a frustrated groan as the memory hit again in perfect detail, his hands on your face, the way you kissed him back immediately, the fact that for one terrifying moment…you hadn’t wanted to stop.

Your eyes squeezed shut harder. Mistake. That’s what this was. It had to be. You repeated it to yourself sometime around four in the morning while staring at the wall.

You were exhausted. Drunk. Emotionally overwhelmed after the shift, after Dana, after everything.

That was all. It didn’t mean anything. Except your brain clearly refused to cooperate with that explanation because every time you almost convinced yourself, another memory surfaced.

The way he looked hurt at the bar. The way he asked “Do you really hate me?” Like the answer genuinely mattered to him.

You rolled onto your back aggressively, glaring at the ceiling now. From the couch across the apartment, you could hear faint movement sometimes, fabric shifting, a quiet sigh, the creak of springs. Abbot wasn’t sleeping much either.

And somehow knowing that made everything worse. The apartment felt painfully small now. Every sound reminded you he was still there. Still on your couch. Still real. Still only a few meters away from you after everything that happened.

At one point during the night, you almost got up for water. You even sat up halfway before freezing when you saw his silhouette shift slightly in the darkness too.

Both of you immediately pretended to still be asleep. Which honestly felt ridiculous. And humiliating. And somehow even more intimate than the kiss itself. So instead, you laid back down and stared at the ceiling until the first pale morning light slowly started creeping through the window blinds.

You had maybe slept two hours total. Maybe. And the worst part? You still had absolutely no idea what you were supposed to do now.

Sometime around seven, after hours of barely sleeping at all, you heard movement from the couch. Soft at first. Fabric shifting. A quiet exhale. The muted sound of someone trying not to make noise.

Your eyes opened slightly against your will. Through the dim morning light creeping between the blinds, you saw Abbot sitting up slowly on the couch, one hand dragging over his face tiredly before he reached down for his bag on the floor.

He looked exhausted too. Good. The thought came automatically, immediately followed by guilt.

You watched silently from under your blanket as he packed his things carefully, trying not to disturb you. His movements were quieter than usual, slower somehow. Like he was thinking too much too.

Then he stood. And your stomach dropped slightly when you saw him turn toward the bed. Toward you.

Instantly, you shut your eyes again. Pretending. Because you couldn’t do this right now. Couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t talk about last night. Couldn’t survive whatever awkward, horrible conversation was probably waiting if you opened your eyes. So you stayed perfectly still, slowing your breathing as naturally as possible beneath the covers.

You heard his footsteps move closer across the apartment.

Then stop. Right beside the bed. Silence. You could feel him there without seeing him. Your heartbeat felt unbearably loud in your ears. For one terrifying second, you thought he might wake you up. Say something. Apologize. Make this real again. Instead…nothing. Just another quiet silence stretching between you.

Then finally, very softly, “…Right.” Almost to himself. You heard him shift slightly, like he had almost done something and changed his mind at the last second. Then the footsteps moved away again. Toward the door. A quiet sound of keys. The handle turning slowly. And just before the apartment door closed, you heard him stop one last time. Another silence. Then the door shut gently behind him. Leaving the apartment completely still again.

The second the apartment door clicked shut, your eyes opened again. You stared at the ceiling blankly. And somehow, you felt worse now. The guilt settled in immediately, heavy and uncomfortable in your chest.

Because you knew he knew you were awake. There was no way he didn’t. Which meant he also knew you had pretended. God. You dragged both hands over your face slowly before dropping back against the pillow with a muffled groan.

What the hell were you supposed to do now? Seriously. You replayed everything again instantly, because apparently your brain had decided suffering was now a full-time activity.

You kissed your attending. Your attending. Not some random guy from a bar. Not someone you’d never see again. Jack Abbot. The man you worked with almost every single night. The man who argued with you constantly. The man who somehow managed to irritate you and understand you better than most people at the exact same time.

And now what? You were supposed to walk into the ER tonight and act normal? Impossible.

You physically rolled over in frustration, pulling the blanket over your face completely like you could suffocate the thoughts into silence.

Maybe you should actually move to day shift. The idea hit harder now than it ever had before. At least on days you’d see him less, there’d be more people around, less night-shift tension, less… whatever this was.

Because right now you genuinely couldn’t imagine looking him in the eye without remembering his hands on your face, the way he kissed you back immediately, the way you kissed him back harder.

A horrified sound escaped into your pillow. “This ER is actually going to kill me,” you muttered against the fabric. The blanket stayed over your entire body as you curled tighter into yourself dramatically, like hiding under it long enough might somehow reset reality before your next shift.

It didn’t. Unfortunately.

————————

The day crawled by painfully slowly. You barely left your bed. At some point, sunlight had started spilling through your blinds, warming the apartment softly—but you kept the blanket over your head anyway, hiding from your own thoughts like they might eventually get bored and leave you alone.

They didn’t. Every attempt to stop thinking somehow circled back to him. The kiss. The argument. The way he had looked at you afterward. The quiet “right” before he left your apartment.

You kept trying to sort it into categories: alcohol, exhaustion, stress, trauma bonding from the ER probably. Anything except what it actually felt like.

Because that option was significantly more terrifying. And the worst part? You genuinely didn’t know what you were feeling.

You didn’t like him. Right? You argued almost every shift. He annoyed you constantly. He pushed every button you had without even trying. Half the time you wanted to strangle him.

So why…why did your stomach tighten every time you remembered the kiss? Why did you keep replaying it instead of trying to forget it? You buried your face deeper into your pillow with a frustrated groan.

Because if you were being completely honest with yourself, you had liked it. Not just physically. That would’ve been easier. No, what scared you was the fact that during those few seconds, kissing him had felt… natural. Like all the tension between you had suddenly made sense. And that thought alone made you want to launch yourself directly into traffic.

Around noon, you attempted to distract yourself by watching something on your laptop. You lasted twelve minutes before realizing you’d been staring at the same paused scene while replaying the elevator moment instead.

By three in the afternoon, you considered texting Dana:

“hypothetically if someone ruined their life by kissing their attending—”

Then immediately decided absolutely not. You slept eventually. Not intentionally. At some point during the spiraling, exhaustion finally dragged you under for maybe two hours before your alarm violently reminded you that unfortunately, life was continuing anyway.

You stared at the ceiling when it rang. Absolutely motionless. “No,” you whispered immediately. The alarm kept going.

You groaned dramatically into your pillow. Because tonight wasn’t just another shift anymore. Tonight was: seeing Abbot after the kiss. And somehow that felt more terrifying than half the trauma cases you’d worked this month.

By the time you got dressed and dragged yourself toward the hospital, the sky was already darkening again. The familiar ER lights glowed through the entrance ahead.

Usually comforting. Tonight? Threatening.

You stood outside for one long second, staring at the doors like they had personally betrayed you.

Then finally, you inhaled sharply and walked inside anyway. You pushed through the ER doors and immediately got hit by the familiar chaos. Phones ringing. Monitors beeping.

Someone laughing too loudly somewhere down the hall. Stretchers moving past triage. Normal. Everything looked painfully normal despite the fact that your entire internal world currently felt like it was collapsing in on itself.

Your eyes instinctively moved toward the nurse station, and immediately landed on Dana. Of course she was here.

Because apparently getting assaulted yesterday wasn’t enough to keep her home for one shift. She sat beside Princess at the station, paperwork spread around her while Princess talked animatedly about something on the computer screen. Dana still had faint bruising around her nose, subtle discoloration under one eye now visible under the harsh hospital lights.

And somehow she still looked completely functional. You genuinely hated ER people sometimes.

Princess noticed you first. “Well look who finally decided to join society again,” she called immediately.

Dana turned in her chair. The second her eyes landed on you, her expression shifted instantly. Not dramatically. Just enough for you to know she was already analyzing you. Which was dangerous.Very dangerous. Because Dana noticed everything.

You adjusted your bag on your shoulder, trying to look normal despite the fact that you had barely slept, you were actively spiraling and her colleague had kissed you less than twelve hours ago.

“Hey,” you muttered casually. Too casually probably.

Dana narrowed her eyes slightly.“…You look terrible.”

“Thank you.”

“I mean medically.”

Princess snorted quietly beside her. You dropped your bag behind the station counter with a tired sigh, desperately hoping nobody would mention Abbot immediately.

Which, considering this ER was probably an unrealistic expectation.

The moment you got closer to the station, Dana’s expression changed completely. Not subtle at all. It was the face.

The one that immediately meant: I know something. Or at least I think I do. And I will absolutely not let this go.

You saw it instantly and internally prepared for death. Princess noticed it too and physically leaned back in her chair like she didn’t want to get caught in whatever was about to happen.

Dana tilted her head slightly at you. “So,” she started casually. Too casually. You already hated this conversation. “Apparently,” she continued, dragging the word out while pretending to reorganize papers, “someone saw you leaving with Abbot last night.”

Your entire body went rigid for half a second. Tiny. Almost invisible. But Dana caught it immediately. Of course she did. You grabbed random charts off the counter just to avoid looking directly at her. “Okay?” you answered flatly. “And?”

Dana’s eyes narrowed further. “And,” she repeated slowly, “you went for one drink.” You kept flipping through papers you weren’t even reading. “Yes.”

“And then?”

“Then I went home.” Technically true. Which made it worse somehow. Dana stared at you for a long second. Then leaned back slightly in her chair, crossing her arms with a look of absolute suspicion. “…Why do you look like you committed a crime?” she asked bluntly.

Princess nearly choked trying not to laugh. You immediately glared at both of them. “I’m tired.”

“Mmhm.” Dana did not believe you for a single second. Not even a little. And the terrifying part? You could already see her mentally connecting dots in real time.

But she didn’t push. Which, honestly, was worse than if she had. Her expression softened just slightly—not less observant, just less aggressive. Like she’d decided something internally and was choosing not to dig further… for now.

“Alright,” she said simply, leaning back in her chair. “I’m not gonna push you.” That alone made you suspicious. Dana always pushed. Always. You narrowed your eyes at her a little, but she just held your gaze calmly. Then, quieter—but still very much Dana— “I’m watching over you though.”

You blinked. “…What?”

Princess glanced between both of you like she was witnessing something rare. Dana shrugged lightly, like it was nothing. “After yesterday? Yeah. I’m watching you. Deal with it.”

It wasn’t said in a teasing way. Or an annoying way. It was… firm. Protective, in a way she usually disguised with jokes and pressure and endless interrogation. And that’s what threw you off. Because Dana not pushing meant Dana had already decided something was wrong—and was choosing patience instead.

You didn’t know what to do with that. So you just nodded awkwardly, grabbing your bag again a little too quickly. “Okay,” you muttered. “Cool. Great. Love that for me.”

Dana hummed faintly, still watching you but not stopping you this time. Princess raised an eyebrow but said nothing. You took the opportunity immediately. Before Dana could change her mind. Before questions came back. Before anything else could.

You slung your bag over your shoulder, muttered a quick “I’m gonna go change,” and turned toward the locker room with slightly too-fast steps.

And behind you, you could still feel Dana’s eyes on your back. But for once…she didn’t follow. You disappeared down the hallway toward the locker room, still trying to calm the mess in your head before the shift properly started.

Behind you, the ER kept moving normally. Phones. Patients. Nurses yelling across halls.

And then, the ambulance bay doors opened. Dana looked up automatically. Abbot walked in. Bag over one shoulder. Coffee in hand. Expression unreadable at first glance.

But Dana had worked with him long enough to know better than “first glance.” She immediately noticed it. The exhaustion around his eyes. The tension in his jaw. The way he scanned the department tonight without really seeing it. Like part of him was somewhere else entirely.

Princess followed Dana’s gaze toward him. “Oh,” she muttered quietly. Because even she could tell something was off. Abbot gave a quick nod toward the station as he walked past, clearly trying to look normal. It almost worked. Almost. But Dana watched him carefully the entire time, her brain visibly piecing things together at dangerous speed now.

Then he glanced briefly down the hallway. Toward the locker rooms. Tiny movement. Most people wouldn’t have noticed it. Dana did. Of course she did. Her eyes narrowed slightly. Then Abbot disappeared down the same hallway you had taken seconds earlier.

Princess slowly turned toward Dana. “…You have that face again.” Dana stayed silent for a moment. Still staring at the hallway. Then quietly, “Oh no.”

Princess blinked. “What?” Dana leaned back slowly in her chair, realization settling across her face piece by piece. “…Oh no, they absolutely did something.”

The locker room was quiet compared to the chaos outside. Just the low buzzing of white lights overhead and the metallic sound of lockers opening and closing somewhere farther down the row. You focused on your own locker carefully, almost aggressively.

Bag inside. Water bottle. Extra hoodie. Normal things. Your stethoscope settled around your neck as you adjusted it automatically, trying very hard to think about absolutely nothing.

Then the door behind you opened. You looked up instinctively and froze. Abbot stood in the doorway. And he froze too the second he saw you. The awkwardness hit instantly. Not subtle. Not manageable. Just immediate and painfully real.

For one horrible second, neither of you moved at all. You could practically see last night replay across both your faces at the exact same time. The argument. The kiss. This morning. God.

You turned back toward your locker almost immediately, pretending to reorganize things that absolutely did not need reorganizing. Your heartbeat had already started speeding up again. Behind you, you heard him exhale quietly through his nose before finally stepping inside. The door closed. Then silence.

You could hear him moving toward his own locker a few spaces away, setting his bag down carefully like he was trying not to disturb the tension filling the room. Neither of you spoke. And somehow that was worse than arguing.

The metallic click of his locker opening sounded absurdly loud in the silence. You kept your eyes fixed on your own locker, even though you were no longer doing anything. Just standing there awkwardly now. Aware that now, you have to work together after kissing each other half to death less than twelve hours ago.

You heard him shift slightly behind you. Then his voice finally broke the silence. “Hey um…can we talk about—”

The second the words left his mouth you slammed your locker shut. The metallic bang echoed violently through the small room. Abbot stopped immediately. You turned toward him sharply before he could continue, the panic and exhaustion from the entire day suddenly hardening into something colder.

“We don’t have anything to talk about.” Your voice came out dry. Too dry. Like you had rehearsed the sentence over and over in your head all day until it lost all emotion.

Abbot stared at you quietly. You crossed your arms tighter instinctively. “What happened last night was a mistake,” you continued quickly. “We were drunk. Tired. Whatever.”

The words felt wrong even while saying them. But you kept going anyway. “And I don’t want you saying anything to anyone.” A beat. “Nothing really happened.”

That one landed differently. You saw it immediately in his face. Tiny shift. Tiny pause. But enough. Because both of you knew that wasn’t true. Something absolutely happened. And pretending otherwise suddenly sounded almost cruel out loud.

The locker room went silent again. Abbot looked at you for a long second, unreadable now. Then finally, “…Nothing happened?” His voice wasn’t angry. Which somehow made it worse. Abbot kept looking at you for a second after your words fell flat between you. “Is that really what you think?”

Your throat tightened immediately. Because that question was worse. Worse than arguing. Worse than sarcasm. Worse than pretending. You opened your mouth slightly, then closed it again. No answer came out. Because you couldn’t do it.

You couldn’t look him in the eye and honestly say:

yes, nothing happened.

Not after the way you kissed him back. Not after the way you had spent the entire day replaying it. The silence stretched long enough that he understood anyway.

His jaw shifted slightly as he looked away for half a second before speaking again. “You keep calling it a mistake like it only happened because we were drunk.” His voice stayed calm. Too calm. “But that’s not true.”

You looked down instantly, arms still crossed tightly over yourself. “Abbot—”

“No,” he interrupted softly. “You don’t get to shut this down in thirty seconds after what happened.”

That made your chest tighten again. He took a slow breath, clearly trying to keep his own frustration under control now. “I’m not saying we need to… define whatever this is,” he continued. “I’m not even saying I know what it is.” A beat. “But don’t stand there and act like it meant absolutely nothing.”

Your heartbeat felt painfully loud. Because part of you agreed. Which was exactly the problem.

You shook your head slightly, more overwhelmed than angry now.

“We work together,” you muttered quietly. “You’re my attending.”

“I know.”

“And this changes everything.” Another pause. Then him, quieter now, “Maybe it already changed before last night.”

You shook your head harder this time, squeezing your eyes shut for a second like you could physically force the thoughts out of your brain. Because he was making this harder. Every sentence from him felt like it pulled at something you were trying desperately to keep closed.

You inhaled slowly. Forced yourself to straighten. Then finally looked back at him. Directly. “There’s nothing between us.” Your voice sounded steadier now. Controlled. Like you were building the wall brick by brick while speaking. “And it didn’t mean anything.”

You held his gaze when you said it, trying to look as serious as possible. Trying to make yourself believe it too. The fluorescent lights above buzzed softly in the silence that followed.

Abbot didn’t answer immediately. He just looked at you. Really looked at you. And somehow that made your chest feel tight again. Because he didn’t seem convinced. Not even close.

His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes again, like the memory hit him too whether he wanted it to or not. Then finally, very quietly, “You’re a terrible liar.”

The sentence wasn’t mocking. That was the worst part. It sounded tired. Disappointed. Like he had already figured you out and neither of you knew what to do with that anymore.

Your expression tightened instantly at his words. For a second, you looked almost angry again. Mostly because he was right. And you hated that he was right.

You grabbed your badge from the bench beside you a little too quickly before stepping backward toward the door. “Well good thing this isn’t a court of law then,” you muttered dryly.

Abbot’s eyes stayed fixed on you. You could feel him wanting to say something else. Probably something honest again. Which was exactly why you needed to leave now. You forced your voice back into something colder, more professional. “We have a shift to get through.” Then before he could stop you, you turned and walked out of the locker room immediately.

The door swung shut behind you. The noise and chaos of the ER hit instantly again, swallowing you back into motion before your thoughts could fully catch up. Someone called for labs. A monitor alarm started beeping somewhere down the hall. Princess was arguing with a resident already. Normal.

You walked faster toward the nurse station, almost grateful for the chaos because it gave you something else to focus on besides: the conversation, the kiss and the look on Abbot’s face before you left.

Behind you, in the now quiet locker room, Abbot stayed standing there alone for a moment longer. Still staring at the closed door where you disappeared.

Dana noticed you the second you came back from the locker room. Of course she did. You were walking too fast. Your jaw was tight. And your expression had that specific look Dana had learned to recognize over the months: emotionally compromised and pretending otherwise.

You barely even stopped at the nurse station. Your eyes scanned the pile of charts once before grabbing one almost blindly. “Room twelve?” Princess asked cautiously.

“Yep.”

“You didn’t even read—”

“I’ll improvise.” Then you immediately turned and disappeared down the hallway before anyone could stop you. Dana watched you go with narrowed eyes. “…Interesting,” she muttered quietly. Princess slowly looked toward the locker room hallway.

Right on cue, Abbot walked out. And somehow looked exactly the same. Tense. Irritated. Trying way too hard to look normal. Dana physically blinked once at the almost identical energy radiating off both of you.

Abbot reached the station without looking at anyone directly, grabbed a random chart in complete silence, and immediately turned toward another hallway. “Room eight,” Princess said automatically.

He nodded once. Then left just as quickly as you had. Dana stared after him. Then after you. Then back toward Princess. Princess already had both eyebrows raised. “Oh they absolutely fought,” she whispered immediately.

Dana leaned back slowly in her chair, eyes still following both separate directions you disappeared into. “No,” she said carefully. A beat. “…Something worse happened.”

———————

You practically speed-walked into the room, grateful for literally anything that would force your brain away from the locker room conversation. Work. You needed work. A patient. A chart. A problem to solve. Anything. You pushed open the door and offered your usual professional smile.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Y/L/N. What brings you in tonight?”

At the same time, you finally looked down at the chart you had grabbed in your emotional escape from the nurse station.

The patient—a man in his late twenties—looked absolutely miserable. He shifted awkwardly on the bed. Then cleared his throat. “Uh…” Another awkward shift. “I think I got something stuck.”

You nodded automatically while reading. Then your eyes reached the chief complaint. And immediately stopped. Foreign body. Your smile froze. The patient looked away. You looked back at the chart. Then at him. Then back at the chart again. The room suddenly became very quiet.

“…Oh.”

The patient rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah.” Another pause. Then, with the confidence of a man who had already made several terrible decisions in life, “It wasn’t supposed to happen.”

You closed your eyes briefly. Just for a second. Of course. Of course the random chart you grabbed to avoid thinking about your disastrous love life was this. You pinched the bridge of your nose.

“I really shouldn’t have taken a random chart.” The words slipped out before you could stop them.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

You looked back at the chart. Then at the patient. Then at the chart again. Nope. It was still there. Still very much real. The patient seemed almost relieved now that someone knew.

“So…” He gestured vaguely. “Can you help me?”

You stared at him for a moment. Then sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately for both of us…” You grabbed a pair of gloves. “…yes.”

About thirty minutes later, the problem had been solved. Unfortunately for everyone involved, the “foreign body” had turned out to be a small silicone ring that had become stuck in a place silicone rings were definitely not supposed to stay stuck.

The patient had become increasingly red with embarrassment as the details came out. And you had become increasingly convinced you should have stayed in bed today. Still, you did your job. With a lot of professionalism. And a heroic amount of self-control.

After an examination, some local anesthetic gel, and a careful removal procedure involving specialized cutters borrowed from another department, the ring had finally been removed without causing any permanent injury.

The patient had looked genuinely emotional when it came off. Mostly from relief. Hopefully. Now the crisis was over. You stripped off your gloves and tossed them into the trash. The patient was already sitting up on the bed looking significantly less miserable than before.

“Alright,” you said, grabbing the discharge paperwork. “You’ll probably have some swelling and soreness for the next few days.”

The man nodded quickly. “Okay.”

“If the pain suddenly gets worse, if you notice discoloration, numbness, fever, anything unusual, come back immediately.”

“Got it.”

You finished writing a few notes. Then looked up. The patient immediately looked away. You almost laughed. Almost. Instead you stayed perfectly professional. “Otherwise you should be fine.”

The man visibly relaxed. “Thank God.”

“Mmhm.”

Another awkward silence settled over the room. Then you handed him the paperwork. As he took it, you couldn’t help yourself. Just a little. A tiny bit.You pointed toward the papers. “And maybe…” The patient already looked terrified. “…be a little careful where you put your stuff in the future.”

The man buried his face in his hands immediately. “Oh my God.”

You finally lost the battle against a smile. Just a small one. “Have a good night, sir.”

“Please forget I exist.”

“I’ll do my best.”

The man groaned dramatically as you left the room. The second the door closed behind you, you leaned briefly against the wall outside. Of all the charts in the ER. Of all the possible patients. That was the one you had chosen. You looked up toward the ceiling. “I deserved that,” you muttered to yourself. Then you pushed away from the wall and headed back toward the nurse station, feeling slightly better than before. At least for thirty minutes, you had been thinking about someone else’s bad decisions instead of your own.

As you rounded the corner toward the station, you immediately spotted Dana. Unfortunately. Because Dana spotted you too. The second her eyes landed on you, her eyebrows lifted.

“Oh, there she is.” Dana turned her chair toward you completely now. “How was your patient?”

You dropped the chart onto the counter. “Fine.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is an answer.”

Princess looked up from her computer. Then at you. Then at Dana. Then back at you. “…Why do you look traumatized?”

You pointed at her immediately. “Don’t.”

“Oh my God.”

Princess sat up straighter. “What happened?” You buried your face in your hands. Dana immediately started laughing. “No.”

“Oh yes.”

“Dana.”

“Oh yes.”

You groaned. Because now she definitely knew something embarrassing had happened. And Dana with information was dangerous. “What happened?” Princess repeated, invested now. You looked around the station.

No escape. No witnesses willing to save you. No fire alarms going off. Nothing. So with the resignation of someone accepting their fate, you leaned on the counter.

“I took a random chart.”

Dana nodded. “Mistake number one.”

“Thank you.”

“What happened?”

You closed your eyes briefly. Then muttered, “Foreign body.”

Princess immediately made a face. Dana started smiling. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

“Oh no.”

You pointed at her. “Exactly.” Dana was already laughing now. “What kind of foreign body?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“What kind?”

“Dana.”

“What kind?!”

You looked up at the ceiling. Wondering if maybe another patient would suddenly need you. A trauma. A cardiac arrest. An earthquake. Anything. Unfortunately, none arrived. So you sighed. And quietly answered, “…a ring.”

The silence lasted exactly half a second. Then Dana nearly fell out of her chair laughing. Princess slapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God.”

“Yep.”

Dana was wiping tears from her eyes. “You got the penis ring guy?”

You dropped your forehead onto the counter. Of course she knew. Of course everyone knew. This ER had absolutely no respect for privacy.

You were still leaning on the counter, trying to recover from the absolute humiliation of your last case, when you heard your name.

“Dr Y/L/N ?” Your first instinct was just exhaustion. Your second was annoyance. Your third was please don’t be another problem tonight. You straightened slowly and turned—and immediately regretted all three instincts.

Ethan. The shoulder guy. The one who had flirted with you way too confidently, way too casually, and somehow acted like the ER was his personal social club. He was standing a few feet away in the hallway, looking entirely too pleased with himself for someone who was in a hospital.

“Hey,” he said, like this was normal. Like this wasn’t your workplace. “Didn’t think I’d see you tonight.”

You blinked once. Then forced your face into something neutral. “Yeah,” you said flatly. “Unfortunately, I work here.” Behind you, you could feel Dana’s attention immediately sharpen like a radar locking on a target. Princess too. Of course.

Ethan didn’t seem to notice the silent audience building at the nurse station. Or he didn’t care. He stepped a little closer.

Dana leaned forward slightly behind you. You didn’t even have to look to feel it, as you hear her whispered just loud enough, “Oh this guy again…”

You closed your eyes briefly. Because of course. Of course tonight wasn’t done embarrassing you yet. You crossed your arms slightly, still recovering from the chaos of your last patient when Ethan finally said what he was actually here for.

“Just a random check-up,” he added, like that explained everything. “Everything’s fine now.”

You nodded slowly. “Great. Then you can leave before the ER finds something real wrong with you.”

A pause. It should’ve ended there. But it didn’t. Because Ethan didn’t move. And the silence that followed suddenly felt… intentional. Awkward in a very specific way. You could already feel it before he even said it.

He shifted his weight slightly, glancing away for half a second before looking back at you. “So,” he started, a little less confident now, “I was wondering…” Your stomach dropped a fraction. Behind you, you were very aware Dana and Princess were suddenly extremely interested in paperwork that definitely did not require that level of focus. “…if I could get your number.”

There it was. “And maybe,” he added quickly, like he was trying to keep it casual but failing slightly, “we could grab a drink sometime. Outside of here.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Not because you didn’t understand. But because your brain was suddenly doing something very inconvenient: comparing this moment to another one. Another invitation. Another drink. Another night that had already completely ruined your ability to think normally.

Ethan waited, a bit unsure now, noticing your silence and very definitely noticing the two nurses behind you pretending they weren’t listening at all. Dana was failing miserably at that. Princess had fully stopped typing.

Then he came to your mind.

Abbot.

Of course. His face flashed in your mind way too clearly for something you were actively trying not to think about. The locker room silence. The argument. The kiss. The way he looked at you like you were lying even when you were trying your hardest not to.

You swallowed. And then, almost like a reflex, another thought followed right behind it:

Why not? Why not say yes? Why not take something simple, uncomplicated, normal? Something that didn’t come with history or tension or the emotional equivalent of walking through an active ER at night.

Maybe it would help. Maybe it would shut Dana and Princess up for five minutes. Maybe it would drown out whatever mess Abbot had become in your head. It made sense in the most tired, slightly overwhelmed way possible.

You looked back at Ethan. He was still waiting, a bit unsure now, his confidence dimming slightly under your silence—and under the fact that Dana and Princess were absolutely pretending not to listen, which they were doing very badly.

You didn’t speak. You just reached out your hand. Calm. Simple. Wordless. Ethan blinked once, then quickly pulled out his phone like he didn’t want to risk you changing your mind. He unlocked it and handed it over.

You typed your number in without thinking too much about it, your movements automatic, almost detached. Then you handed it back. A small nod followed.

“I’ll text you,” Ethan said, a little relieved now.

“Yeah,” you replied quietly. “Sure.” And just like that, it was done. Behind you, you could practically feel Dana’s entire brain lighting up. Princess made a sound like she was physically holding back commentary.

You didn’t turn around. Because for some reason, your chest still felt weird. And you had no idea if it was because of Ethan…or because somewhere in the back of your mind, you were thinking about how complicated things had already become with someone else.

Ethan looked down at his phone, then back up at you. A smile immediately appeared on his face. Not a huge one. Just the kind of smile someone gets when something went better than expected. “Great,” he said.

You nodded once. “Great.”

The conversation clearly over, he started backing away toward the exit. Actually backing away. You watched him for a second as he pointed at you. “I’ll text you.”

“You already said that.”

“I know.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

And somehow he was still standing there. Dana was making visible efforts not to laugh behind you. Finally Ethan shook his head with another smile and turned around, disappearing toward the exit. A few seconds later he was gone. The silence lasted approximately one second. Then you turned around.

Dana and Princess were staring at you. Completely speechless. Princess looked genuinely shocked. Dana looked like she’d just witnessed a car drive through the nurse station.

“What?” you asked. Neither answered. “What?”

Dana pointed dramatically toward the door Ethan had just left through. “You gave him your number.”

“Yes.”

“You.”

“Yes.”

Princess finally found her voice. “You actually gave him your number.”

You grabbed a chart off the counter. “I was there. I remember.”

Dana narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

You shrugged. Why? Good question. You honestly weren’t sure. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It absolutely matters.”

You sighed. “Why not?”

Dana looked horrified. “‘Why not?’”

“Yes.”

“‘Why not?’ is your explanation?”

Princess immediately joined in. “Oh that’s reassuring.”

“‘Why not’ is how I choose sandwiches.”

“‘Why not’ is not how you choose people.”

You rolled your eyes. “He asked.”

“And?”

“And I said yes.”

Dana stared at you. Princess stared at you. Then they exchanged a look. One of those looks. The dangerous kind. “Oh,” Dana said slowly. “Oh no,” Princess added. You already hated where this was going.

Dana leaned forward. “This has something to do with Abbot.”

“No.”

“Yup.”

“No.”

“Yup.”

You pointed at both of them. “This is exactly why.”

They blinked. “What?”

You threw your hands up. “Maybe if I go on one date with a normal guy you’ll both stop trying to marry me off to Abbot.”

Princess immediately burst out laughing. Dana nearly fell out of her chair. “A normal guy?” Dana repeated.

“Yes.”

“The shoulder guy?”

“Yes.”

“The shoulder guy who flirted with you while actively being a patient?”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it again. Dana pointed triumphantly. “Exactly.” Princess was still laughing. Meanwhile Dana was studying you again. Far too carefully. And unfortunately for you, the more she looked at you, the less she seemed convinced this was about Ethan at all.

Dana was still looking at you with that expression. The one that meant she knew more than she should. Or at least thought she did. You were already tired of it. Tired of the jokes. Tired of the looks. Tired of everyone acting like they knew what was happening between you and Abbot when you barely knew yourself.

So before either Dana or Princess could speak again, you pointed a finger between them. “Can you both just stop?”

Neither looked convinced. “Stop what?”

“The Abbot thing.”

Princess immediately opened her mouth. You cut her off. “No. Seriously.” Something in your tone made both of them quiet down. You crossed your arms. “Just… stop talking about him.”

Dana’s expression softened slightly. That only annoyed you more. “He doesn’t care who I date.” The words came out sharper than intended. “He doesn’t care what I do.”

A pause. Then, because you were frustrated and embarrassed and still angry from the locker room, “So maybe everyone else should stop acting like he does.”

The silence that followed felt strange. Heavy and different. Princess’s smile disappeared first. Then Dana’s. Your stomach dropped. Immediately. Because suddenly neither of them was looking at you anymore. They were looking past you. A few feet away.

You turned. And there he was. Abbot. Standing at the end of the hallway. Not close enough to be part of the conversation. But close enough. Close enough. The realization hit you like a punch.

He’d been there. For how long? Long enough. Long enough to see Ethan asking for your number. Long enough to see you give it to him. Long enough to hear that.

Your chest tightened instantly. Abbot didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask for an explanation. Didn’t look angry. Somehow that was worse. His expression barely changed at all, but you knew him.

And for the first time all night, you wished you didn’t. Because you saw it. Just for a second. That tiny shift behind his eyes. Like something had landed exactly where it could hurt the most.

The hallway suddenly felt too quiet. Too exposed. You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. Abbot held your gaze for another second.

Then gave a single nod. Small. Professional. Controlled. The kind of nod you’d give a colleague. Nothing more, nothing less. Then he looked away, turned, and walked down the hallway. Gone, just like that.

You stood there frozen. Dana didn’t say a word. Neither did Princess. For once, neither of them had a joke.

And somehow that made it worse. Because as you stared at the empty hallway where he’d disappeared, one thought kept repeating in your head: You didn’t mean it.

But you had said it anyway.

———————

The next few hours passed in a blur of charts, patients, alarms, and paperwork. The ER never slowed down long enough for you to sit with your thoughts, which should have been a relief.

Instead, it somehow made everything worse. Because every time you looked up, you saw him. Not beside you. Not arguing with you. Not correcting you. Not giving you one of those exasperated looks that somehow always felt more personal than they should.

Just… there. Across the department. Far away. Untouchable.

Abbot moved through the ER with the same efficiency he always had. He spoke with patients, reviewed scans, gave orders during traumas, consulted with nurses, signed charts. To anyone else, he probably looked completely normal.

But you noticed. You noticed because you had spent months noticing him. You noticed that he never once came looking for you. You noticed that every conversation that should have involved both of you somehow ended with someone else delivering the message. You noticed that when he entered a room you were already in, he addressed everyone except you.

Professional. Polite. Distant. Like there had never been anything else. Like the locker room conversation hadn’t happened. Like the kiss hadn’t happened. Like that night in your apartment had never existed.

A few hours ago you would have said that’s exactly what you wanted. Now you weren’t so sure.

You found yourself watching him without meaning to. From the nurse station. From hallways. While washing your hands at a sink. Little stolen glances that happened before you could stop them.

For months, even when you weren’t speaking, you could feel his attention. A glance. A look. The sense that somewhere in the room he was aware of exactly where you were. It had become so familiar you hadn’t even realized how much you’d grown used to it.

Tonight there was nothing. Not a glance. Not a pause. Not even an acknowledgment. He walked past carrying a chart, eyes already on the next task. And for the first time since you’d met him, you weren’t sure if he was deliberately avoiding looking at you… or if he’d simply decided not to anymore.

The possibility sat heavily in your chest. Because there was a difference between fighting with Abbot and being ignored by him. A huge difference. Fighting meant he cared enough to engage. Ignoring you felt like the opposite.

Around 2 in the morning, you found yourself standing at the nurse station waiting for lab results. Across the department, Abbot was speaking with an elderly patient and her daughter.

You watched as he crouched beside the bed so he could speak at eye level. His expression softened. He explained something patiently, listening more than he talked.

The daughter smiled. The patient laughed. Abbot smiled back. The sight twisted something unexpectedly painful inside your chest. Not because he was being kind. Because he looked so normal. So unaffected. As if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t heard your words earlier. As if they hadn’t landed exactly where you knew they would.

You looked away first. And for the rest of the night, no matter how many times your eyes drifted toward him, Abbot never once looked back.

At one point you spotted him in Trauma Three. The room was chaotic. Nurses moving around the bed, monitors beeping, someone calling out vitals. Abbot stood at the center of it all. Focused. Confident. Completely absorbed in the patient.

You watched through the glass for a moment longer than necessary.

Then something changed. The atmosphere shifted. It happened fast. One second the room was controlled chaos. The next, it was chaos. A sharp alarm suddenly cut through the noise. A monitor began screaming. Someone swore. “Shit.” “Pressure’s dropping.” “I can’t get a pulse.”

Everything inside the room accelerated. The nurses moved faster. Another provider rushed toward the bed. The patient’s family member was quickly ushered out.

You didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. The second your brain registered the urgency, your body was already moving. You shoved through the doors. The sounds hit you immediately. Monitor alarms. Voices overlapping. Equipment clattering. Someone calling for another line.

You grabbed a pair of gloves from the dispenser by the door, snapping them on as you crossed the room. “What’s happening?”

Nobody even looked surprised to see you. There wasn’t time. “Thirty-six-year-old male,” one of the nurses answered. “Blunt chest trauma. BP tanked.” The patient looked awful. Gray. Sweating. Barely conscious. Blood soaked through layers of dressings across his abdomen and chest.

You moved beside the bed immediately. Abbot was already assessing him. “FAST was negative ten minutes ago,” someone said. “Well something’s bleeding now,” another voice shot back.

The monitor screamed again. Heart rate climbing. Pressure dropping further. The room tightened, everyone could feel it. Something was wrong, very wrong.

You stepped up beside the bed. Close enough that your shoulder nearly brushed Abbot’s. For a second you wondered if he’d acknowledge you. Look at you. Say anything. Instead his eyes remained fixed on the patient.

“Get another pressure.” “Starting another unit of blood.” “Call surgery again.” His voice was calm. Controlled. Professional. Not even a glance. Not one. The realization stung more than it should have. But there wasn’t time to think about it. Not here. Not now.

The patient suddenly groaned. Then his eyes rolled. The heart rate on the monitor jumped again. A nurse looked up. “He’s crashing.” The entire room moved at once. And whatever was happening between you and Abbot was instantly buried beneath the only thing that mattered. Saving the patient.

The room seemed to contract around the bed. Everything narrowed to the patient.

The alarms, the numbers, the blood. A nurse was squeezing another unit through the rapid infuser while someone else struggled to keep up with the constant stream of vitals.

“Pressure’s sixty over thirty.” “Heart rate one-forty.” “He’s losing it.”

The patient let out a wet, strained breath. Then another. His skin had taken on that unmistakable color every emergency physician hated to see. Not pale, gray.

Abbot’s jaw tightened. He grabbed the ultrasound probe again, running it quickly across the patient’s abdomen while another physician pressed on the dressing over his chest. Nothing looked right. The patient’s pressure continued to fall. The monitor screamed another warning.

“We don’t have time,” someone muttered.

“No shit.”

“Surgery where the hell are they?”

“Five minutes out.”

Five minutes. The room collectively knew what that meant. Five minutes might as well have been an hour. Not with numbers like these. Abbot stared at the monitor for a fraction of a second. Thinking. Calculating.Then his eyes dropped back to the patient. “We need to decompress him.”

The room went quiet. Not silent. But close. Because everyone immediately understood what he meant. It was the kind of procedure that lived in the space between desperate and dangerous. The kind you performed when the alternative was watching someone die.

One of the nurses looked up.“We’re doing it?”

Abbot didn’t answer immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the patient. Then he shook his head once. “No.”

The word came out clipped. Controlled. “We need surgery here.” The patient’s pressure dropped again. Fifty-eight systolic.

A curse came from somewhere behind you. Abbot looked toward the door. Waiting. Listening for a surgical team that wasn’t there yet. “Another minute,” he ordered. “We buy him another minute.” But another minute was exactly what the patient didn’t seem to have.

You stared at the monitor. At the blood. At the worsening vitals. At the panic everyone was trying not to show. And suddenly something in you snapped. Not emotionally. Clinically. The way it happened sometimes during emergencies. That moment when the hesitation disappeared and only the decision remained. You were already moving before you spoke.

“I’ll do it.”

Several heads turned. Abbot’s didn’t. Not immediately. You were already reaching for supplies. Already pulling equipment closer. Already mentally reviewing every step. “Y/N—”

“I’ll do it.” Your voice came out sharper this time. Certain. The kind of certainty that only appeared when adrenaline took over.

The patient was dying. Everyone in the room knew it. Another alarm sounded. Another pressure cycled. Lower. You grabbed the sterile kit.

And only then did Abbot finally look at you. For the first time in hours. The entire room seemed to pause around that look. Not because he doubted your ability. That wasn’t it, you knew that. This wasn’t about competence, it was about risk.

Because if you were wrong— The thought didn’t need finishing.

You met his gaze anyway. Steady. Unflinching. “We don’t have time.” The words hung between you. The monitor continued its relentless beeping. The patient continued crashing. And for a brief moment, neither of you looked away.

You didn’t wait for permission. Didn’t wait for approval. Didn’t wait for someone to tell you whether you were allowed to do it. Because every second spent arguing was another second the patient didn’t have.

The room blurred around the edges as your focus narrowed to a single point: the man on the bed. The alarms were still screaming. Someone was calling out numbers. Someone else was preparing equipment. But it all sounded distant. Muffled. Like it was happening behind a wall.

Whatever was happening inside his chest was creating pressure his body could no longer compensate for. If that pressure wasn’t relieved, he was going to die before surgery ever arrived.

You moved to the bedside and reached for what you needed. A few people realized what you were about to attempt. The reaction was immediate.

“Y/N—”

“Wait—”

“Jesus Christ—”

You ignored all of it. Not because you were reckless. Because you had already made the calculation. The patient was dying. If you did nothing, he died. If you tried, maybe he lived. The math wasn’t complicated.

Your gloves were slick with sweat despite the cold air of the trauma bay. You could feel your pulse hammering in your throat as you positioned yourself beside the bed.

For a brief second, the weight of what you were doing crashed into you. This wasn’t a procedure residents were supposed to be performing. Hell, it wasn’t something most emergency physicians wanted to touch unless there was absolutely no other option.

This was the kind of thing that lived in worst-case scenarios. The kind of thing people talked about afterward. If there was an afterward. The patient groaned weakly. The monitor shrieked again. No more time.

You started. The room seemed to hold its breath. Even the people trying to stop you had gone quiet now. Watching. Waiting. Abbot hadn’t said a word. You could feel him somewhere beside you. Close enough to intervene. Close enough to stop you. But he didn’t.

You quickly identified the area where the pressure needed to be released, mentally running through every anatomy lecture, every trauma simulation, every nightmare scenario that had ever been discussed in training.

This wasn’t supposed to be your call. This wasn’t supposed to be your procedure. But the patient didn’t care whose procedure it was. The patient just needed to survive.

You worked fast, using the emergency equipment available in the trauma bay to create a temporary pathway for the trapped pressure to escape.

The goal wasn’t to fix the injury. Only surgery could do that. The goal was to buy time. Seconds. Minutes. Anything.

The procedure itself required an impossible balance—moving fast enough to save a life while staying precise enough not to make everything worse. Your hands worked almost automatically, driven by training, instinct, and pure adrenaline.

Inside your head, every step felt crystal clear. Outside, everything was chaos. The patient twitched. Someone adjusted a monitor. Someone cursed under their breath. A nurse announced another blood pressure. Still terrible. Still dropping. You pushed forward. The room felt unbearably hot. Your shoulders ached. Your hands were beginning to shake—not visibly, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that you felt it.

You forced yourself to stay steady. One step. Then the next. Then the next. Nothing. For a horrible moment, absolutely nothing happened. Your stomach dropped. The entire room froze with you.

The monitor continued its relentless beeping. A nurse looked toward the door again. Still no surgery team. Still no rescue coming. Then— “Wait.” Someone stepped closer.

You didn’t even register who said it. Another nurse looked at the monitor. The alarms changed. Not gone. Different. The patient took a deeper breath. The kind he hadn’t managed in several minutes. A pressure cycled. Everyone stared.

The number appeared on the screen. Higher. Not good. But higher. A tiny crack of light in a room that had been getting darker by the second. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.

And for the first time since entering the room, you finally looked up. Straight into Abbot’s eyes.

The entire trauma bay seemed suspended in that moment. Not because the crisis was over. It wasn’t. The patient was still critically ill. Surgery was still needed. The danger was still very real.

But for the first time since he’d walked away from you earlier that night, Abbot was looking directly at you. And there was no distance in his expression now. Only the stunned realization that you had just bought the patient time that nobody else thought he had.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

The patient’s chest rose a little easier now. Not normal. Not even close. But better. His oxygen saturation crept upward by a few points, the gray color hadn’t completely left his face, but there was a little more life there than before.

A little more fight. You kept your eyes on him. Watching every breath. Every heartbeat on the monitor. Every tiny change. The adrenaline was still flooding your system, making your hands feel strangely light and heavy at the same time.

Around you, the room slowly began moving again. The paralysis that had settled over everyone during those critical moments finally broke. People returned to tasks. Blood products were exchanged. Equipment was prepared. Orders were called out.

And then the trauma bay doors burst open. “Surgery’s here.” The announcement seemed to ripple through the room. A team entered quickly, immediately assessing the situation.

You didn’t look up. Your gaze remained fixed on the patient. But you could hear everything.

“What happened?”

“Blunt chest trauma.”

“He was crashing.”

“Pressure dropped into the fifties.”

“What stabilized him ?”

A brief silence followed. Not long. Just long enough. Then someone answered.

“Y/L/N.”

You wished they hadn’t. The attention in the room shifted. You could feel it without seeing it.

One of the surgeons stepped closer to the bedside. You finally glanced up. Just enough. The surgeon looked at the monitor. Then at the patient. Then at the intervention that had bought them time. His eyebrows lifted slightly.

“He did this after that?”

“She.”

The correction came from somewhere behind you. Abbot.

The surgeon looked at you for a second. A quick assessment. Then back at the patient. “Alright.” Professional. Focused. Back to work. The team immediately launched into their own evaluation, discussing operative plans, likely injuries, next steps. Medical terminology flew across the room. Questions. Answers. Orders. The controlled chaos resumed.

The trauma bay emptied out in fragments. First the surgeons, still mid-discussion as they moved the patient toward the OR. Then the nurses, stripping down equipment, calling out last-minute vitals, already shifting their attention to the next incoming case. Then the resident team, following the flow of urgency like the room itself was exhaling after holding its breath too long.

And just like that, it was almost quiet. Not peaceful quiet, only ER quiet. The kind that never really feels empty, just briefly less loud. The bed was gone now. The monitors had been wheeled away.

Even the blood-soaked space on the floor had already started being cleaned, like the room was trying to erase what had just happened before anyone could fully process it.

You were still standing there. Gloves still on. Shoulders tense in a way you didn’t notice until everything else stopped moving around you. Only then did your body seem to remember it had been running on pure adrenaline for the last stretch of time.

You inhaled sharply. Once. Then again, and again. Like your lungs were finally catching up to what your brain had already survived. Your chest rose unevenly as you exhaled, the air shaking slightly on the way out. You hadn’t realized you’d been holding your breath for that long.

Not just during the procedure. During the entire crash. Your gaze dropped to the floor. Somewhere between exhaustion and disbelief. The aftermath always felt like this. Not relief. Just… emptiness.

A space where urgency used to be. Footsteps faded down the hallway outside, voices too, one by one. Until it was just the echo of movement that had already happened. You stayed still.

Trying to come back into your own body again. And then, you felt it. Not sound. Not movement. Just presence. Abbot was still there. You didn’t need to look to know. It wasn’t like before, when you could feel him watching you from across the ER without even seeing him. This was closer.

He hadn’t left with the others. He hadn’t followed the rush to the OR. He was just… there.

You slowly lifted your head. The room was almost empty now, lit in that harsh, clinical light that made everything feel more real than it should. Abbot stood a few steps away, hands still loosely at his sides, gaze fixed on the space where the bed had been.

He looked tired. Not just physically. Something quieter than that, something unsettled. You didn’t speak, and he didn’t either. The silence between you wasn’t like earlier. It wasn’t avoidance, it wasn’t anger. It was heavier.

Full of everything that had just happened and everything neither of you had said since last night. For a moment, the only sound left was the distant ER continuing without you both.

Then Abbot finally looked at you, not sharply, not professionally, just… directly. Like he was trying to decide what to do with the fact that you were still here.

Then it hit you. All at once. Like someone had finally turned off the emergency power your body had been running on. The adrenaline that had been holding everything together just… dropped.

And what was left behind didn’t feel steady at all. Your hands started shaking first. Small at first, almost subtle, like your body wasn’t sure if it was allowed to do that yet.

Then worse, more noticeable, uncontrolled. You stared down at them like they didn’t belong to you. Like they were evidence of something you couldn’t take back. Your throat tightened immediately. Because the reality of what had just happened finally caught up with you properly.

You had done it. You had stepped in.

You had performed something you absolutely should not have done at your level. No matter the outcome. No matter the intention. It wasn’t supposed to be you. A resident at most. Not you.

Your breath started to come faster without permission, shallow and uneven, like your lungs were suddenly forgetting how to cooperate. “Shit…” you muttered under your breath, barely audible.

Your fingers curled slightly, then loosened again, like you were trying to stop the tremor through sheer willpower. It didn’t work. Your mind raced ahead of you now, skipping straight to consequences you hadn’t allowed yourself to think about earlier.

Protocols. Reports. Questions. Supervision. Morality boards. Abbot.

That thought made your stomach twist harder. Because you could already hear it in your head—someone asking why you acted without clearance, why you took that risk, why you didn’t wait. And you didn’t have a clean answer. Only the truth. And the truth didn’t always protect you in this hospital.

You swallowed hard, eyes dropping to the floor as if that might steady you. But it didn’t. Your breathing stayed too fast. Too uneven. Like your body was finally realizing what your brain had refused to acknowledge during the crisis. You were in trouble. Real trouble. And there was no adrenaline left to carry you through it anymore.

You didn’t even notice him move at first. The room was still too loud in your head, even if it had gone quiet outside. Your thoughts were the only thing you could hear—too fast, too sharp, looping back on themselves.

Then he was there., closer. Not rushing. Not speaking. Just… approaching like he knew that anything sudden would make it worse.

You kept your eyes fixed on the floor, like if you looked up you might completely lose it. But Abbot didn’t let you stay there. He crouched slightly in front of you, just enough to come into your line of sight without forcing it. Not blocking you. Not towering over you. Just… there.

Present. Patient. You still didn’t look at him. So he gently caught your attention anyway. Not with force, just with presence.

And when your eyes finally flickered up, they were already glassy. Water building at the edges you were trying very hard to ignore. His expression shifted immediately—not alarmed, not judgmental. Just… aware. Like he understood exactly where you were without you needing to explain it.

He didn’t say anything. Not a single word. Instead, he reached for your hands. Careful. Controlled. Familiar in a way that didn’t quite match everything else between you. Your fingers were still trembling when he took them. You didn’t pull away.

He held them for a second, steadying them just enough that you could feel the contrast—your shaking against his calm. Then, slowly, he started peeling off your gloves. One hand first, then the other. Unhurried. Like he was giving you time to breathe between each movement.

The latex snapped softly as he discarded them, the sound almost too small for how loud everything felt inside you. Still no words. Just the quiet rhythm of him grounding you without asking anything from you in return.

His hands stayed around yours for a moment longer after the gloves were gone. Not gripping. Not restraining. Just holding. And for the first time since the crash ended, the panic in your chest didn’t feel quite as alone.

Your voice came out quieter than you expected. Flat. Almost detached, like you were stating something that had already been decided somewhere else. “I’m in such trouble…” There was a strange disbelief in it too, like part of you still couldn’t fully connect the calm of the room with what you’d just done inside it.

Abbot didn’t react with panic. Or agreement. Or anything that made it worse. He just stayed there in front of you, still holding your hands lightly, his grip steady in a way that felt intentional now—like he was anchoring you more than restraining you.

“No,” he said softly. Simple. Certain.

You blinked at him, still breathing a little too fast.

He didn’t look away when he continued. “It’s going to be okay.”

Your eyes searched his face immediately, almost like you were waiting for the catch. The correction. The but.

It didn’t come. He stayed calm. Not dismissive calm. Not detached calm. Just… controlled. Present. Like he had already decided he wasn’t going to let you spiral alone in this.

You let out a shaky breath through your nose, the tension in your shoulders still refusing to fully drop. “I shouldn’t have done it,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him now.

Abbot’s gaze softened slightly. “I know,” he answered. A pause. Then, quieter, “But you did it because you had to buy time. And you did.” His thumbs brushed lightly over your knuckles, grounding you again without making a big gesture out of it. “You kept him alive long enough for surgery to take over.”

Your throat tightened again, but this time it wasn’t as sharp. Not quite panic. Not quite relief. Something in between. Still messy. Still unresolved. But less alone.

Abbot didn’t let go of your hands right away, but the moment didn’t get the chance to settle. Footsteps came fast down the hallway—sharp, urgent, familiar in that way that meant another problem, no time to think.

Chen appeared in the doorway, already halfway into speaking. “Abbot—” His voice cut through the room immediately, breaking whatever fragile quiet had formed between you.

Abbot turned instantly, still standing close to you. Chen didn’t waste time. “Male, forties. Chest pain, hypotensive in triage—possible aortic issue. They’re rolling him up now.”

Just a few words, but enough. Enough to change the entire rhythm of the night again. Abbot’s posture shifted immediately. Professional. Locked in. Switched on. And just like that, his hands released yours. Slowly, but decisively. The absence hit you almost instantly, like cold air where warmth had been a second ago.

He didn’t look away from you right away, though. Not immediately. Chen was already stepping back, waiting for him. Abbot exhaled once, controlled. “I’m coming.”

Chen nodded and left just as quickly as he’d arrived, disappearing back into the corridor with the urgency still trailing behind him.

Silence dropped back into the room again. Different this time. Shorter. Final. Abbot looked at you. Just you. No patients. No monitors. No chaos in the way.

His expression softened for a fraction of a second—something quieter slipping through the professional mask. “You’re going to be okay,” he said again, low and steady.

Not like a promise. Like something he was choosing to believe for you. Then he hesitated, just barely. And after a beat that felt heavier than it should have, he turned. And left.

The door swung shut behind him, pulling the room back into emptiness. And suddenly, you were standing there alone again.

Taglist ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

@slowburnsky @gandalfthegoatsblog @nosebeers @chaotic-taco-collector-blog @yosoylaprincesa2004 @thehockeynerd30 @slut4jackabbottt @torntaltos

[sole-jpeg]

Somewhere Between Hate And Whatever This Is — Jack Abbot

(Chapter 11/?)

pairing : jack abbot / f!reader

words count : 6.8k

previous chapters : Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10

summary : The night shift at the Pitt teaches you two things very quickly: how to keep people alive, and how to survive the ones you can’t.

You are a newly assigned intern doctor who is brilliant, stubborn, and entirely incapable of backing down — which becomes a serious problem when your supervising attending, Jack Abbot, seems to make a sport out of challenging you at every possible opportunity. Between impossible trauma cases, sleepless nights, and arguments sharp enough to cut through the entire ER, the rivalry between them slowly turns into something far more dangerous.

contain : enemies to lovers, rivals, slow burn, sarcasm, tension, drunk confession, physical attraction, forbidden.

a/n : FINALLY ! this is the tension that I was waiting for, and I’m so happy that we’re here 🤓

archiveofourown link

Spotify playlist link

Chapter 11 : No I Don’t Hate You

You didn’t even remember agreeing.

One second you were standing outside the hospital, exhausted, emotionally wrung out, telling yourself you needed sleep more than anything, and the next—

“…fine. One drink,” you had said.

Like your body had decided before your brain could catch up. The bar wasn’t loud. Not like the one from Robby’s birthday.

This one was quieter, tucked a few streets away from the hospital. Dim lights, low music, a handful of people scattered around. The kind of place where conversations didn’t have to compete with the noise.

Which made it worse. Because now there was nothing to hide behind. You sat across from Abbot at a small table, a drink already in your hand, your bag dropped carelessly by your feet.

You had barely eaten. Neither had he. A shared plate of something sat between you, mostly untouched except for the occasional absent-minded reach. For a while, it felt… normal. Suspiciously normal.

“You should’ve seen Langdon’s face,” you said, leaning back slightly, the alcohol already softening the edges of your exhaustion. “I thought he was gonna pass out before the patient did.”

Abbot scoffed lightly, taking a sip from his glass. “He panics internally. It’s subtle.”

“Subtle?” you raised an eyebrow. “He looked like he was negotiating with God mid-procedure.”

“That’s just his personality.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. There it was again. That ease. The kind that shouldn’t exist between the two of you—but did anyway.

You reached for a fry without really thinking about it at the same time he did. Your fingers brushed. Both of you paused for half a second. Then pulled back like nothing happened. “Go ahead,” he muttered.

“No, you—”

“I insist.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Wow. So polite all of a sudden.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

You smirked faintly and took the fry. And somehow, that tiny, stupid moment lingered longer than it should’ve. The conversation drifted. From work to coworkers. From coworkers to stories.

From stories to… things that weren’t just ER-related anymore. You noticed it slowly. The shift.

He talked more. Not a lot—but more than usual. Shorter answers turned into actual sentences. Sarcasm softened just slightly at the edges. At some point, you realized you were watching him instead of just listening.

The way he held his glass. The way his jaw tightened when he disagreed with something. The way his eyes flicked up to you more often than before.

And then, “You’re staring.”

You blinked. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

You took a sip of your drink to buy time. “You just said something stupid, I was processing.”

“That wasn’t stupid.”

“It was.” A small pause. Then he tilted his head slightly, studying you in return now. “You look less tense,” he said. You scoffed lightly. “Alcohol.”

“Or you’re finally relaxing.”

You shrugged. “Don’t push it.”

But he didn’t look convinced. Another drink came. Then another. Not enough to lose control. Just enough to blur the edges. Enough to make things feel… lighter. Looser. Dangerously easier.

At some point, your knee brushed his under the table. Neither of you moved immediately. And that silence, that tiny, charged silence, lasted just a second too long before you shifted slightly in your seat. Like it hadn’t meant anything. Like none of this meant anything. But it did.

You could feel it building. In the way conversations lingered. In the way eye contact lasted a little too long. In the way neither of you seemed in a hurry to leave.

Even though, just a few hours ago, all you wanted was to go home and sleep for twelve hours straight.

Now? You weren’t thinking about sleep anymore. And that was probably your first mistake.

The night stretched on without either of you really noticing. Glasses changed. Time passed. The low hum of the bar wrapped around the conversation like background noise you barely registered anymore.

You were leaning back in your chair now, one elbow resting on the table, absentmindedly turning your straw between your fingers as Abbot said something—half sarcastic, half serious, like always.

You let out a small breath of a laugh. “It’s okay,” you said lightly, eyes dropping to your drink, a faint smile playing on your lips. “I know you hate me anyway.”

You said it like a joke. Like it was obvious. Like it didn’t really matter. Just… a fact. Your fingers kept spinning the straw slowly, the ice clinking softly in your glass.

For a second, it felt like the conversation would just move on. Like he’d throw something back—another sarcastic comment, a dry remark, something to keep the balance you always had.

But he didn’t. The silence that followed was… off. Not heavy. Just, wrong.

You felt it before you looked up.

And when you did, Abbot was already looking at you. Not amused. Not annoyed. Just… still.

Like something in what you said had landed somewhere deeper than you expected. His jaw shifted slightly, like he was about to respond automatically, then stopped himself.

“You really think that?” he asked finally. No sarcasm. No teasing. Just quiet. And suddenly the straw between your fingers didn’t feel so interesting anymore.

You let out a soft, slightly tipsy laugh, waving it off like it was nothing. “It’s okay,” you added lightly, still smiling down at your glass. “I hate you too, that’s fair.”

It was meant to keep things easy. Balanced. Safe. But when you glanced up— Abbot hadn’t moved. He was still looking at you. Blank. Too blank.

Not sarcastic. Not amused. Just… still.

And there was something in his eyes—something quieter, sharper—that you didn’t quite catch in your slightly blurred state. Something that didn’t match the joke.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t push back. Didn’t tease. And that silence, that absence of his usual reaction, felt louder than anything he could’ve said.

Your fingers stopped playing with the straw. “…okay,” you muttered under your breath, suddenly aware of it. The air had shifted.

You shifted in your seat slightly, clearing your throat as you grabbed your glass, even though you didn’t drink. “Uh—” you let out a small breath, forcing a casual tone back in. “I should probably go home.”

You glanced toward the door briefly. “It’s late.” The excuse sounded thin even to you. But it was easier than sitting in whatever that silence had just become.

Something in him had shifted. You couldn’t name it exactly, but it was there. The lightness from earlier? Gone.

Not replaced by anger. Not even by coldness. Just… closed. Like he had quietly stepped back behind something you couldn’t see.

He reached for his wallet, settling the bill without much comment. “I’ll drive you,” he said simply. You shook your head almost immediately, grabbing your bag. “It’s fine,” you replied, trying to sound casual. “I don’t live far. I can walk.”

You didn’t add the real reason : you didn’t want to sit in that silence any longer than you had to.

Abbot looked at you. Really looked this time. “It’s late,” he said, tone calm but firm. “And you’ve been drinking.”

“I’m not that drunk.”

“Still.” A small pause. Then, quieter—but not softer, “It’s not safe.”

You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it. Because something in his tone made it clear, this wasn’t up for debate. Not in a controlling way. Just… decided.

So you nodded once. “Okay.”

And that was it. The night air hit you again as you stepped outside the bar. Cooler now. Quieter. The city had settled into that late-hour stillness where everything felt a little more exposed. You walked beside him toward the car without saying anything.

Your footsteps echoed faintly on the pavement. No teasing. No sarcasm. Just silence stretching between you, longer than it had any right to be after a night that had started so easily.

You were still a few steps behind him, your pace slower, your mind elsewhere—replaying the night, the silence, that moment at the table over and over again.

You barely registered when he stopped. But then, you saw him move. Fast. Abbot rushed forward the last few steps toward his car, something sharp and immediate in his body language that pulled you out of your thoughts instantly.

“Hey—?” you started, frowning slightly as you caught up.

He didn’t answer. Just stood there for a second, staring. You followed his gaze. And then you saw it.

Both tires on one side of the car, completely flat. Not just low. Destroyed. The rubber looked slashed, collapsed in on itself against the pavement.

You blinked. “…What the hell?”

Abbot crouched down quickly, running a hand over the tire, his jaw tightening as he inspected it. There was no mistaking it. “Someone did this,” he muttered flatly.

You stepped closer now, your earlier fog completely gone. “Are you serious?”

He stood back up, looking at the second tire again like he was hoping it would somehow be less bad. It wasn’t. Two tires. Gone. The quiet street suddenly didn’t feel so calm anymore.

You crossed your arms again, this time not out of habit. “Great.” A small pause. Then you looked back at him. “So… what now?”

Abbot stayed silent for a long moment, staring at the ruined tires like if he looked long enough they would magically fix themselves. The street around you stayed quiet. Too quiet.

You watched him drag both hands over his face slowly, rough palms pressing against tired eyes before sliding down his jaw. Exhaustion clung to every movement now:

the endless shift, Dana’s assault, the alcohol, the strange tension from the bar, the conversation that had clearly gone wrong somewhere between jokes and honesty.

And underneath all of that, anger. Not loud anger. The kind he swallowed whole. You could practically see him forcing it down. Finally, he exhaled heavily through his nose and stepped back from the car.

“I’ll just walk,” he muttered. You frowned immediately. “…Walk?” He shrugged once, already pulling slightly back into himself again. “It’s fine.”

You looked around the empty street instinctively before looking back at him. “How long is that gonna take ?”

That made him pause. For the first time all night, he actually looked tired. Not ER tired. Not sarcastic tired. Just genuinely exhausted.

He glanced down the street, jaw tightening faintly before answering, “Hour and a half maybe.” A beat. “Two.”

You stared at him. “In the middle of the night?” Another shrug. “I’ve done worse.”

Of course he had. You looked at the destroyed tires again, then back at him standing there pretending this was somehow reasonable after : a twelve-hour shift, several drinks, almost no food, emotional exhaustion, and now this.

He adjusted the strap of his bag slightly like he was already preparing himself mentally for the walk. And somehow that annoyed you a little. Not because he wanted to walk. Because he looked like he genuinely believed he had no other option.

You stared at him for another second, exhausted disbelief written all over your face. “Abbot.” He looked back at you quietly. “You are not walking two hours across the city at—” you glanced vaguely at the dark street around you, “—whatever time it is, half drunk and exhausted.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll be unconscious on a sidewalk somewhere.” A small breath left his nose that almost sounded like a laugh, but he still shook his head. “It’s okay.”

“No,” you cut in immediately, tired enough now that your patience had completely disappeared. “It’s not okay.”

He opened his mouth again, probably to argue but you stopped him before he could even start.

“You’re sleeping at my apartment.” The sentence came out sharper than expected. Not emotional. Not awkward. Just decided. Abbot blinked once, clearly caught off guard by the firmness in your voice.

You were already turning away before he could properly respond, adjusting your bag higher on your shoulder. “Come on,” you muttered tiredly. Then you started walking.

For a second, he stayed where he was beside the damaged car, just watching you go under the streetlights. Like he was debating whether to argue again. Or maybe debating something else entirely. Then finally, with a quiet exhale, he grabbed his bag properly over his shoulder, and started walking after you.

The walk turned out to be shorter than it should’ve felt. But silence has a way of stretching time anyway.

The city was quieter here—far from the bar, far from the hospital, just the low hum of distant traffic and the occasional flicker of streetlights above you.

You walked slightly ahead, hands buried in your sleeves, shoulders still tight from the night. Behind you, Abbot kept pace without saying anything.

Not close enough to touch. Not far enough to disappear. Just there. Every so often, you caught it in your peripheral vision, him glancing at you. Quick. Controlled. Like he thought you wouldn’t notice. But you did. You just didn’t look back. Not because you were ignoring him.

Because your head was too loud. Too full. The bar replayed itself in fragments you couldn’t organize properly anymore: his face when you said “I hate you too”, the way he went quiet, that shift you couldn’t quite name, the silence that followed like something had been pulled out of the room, And then the car. The walk. Everything after.

Your fingers tightened slightly inside your sleeves as you stared ahead, trying to make sense of it all in the simplest way possible.

Just alcohol. Just exhaustion. Just a bad mix of everything that had happened today. Right?

But your brain didn’t fully accept that answer. Because the way he had looked at you earlier and the way he wasn’t teasing you now didn’t fit neatly into “just nothing.”

Behind you, Abbot glanced at you again. You felt it without even needing to turn around. And for the first time tonight the silence between you didn’t feel empty. It felt… crowded.

By the time you reached your apartment building, your brain was still somewhere back at the bar. You barely even looked where you were going. Your feet carried you automatically through the entrance you’d walked through hundreds of times before, keys already in your hand out of pure habit.

Behind you, Abbot followed more carefully. You noticed him glancing around automatically as he entered, the lobby, the hallway corners, the old mailboxes, the stairwell door slightly left open. Always observing. Even exhausted.Even drunk.

You stopped in front of the elevator, pressing the button while the silence between you settled in again immediately. Still there. Still heavy. Neither of you seemed able to go back to how the evening had started.

The elevator arrived with a mechanical ding.Small. Very small. You stepped in first, instinctively moving toward the back corner as Abbot entered after you. The space tightened immediately. You pressed the button for the top floor. The doors closed.

And suddenly there was nowhere for the tension to go. The elevator hummed softly as it climbed upward. You stood beside each other—not touching intentionally, but not far enough apart to avoid contact either. Your arms brushed lightly once when the elevator shifted. Both of you subtly adjusted away. A second later, it happened again anyway. The fabric of his coat dragged softly against yours. Warm despite the cold outside.

You kept your eyes fixed on the glowing floor numbers above the door, trying very hard not to think about how close he was, how quiet he had become and the way the alcohol was making you hyperaware of everything.

Beside you, Abbot stayed still, hands in his pockets now, jaw tight in that thoughtful way you were starting to recognize.

The silence in the elevator wasn’t empty anymore. It felt packed with unfinished conversations. Another small movement of the elevator made your shoulders brush this time. Longer. Neither of you moved immediately. And somehow that felt worse than if you had.

The elevator finally stopped with a soft jolt. The doors slid open. Abbot lifted one hand slightly, silently motioning for you to go first. You stepped out without looking at him, pretending not to notice the gesture at all. But you did. Of course you did.

The hallway upstairs was quiet, dimly lit by warm yellow lights that made everything feel softer than it should. Too intimate.

You walked toward your apartment door, hearing his footsteps just behind you. And strangely, the closer you got to your apartment, the more aware you became of what this actually was.

Abbot. At your place.At night. Alone. Your stomach tightened faintly. You suddenly tried to remember how you had left your apartment this morning.

And immediately regretted it. Was there laundry somewhere? Did you leave dishes out? Was your couch covered in blankets again?You genuinely couldn’t remember.

Your brain had been surviving on caffeine, adrenaline, and emotional confusion for the last twenty-four hours.

You stopped in front of your door, fumbling slightly with your keys before finally unlocking it. The silence behind you somehow felt even fuller now. Like both of you understood this was another line being crossed. Not dramatic. Just personal.

You pushed the door open slowly and stepped inside first, immediately greeted by the familiar darkness and faint smell of your apartment. Home. Safe. Private. And suddenly the fact that he was entering it with you made your heartbeat feel annoyingly louder again.

You pushed the door open and reached immediately for the light switch. A warm orange glow flooded the apartment. And instantly, you regretted everything. “Oh my god…”

It slipped out before you could stop it. The apartment wasn’t dirty. Not really. But it looked… lived in. Very lived in.

The small studio opened into one single room, cozy and cluttered in a way that immediately felt personal. A bed sat pushed against the far wall beneath a shelf overflowing with books, random pens, chargers, and half-dead candles. Near the window, a worn couch was half buried under blankets, hoodies, and an alarming amount of papers.

Actually, papers were everywhere. On the couch. On the floor. Pinned messily to the wall above your desk. Stacked in uneven piles across the desk itself. Medical notes. Study pages. Flashcards. Highlighted articles. Sticky notes hanging dangerously off edges. The entire corner looked like someone had been academically fighting for survival inside it for months.

A small lamp near the desk cast soft amber light across the room, mixing with the kitchen light and making everything warmer somehow. Plants crowded the apartment too.

Little ones mostly: on the windowsill, next to the TV, hanging near the kitchenette like they were the only thing keeping the place alive during your night shifts.

And in the tiny kitchen area, a few dishes sat abandoned in the sink. Not terrible. But enough to make heat creep immediately into your face. You dropped your bag by the door with a groan. “Okay, so apparently I live like a raccoon.”

Behind you, Abbot stepped fully inside slowly, eyes moving across the apartment. Not judgmental. Just… taking it in. You suddenly became painfully aware that this was the first time someone from work had seen your actual life outside the hospital. And somehow that felt far more exposing than you expected.

You immediately started apologizing before he could even say anything. “Sorry, I—” you pulled your coat off quickly, tossing it over the couch before realizing the couch was already covered in papers. “Okay, wait, no—”

You grabbed a stack of notes off the cushions, nearly dropping half of them in the process.

“I didn’t know I was bringing someone home tonight.” The sentence came out accidentally. And immediately sounded worse than intended. You froze for half a second. Then kept moving faster like pretending it never happened would somehow erase it.

Abbot stayed near the entrance at first, slowly closing the door behind him while watching you move around the apartment in hurried circles.

You picked up cups. Straightened blankets. Collected papers into messy stacks that honestly changed nothing. “You really don’t have to—” he started.

“No, I do,” you cut in quickly, already crouching to grab scattered flashcards from the floor. “This looks insane.”

“It really doesn’t.”

“It absolutely does.” You stood back up too quickly, nearly bumping into the edge of the desk. Abbot instinctively stepped forward slightly at that. “You okay?”

“Yes,” you answered immediately. Too immediately.

You pushed another pile of papers aside with embarrassed determination while muttering under your breath, “I swear it didn’t look like this this morning.”

That actually made something faintly soften in his expression for the first time since the bar. Not quite a smile. But close. He finally stepped farther into the apartment now, slow and quiet, eyes still moving over the room while you continued your hopeless attempt at damage control.

And the more he looked around, the more exposed you felt. Because this wasn’t the ER. There were no walls here. No sarcasm to hide behind. No coworkers. No chaos distracting either of you. Just him seeing pieces of you you never really meant to show anyone.

You kept moving around the apartment, still trying to tame the chaos into something at least remotely presentable. Papers got stacked. Blankets folded badly. Mugs relocated to the sink. Eventually, the apartment stopped looking messy enough to embarrass you and settled back into simply… lived-in.

Behind you, Abbot had wandered slowly toward your desk area. You noticed him looking over the sea of study notes pinned to the wall: scribbled anatomy sketches, pharmacology reminders, trauma procedures, sticky notes written at what looked like three in the morning.

His eyes moved carefully across them before stopping at the few pictures taped between the papers.

There weren’t many. One of you and Dana sitting on the ambulance bay curb, both laughing at something outside the frame. One old baby picture, slightly faded at the corners.

And that was basically it. Abbot frowned faintly. His gaze shifted around the apartment again. No family pictures. No framed memories. No groups of friends. Nothing personal besides scattered traces.

You were wiping down the counter distractedly when he finally asked, “Why don’t you have more pictures ?”

You paused slightly. Not enough to look dramatic. Just enough. Your hand slowed over the counter before continuing again.

“I don’t know,” you answered lightly at first. “Never really thought about it.” But even to your own ears, the answer sounded automatic.

Abbot stayed quiet for a second longer. Still looking around the apartment. “It’s weird,” he admitted quietly. “There’s evidence you exist everywhere in here.” His eyes drifted over the notes, the handwriting, the plants, the mess. “But almost none that other people do.”

That made you stop cleaning for real this time. The silence afterward felt softer than the others from tonight. Not tense. Just… personal.

Something in you shut down almost instantly after the question. The warmth of the apartment suddenly felt too close. Too exposing.

You turned away from him quickly, picking up a random cup from the table just to have something to do with your hands. “I don’t want to talk about that,” you said dryly. A beat. “Not right now.” The change in your tone was immediate enough that even you heard it.

A wall going back up. Behind you, the apartment stayed quiet. You could feel Abbot looking at you, trying to understand what had just shifted so suddenly.

But for once, he didn’t push. Didn’t tease. Didn’t ask another question. Which somehow made it worse. You moved around the apartment quickly now, avoiding looking at him completely while grabbing an extra blanket off the couch.

“You can take the bed if you want,” you muttered, still too fast, too clipped. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Abbot frowned immediately. “What? No, I’m not—” But you were already moving. “It’s fine.”

“Y/N—”

“I said it’s fine.” You didn’t even let him finish before walking straight toward the bathroom, almost escaping more than walking.

The door shut behind you. Then locked. Silence. Outside, Abbot stayed standing in the middle of your apartment, one hand still half raised from trying to stop you. His eyes drifted once toward the few pictures on the wall again. Then toward the closed bathroom door. And slowly, he lowered his hand.

The bathroom door clicked shut behind you, the sound too final for how messy your thoughts already were. For a second, you just stood there.

Then you moved on autopilot, dropping your clothes where they fell, stepping into the shower, and turning the water on. Cold. Immediate. Sharp enough to make you inhale through your teeth. You stayed under it anyway.

Let it hit your skin, your shoulders, your face, like you could physically rinse the night off you. The bar. The silence. That look on Abbot’s face when you said you hated him too. The elevator. The apartment. Everything stacking too fast in your head to sort properly.

But it didn’t go away. Of course it didn’t. Instead, your thoughts just got louder.

Why did he ask that?

Why did he look at you like that?

Why did he care how many pictures you had?

Your hands pressed against the tiled wall, water running down your hair, your back, your arms.

And still, Abbot was there, just on the other side of the door. You could hear him faintly moving around your apartment. A soft shift of footsteps. The low creak of the couch maybe. Something being set down. Normal sounds. But tonight, everything felt louder than normal.

Your chest tightened slightly as your thoughts spiraled again. Why was he like this? One moment he was arguing with you like you were the most frustrating person he’d ever met. Then he was jealous over a patient. Then apologizing properly like it actually mattered. Then looking at you at the bar like you’d said something wrong that hurt more than it should’ve.

Then this. The drink. The car. Your apartment. The question about pictures. None of it lined up neatly. And that was the problem. Because nothing about him did anymore. You shut your eyes under the water, breathing slower, trying to force your brain to quiet down.

But the alcohol didn’t help. It lingered at the edges of everything, blurring the thoughts just enough to make them feel heavier, more tangled. More honest than you wanted them to be. Outside the bathroom, the apartment stayed dim and quiet, except for him still being there. Still real. Still waiting, whether he meant to or not.

When you finally stepped out of the bathroom, the warm air of the apartment hit your damp skin softly—like a contrast to the cold water you’d just stood under.

Your hair was still wet, dripping slightly onto the shoulders of your oversized T-shirt—the thrifted baseball one you’d practically lived in on nights like this. Comfortable. Familiar. A little too big on you, hanging loosely past your hips.

You were rubbing your hair with a towel, half-focused, half still somewhere else entirely in your head, trying to untangle everything the shower hadn’t fixed.

The apartment was dim now, just the soft orange light from the lamp spilling across the room.

And there he was, sitting on the couch. At first, you only registered him in fragments—his posture, the way he leaned slightly forward, a few of your notes spread out on the table in front of him like he’d been reading them without thinking too much about it.

Then he looked up. And saw you properly. The moment stretched. He didn’t speak immediately. Just… paused. His gaze moved briefly—your wet hair, the loose shirt, the towel in your hand still caught mid-motion. Then back to your face. You slowed without meaning to. The air in the room felt different again.

Smaller. Quieter. Like the apartment had folded in on itself around that one shared glance. And for a second, neither of you said anything.

You stepped further into the room, immediately breaking eye contact like it had become too much to hold. Your voice came out flat again, controlled. “You can take the bed,” you said, already moving toward it. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Abbot stood up slightly from the couch. “No,” he said simply. “I’ll take the couch. It’s fine.”

You didn’t even look at him properly as you started pulling the blanket back into place, too focused on giving your hands something to do. “It’s not a debate,” you muttered. “Just take it.”

A pause. Then his tone shifted—less automatic, more careful. “Can we talk?”

That made your movements slow for half a second. But only half. You grabbed a pillow and adjusted it too neatly, like it suddenly mattered a lot.“I’m tired,” you said, voice still dry, still avoiding him. “We should just sleep.”

Abbot didn’t answer right away. You could feel him still watching you though. That steady attention that hadn’t really left you all night. You turned slightly toward the bed, still not fully facing him. “It’s late,” you added, quieter but firmer. “Everything can wait.”

And you said it like a boundary. But the room didn’t feel like it agreed with you.

He pushed himself up from the couch. Not fast at first—like he was still trying to keep control of himself. But there was something in him breaking through anyway. “No,” he said, voice sharper now. “No, it can’t—please.”

You stopped mid-movement. Slowly turned.And something in you snapped before you even fully understood why. “NO,” you shot back, louder than intended.

The word hit the small apartment like a crack. Abbot froze immediately. Silence. Then his voice came out harder than before, edged with frustration that clearly hadn’t been there earlier in the night. “Do you really hate me ?”

That stopped everything. Not just your movement. Not just your words. Everything. You stared at him. Really stared.

The room suddenly felt too still again, the warm orange light from the lamp making the tension between you look almost unreal.

His chest rose and fell slightly faster than usual. His jaw was tight. But his eyes, they weren’t sarcastic. They weren’t guarded. They were open in a way you weren’t used to seeing from him. Big. Demanding. Almost… vulnerable in a way that didn’t fit him at all. Like he wasn’t asking to win an argument.

He was asking because he genuinely needed the answer.

You let out a short, disbelieving scoff—almost a laugh, but sharper. “Are you always like this?” you shot back, voice dry, still holding onto that defensive edge. “Just… forcing answers out of people until they say what you want to hear?”

It wasn’t even really an accusation. More like an escape route. A way to dodge what he had just asked you. Because honestly ? You don’t even know if you hated him.

Abbot’s expression tightened immediately. “You think that’s what this is?” he replied, stepping forward a fraction.

“Isn’t it?” you countered instantly, because you couldn’t help it now that the door was open. “You don’t ask things—you corner them.” His jaw clenched. “That’s not—”

“Oh, come on,” you cut in, gesturing slightly with frustration now building again. “You don’t like silence, you don’t like not knowing, so you push until you get an answer you can work with.”

That hit something. You could see it in his eyes. But instead of backing down, he matched your tone. “Maybe I push because you never say anything properly unless I do.”

That made you freeze for half a second. Then you laughed again, but there was no humor in it this time. “Oh, right,” you said, shaking your head. “So this is my fault now?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” A beat. The air between you tightened again—familiar, but heavier now. Less playful. Less safe. “You’re impossible,” Abbot said, quieter but sharper.

You scoffed. “And you’re exhausting.”

That landed. You saw it land. And still neither of you stopped. Because this wasn’t the usual teasing anymore. It had teeth now. But the silence didn’t last. It cracked almost immediately.

Abbot let out a short, humorless breath—something between a laugh and disbelief. “Exhausting,” he repeated quietly, like he was testing the word.

You crossed your arms tighter. “Yes,” you shot back. “You are.” That did it. He stepped forward. Not aggressively. Not fast. Just… forward. Like his body had decided before his brain could stop it.

“You’re one to talk,” he said, voice lower now, sharper at the edges. “You shut down every time something gets even slightly real.”

You scoffed immediately, stepping forward too without really noticing. “Oh, so now you’re analyzing me?”

“I’m observing you.”

“That’s your problem,” you snapped. “You don’t observe people, you dissect them.”

A cold laugh left him. “Better than pretending nothing matters at all.” That hit too close. Your jaw tightened.

“Oh please,” you said, voice rising again. “Like you’re the emotional one here?” He gave a short, sarcastic laugh. “No,” he said. “I just don’t run away mid-conversation and lock myself in bathrooms.”

That made your eyes flash. “Oh my god—are you still on that?” Now you were both closer than before without even noticing it. The couch was behind him now. The desk behind you. Neither of you had stepped back. Abbot gestured lightly with one hand, frustration breaking through more now.

“You don’t actually deal with anything—you just deflect it and call it control.” You mirrored him immediately, throwing your own hands up in mock disbelief. “Wow. Doctor Abbot giving life advice. That’s rich.”

A sharp exhale of laughter from him again. “See? That. That right there.”

“What?”

“This,” he said, gesturing between you both now. “You turn everything into a fight so you don’t have to answer anything.”

You leaned in slightly, eyes narrowed. “And you turn everything into a diagnosis so you don’t have to admit you’re wrong.” A beat. Then, he laughed again. Real this time, but still edged with irritation. “God, you’re insufferable.” You matched it instantly, a sarcastic smile pulling at your lips despite everything. “And yet, you’re still here.”

That landed differently. Because neither of you moved away after that. Hands gesturing more now, almost talking over each other, the argument spilling out in fast, overlapping bursts of sarcasm and frustration.

Too close. Too loud. Too charged. And still neither of you stopped. The argument kept spiraling, words coming faster now, less controlled, more raw than either of you probably intended.

Abbot shook his head slightly, still too close.

“You can’t keep pretending you don’t care about anything,” he said, voice tight. “Not after everything today.”

You let out a short, sharp laugh. “Oh, and you do? You care so much, right? That’s why you’re standing in my apartment arguing with me at midnight?”

“I care because you—”

“Because I what?” you cut in immediately, stepping even closer without thinking now. His eyes didn’t leave yours. And that was the problem. There was no space left between frustration and something else anymore.

“I don’t even know what you want from me,” you said, voice shaking slightly now, not from fear, from everything piling up. “One minute you’re arguing with me, the next you’re jealous, then you apologize, then you look at me like—like—”

You stopped. Because you couldn’t finish that sentence. Abbot didn’t interrupt. For once. And that silence cracked something open in you instead. Your breathing got heavier. Your hands tightened at your sides.

Then it all came out at once. “NO!” The word hit the room like a slap. Both of you froze slightly. You took a breath, eyes burning, voice suddenly louder—honest in a way you couldn’t take back. “I don’t hate you!” A beat. “I don’t—” your voice broke slightly with frustration now, “I don’t really hate you! Are you happy now?”

Silence. No sarcasm. No comeback. No argument. Just the two of you standing too close in the middle of your apartment, the air completely changed.

Abbot didn’t move. Neither did you. For a second, everything felt suspended. Like the whole night had been building exactly to this moment and neither of you knew what came after it. He looked at you differently now. Not like earlier. Not like at the bar. Something quieter. Stripped down. And then he stepped forward. Not slowly. Not hesitantly. Just like something in him finally stopped resisting.

And you didn’t move away. The space between you disappeared in an instant. The kiss wasn’t gentle at first. It wasn’t planned. It was everything that had been held back all night finally breaking at once—anger, relief, tension, confusion—colliding into something neither of you had words for. For a second, there was no argument left. Just that.

The moment neither of you moved away, it was already decided. Abbot closed the last inch of space between you like he’d finally stopped arguing with himself. The kiss hit fast—no hesitation left to disguise it.

For a split second, it was almost clumsy. Too sudden. Too full of everything neither of you had said out loud for hours, days, maybe longer.

Then you answered him. Immediately. Like your body had been waiting for permission your mind kept refusing to give.

Your hands came up first, catching at his shirt, gripping it like an anchor before you could overthink it. His hands moved at the same time—one sliding up to cup your jaw, steadying you like he needed to feel that you were really there, really choosing this. The other came up a second later, framing your face completely. Warm palms against your skin. Firm. Certain.

Like he was trying to hold onto something that had been slipping between you all night. You didn’t pull away. Instead, you leaned into him.

The kiss deepened almost instantly after that—less hesitation, more honesty. Drunk not just from alcohol, but from exhaustion, adrenaline, arguments that never resolved properly. It had that unsteady edge to it, but underneath it was something undeniably real. Something neither of you had managed to say properly, now spilling out without words.

His thumb shifted slightly against your cheek as if he was grounding himself in you. And you—still gripping his shirt—pulled him closer without thinking, like distance suddenly felt unbearable. It wasn’t soft in the way careful things are soft. It was messy. Intense.

Full of everything left unsaid: the tension from the bar, the jealousy, the apology, the almost-confessions, the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t noticing, the way you kept pushing him away and pulling him back at the same time.

Even the silence between you earlier felt like it was in it. For a moment, there was no ER, no arguments, no roles you played around each other. Just this. And neither of you stopped.

It lasted a moment too long to be accidental’ and not nearly long enough to feel finished. Then it hit you. All at once. Like your brain finally caught up to your body.

You pulled back abruptly, breath breaking as you created space between you so fast it felt almost like a fall. The warmth vanished instantly. Your hand was still half-clenched around his shirt before you let go completely, like it had burned you.

Both of you were breathing harder now. Too aware of everything again. The room felt different immediately—too bright, too real, too quiet in a way that pressed in on your ears.

You stared at him. Shocked. Trying to process what you had just done. What he had just done. What it meant. Abbot was still standing there, closer than before but not touching anymore. His gaze hadn’t left you—not even for a second. Like he was trying to read the moment back into something he could understand. But there was no easy version of it. Your chest rose and fell quickly.

“This—” your voice came out uneven, caught somewhere between disbelief and panic, “this was a mistake.” A beat. “We’re drunk,” you added quickly, like it needed fixing. Like it needed labeling. “This is—this is just—”

Your words broke off. Because none of them felt solid enough. Abbot opened his mouth slightly, like he might say your name, or explain, or undo it— “I’m sorr—”

But you were already shaking your head, taking a step back. Then another. Like distance could rewind what had just happened. “I can’t,” you muttered, more to yourself than him.

And before he could say anything else, you turned quickly and walked to the bed. The covers were pulled up in a rushed, almost frantic motion as you climbed in, like hiding under fabric could somehow reset your heartbeat, your thoughts, your entire body. You curled in slightly, turning away from him completely.Under the blanket, everything felt muffled. Safer. Or at least contained. Outside of it, the room stayed still.

And Abbot…was still there.

Taglist ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

@slowburnsky @gandalfthegoatsblog @nosebeers @chaotic-taco-collector-blog @yosoylaprincesa2004 @thehockeynerd30 @slut4jackabbottt

[farminglesbian]

every lesbian at this hospital must have such a debilitating crush on her

[younghalfblood]

i need that 50 year old man

[sole-jpeg]

Somewhere Between Hate And Whatever This Is — Jack Abbot

(Chapter 10/?)

pairing : jack abbot / f!reader

words count : 10.6k

previous chapters : Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9

summary : The night shift at the Pitt teaches you two things very quickly: how to keep people alive, and how to survive the ones you can’t.

You are a newly assigned intern doctor who is brilliant, stubborn, and entirely incapable of backing down — which becomes a serious problem when your supervising attending, Jack Abbot, seems to make a sport out of challenging you at every possible opportunity. Between impossible trauma cases, sleepless nights, and arguments sharp enough to cut through the entire ER, the rivalry between them slowly turns into something far more dangerous.

contain : enemies to lovers, rivals, slow burn, sarcasm, mentions of medical trauma, injuries, arguments, assaults, blood, physical violence.

a/n : Little reminder that I’m using some events from the show and twist/mix them to fit them in my story ! So that’s why I used a particular scene in this chapter hehe (I actually rewatched the scene a few times to write the exact same dialogue lol)

archiveofourown link

Spotify playlist link

Chapter 10 : Long day

The automatic ER doors slid open in front of you as you stepped back into County General after almost two full days away from it.

One day off. One night off. Which, in emergency medicine terms, practically counted as a vacation.

Your coffee was still warm in your hand, backpack hanging off one shoulder, exhaustion not fully gone but manageable now. The early morning light filtered through the front entrance windows, painting pale gold reflections across the polished floor while the day shift slowly came alive around you.

Nurses changing over. Phones already ringing. Stretchers moving through the halls. Normal chaos. You should’ve felt rested. Instead, the second you walked deeper into the ER, something tight settled quietly in your chest.

Because this was your first full day shift since the assault.

And apparently your body remembered that before your brain wanted to.

Your eyes flicked instinctively toward the waiting room entrance while you walked. Just a glance. Quick. Automatic. But enough for you to notice it yourself.

You tightened your grip slightly around the coffee cup and kept moving before your thoughts could linger there too long. Nobody else seemed to notice.

At least until—

“Well, look who finally decided to come back.”

You looked up instantly.

Abbot.

Of course.

Standing near the nurses station with charts in hand already fully dressed for shift, coffee abandoned beside the computer like he’d been here for hours. Which honestly he probably had.

You raised an eyebrow slightly while approaching. “Missed me?”

“No.” Too fast.

You almost smiled. “Cute.”

Abbot rolled his eyes lightly before handing you a chart without even greeting you properly. “We’re understaffed again.”

“Good morning to you too.”

“Trauma rooms are already full.”

“There it is.”

You took the chart from him anyway, your fingers brushing his briefly in the process. Tiny contact. Barely anything. Still enough that both of you paused for half a second longer than necessary before letting go.

Neither acknowledged it. Naturally.

“You’re on with me today,” he added while turning back toward the board.

You sighed dramatically.

“My condolences.”

“I say that every shift.”

And somehow, despite the sarcasm the last fight, the familiar rhythm between you settled back into place almost immediately.

You had barely finished scanning the first chart when another voice cut through the morning ER noise.

“Why the hell are the usual night shifters here before me?” Dana appeared from the main hallway still carrying her coffee and bag, looking deeply offended by the situation already.

Her hair was slightly messy from the early hour, jacket half slipping off one shoulder while she stopped in front of the nurses station and stared at both of you suspiciously.

“You two are ruining my routine.” You leaned casually against the counter.

“Some of us are hardworking professionals.” Dana pointed immediately at Abbot.

“Him maybe.” Then she pointed at you. “You? Absolutely not.” You gasped softly in fake offense.

Abbot snorted quietly beside you before pretending it never happened the second Dana looked at him.

Too late. You noticed. Again. Dana narrowed her eyes slightly between both of you. There it is. That little look she had now whenever you and Abbot interacted.

Like she was trying not to smile at a secret. You ignored it immediately. “You’re late anyway,” you told her while taking another sip of coffee.

Dana looked scandalized. “I am three minutes early.”

“Which for you is medically concerning.”

“That’s because I stopped for coffee.”

“You already have coffee.”

Dana lifted a second cup from behind her back triumphantly. “One for me. One for emotional support.”

Abbot looked at the second cup flatly. “That explains a lot actually.” Dana pointed at him dramatically. “See? This is why I need support coffee.”

You laughed softly under your breath while opening the chart again. And for a brief second, just a brief second, the morning felt almost normal again.

Dana suddenly looked down at something on her phone before sighing dramatically. Then she pointed at you. “You. Come with me.”

You frowned immediately. “…Why?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“About what?”

Dana was already turning away toward the locker room hallway. “Confidential woman business.”

You blinked once. “That sounds threatening.”

And just like that, she kept walking without waiting for you at all. You stood there for a second holding your coffee and chart, completely unsure if this was serious, dramatic, or just Dana being Dana.

Honestly, with her, it could be any of the three. Slowly, you turned your head toward Abbot beside you with a questioning expression like:

do you know what this is about?

Abbot glanced between you and Dana disappearing down the hallway. Then shrugged once. “No idea.”

A beat. Then dryly, “If she murders you, I’m not finishing your charts.”

You stared at him flatly. “That’s your concern?”

“I have priorities.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly at him before finally starting after Dana. “Heartless.”

Behind you, Abbot called without looking up from his paperwork, “You’ll still be back in ten minutes.” And annoyingly, he sounded very confident about it.

You followed Dana down the hallway toward the locker rooms, already suspicious from the way she kept glancing back at you with barely concealed amusement.

The second the doors swung shut behind you, cutting off most of the ER noise, you stopped and looked at her expectantly.

“…Well?” Dana slowly turned toward you. And there it was. That smirk. Oh no. “What?” you asked immediately.

Dana crossed her arms. “So,” she started casually, “is it true what happened the other night?” You blinked once.

Then immediately sighed, long and exhausted already. “Oh no. No no no, Dana, we are not doing this.”

You instantly turned to leave. Dana grabbed your arm before you could even reach the door. “Oh yes we are.”

“Dana.”

“What happened outside ?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not what Lena said.”

You groaned softly. “Lena needs hobbies.”

Dana physically pulled you back toward the benches like an overexcited teenager desperate for gossip.

“You and Abbot disappeared outside for like fifteen minutes.”

“We talked.” Dana gasped dramatically.

“You TALKED?” You gave her a deadpan look. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m being invested.”

“You’re being terrifying.”

Dana ignored that completely. “Did he finally admit he’s obsessed with you?”

You nearly choked. “Oh my god.”

“That’s a yes.”

“That is absolutely not a yes.”

Dana narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Y/N.”

You rubbed a tired hand over your face already. “It was nothing, okay? We argued.”

“Mhmm.”

“And then we talked.”

“Mhmm.”

“And then an ambulance arrived.”

Dana froze slightly. Then slowly, “…And?”

You frowned. “And what?”

Dana stared at you like you were the most frustrating person alive. “Did something happen before the ambulance?”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it again. Because technically, no. Nothing happened. But somehow the silence before that interruption still felt dangerously close to something. Dana noticed your hesitation instantly.

Her eyes widened. “Oh my god something almost happened.”

“Nothing happened!” you said immediately. Too quickly.

Dana’s expression turned deeply untrustworthy. “Y/N—”

“Nothing happened,” you repeated more firmly while trying to pull your arm free from her grip. “And nothing is going to happen.”

Dana looked unconvinced in the most offensive way possible. “You hesitated.”

“I did not.”

“You literally buffered before answering.”

You pointed at her accusingly. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re deflecting.”

You groaned dramatically, already exhausted and your shift hadn’t even properly started yet.

“Dana, seriously. Nothing happened.”

She crossed her arms tighter. “But something almost happened.”

“No.”

“Y/N.”

“No.”

“The ambulance interrupted you.”

“It interrupted a conversation.”

Dana stared at you flatly. “A very intense conversation apparently.”

You shook your head immediately. “No. Absolutely not. Nothing weird is happening between me and Abbot.”

Dana raised one eyebrow slowly. “You almost killed him three weeks ago.”

“That’s unrelated.”

“And now you’re staring dramatically at each other outside the ER.”

“We were arguing.”

“You were flirting.”

“We were not flirting.”

Dana looked at you with genuine pity now. “Oh sweetheart.”

You threw your hands up. “Oh my god.”

“Everyone sees it.”

“There is nothing to see.”

“Abbot discharged a patient because he flirted with you.”

“He was stable.”

Dana burst out laughing. “You are unbelievable.”

You rubbed your forehead tiredly. “Dana. Listen to me carefully.” She immediately leaned closer like she was receiving classified information.

“Nothing,” you said slowly, “is ever happening between me and Abbot.”

Dana tilted her head slightly. “Ever ever?”

“Yes.”

“Like ever ever ever?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.” You narrowed your eyes. “Why did you say it like that?”

Dana suddenly smiled in the most suspicious way possible. “No reason.” Which absolutely meant she had a reason. You stared at Dana for one long second. Dana burst out laughing immediately. You shook your head, already completely done with this conversation. “I’m leaving.”

“Oh come on, admit it was at least a little romantic.”

“It was literally an argument outside the ambulance bay.”

Dana followed behind you while you headed toward the door. “You stared at each other, didn’t you?”

You opened the locker room door. “No.”

“You totally did.”

“We were discussing.”

“Mhmm.”

“You’re unbearable.” Dana grinned proudly. “And yet you love me.” You paused dramatically before looking back at her. “This relationship is becoming increasingly difficult.”

Dana laughed louder while you finally escaped into the hallway again before she could continue interrogating you. The second the ER noise hit your ears again, you exhaled deeply in relief. Honestly, dealing with trauma cases was sometimes easier than dealing with Dana after she smelled emotional tension.

You escaped the locker room interrogation still hearing Dana laugh behind you as the ER swallowed you back into its usual noise and movement. Honestly, you needed actual patients now.

Something medically complicated. Anything except relationship investigations at seven in the morning.

You made your way toward ambulance reception, coffee still in hand, when you spotted Ahmad near the wall beside the paramedic entrance talking with one of the EMTs.

Ahmad noticed you immediately. “Well look who survived Dana.” You pointed at him tiredly. “She’s becoming a threat to society.”

“Too late for that.” The paramedic beside him laughed softly while Ahmad leaned back against the wall. They were standing beside the infamous bet board.

The board every shift somehow used to place stupid predictions, bets, challenges, or inside jokes on sticky notes. You honestly never paid much attention to it.

Mostly because it was usually filled with nonsense like:

who would cry first during a trauma

how many coffees Dana would drink

whether Robby would lose another pen

Complete chaos. Ahmad was apparently reading one now while shaking his head. You stepped closer absentmindedly, finally curious enough to glance at the board yourself while sipping your coffee. Colored sticky notes covered almost the entire thing.

Some old. Some new. Some definitely inappropriate. Then suddenly, one note caught your attention immediately. Bright yellow. Written in thick black marker.

“How long before Y/N and Abbot finally hook up?”

You nearly inhaled your own coffee. Underneath it were multiple answers.

• “Two weeks.”

• “After one near death experience.”

• “Already happened. They’re just dramatic.”

• “Robby owes me 20 bucks if they kiss before Christmas.”

Your jaw dropped slowly. “…What the hell?”

You stepped toward the board so fast your coffee nearly spilled. “What the hell—”

Your hand ripped the sticky note off immediately while your eyes scanned it again in disbelief like maybe you had hallucinated the entire thing. Nope. Still there. Still horrifying.

You looked back at the board and suddenly realized there were way more notes referencing both of you than there should’ve been. Way more.

Your expression flattened slowly into something dangerous. Then you turned toward Ahmad holding the sticky note between your fingers like evidence in a crime investigation.

“What,” you asked very seriously, “is this?”

Ahmad tried very hard to keep a straight face. Failed a little. “You never saw it before?”

“No??”

He exchanged a quick look with the paramedic beside him before looking back at you. “It’s been there for a while now.”

“A while?”

“Couple months maybe.”

Your jaw dropped slightly. “A couple MONTHS?”

“Well…” Ahmad scratched the back of his neck carefully. “It evolved over time.” You stared at him in complete disbelief. “Evolved?”

“At first people just thought you hated each other.”

“We do.”

Ahmad made a face that clearly said : sure. Then continued. “But then you kept arguing like a divorced couple every shift and people started noticing things.”

You pointed aggressively at the board. “THINGS?”

“Chemistry.” You looked personally offended. “There is no chemistry!” The paramedic beside him physically turned away trying not to laugh.

Ahmad stayed impressively composed.

“Y/N, last week you two sang ABBA together in front of half the hospital.”

“That was alcohol.”

“And the other day where he discharged your patient because the guy flirted with you.” You opened your mouth. Then paused. “…You know about that?” Ahmad looked at you flatly. “The entire ER knows about that.”

“Oh my god.”

You rubbed your forehead in horror while staring at the board again. One sticky note near the bottom suddenly caught your eye too: “Sexual tension level: catastrophic.”

You looked like you wanted to die. Ahmad finally lost the battle against his own amusement and laughed quietly. “To be fair,” he admitted, “most people are very invested now.”

You stared at the board another second in complete disbelief. Then immediately started ripping every single sticky note involving you and Abbot off the wall.

Fast. Violently. “What are you doing?!” Ahmad protested instantly. You ignored him completely.

One by one, the notes disappeared into your hands.

• “enemies to lovers speedrun”

• “they’re one supply closet away from kissing”

• “Abbot folds first”

Gone. Gone. Absolutely gone.

The paramedic beside Ahmad was openly laughing now while you shredded the pile dramatically into tiny pieces and threw them straight into the nearby trash bin.

“This is insane,” you muttered while destroying evidence like a woman possessed. “You people need actual hobbies.”

Ahmad looked genuinely distressed watching the notes disappear.

“Y/N, no— come on, I spent time organizing those.”

“You WHAT?”

“It had categories.”

You looked at him in horror. “There were categories??”

“Obviously.”

You pointed at him threateningly now. “Do not rewrite those.”

Ahmad tried to stay serious. Really tried. But the grin was already coming back. “…You know I’m gonna rewrite them, right?”

You closed your eyes briefly like you were physically fighting for patience.

Then turned and started walking away before you actually committed workplace violence.

“This ER is gonna be the death of me,” you muttered tiredly while disappearing back down the hallway.

Behind you, Ahmad called loudly: “I’m adding this reaction to the board too!” You didn’t even turn around. Just lifted one hand blindly behind you in warning while continuing toward the trauma rooms.

————————

The ER had settled into its usual morning rhythm—phones ringing, monitors beeping, stretchers rolling through the hallways in a steady stream of controlled chaos. On the surface, everything was fine. Busy, but manageable. On paper: a normal shift.

But in your head, it was anything but calm. Sticky notes. Ahmad laughing. Dana interrogating you. Abbot standing too close outside the ER. That stupid almost-moment at the ambulance bay. The bet board.

All of it kept looping back like background noise you couldn’t turn off. You tightened your gloves as you stepped into Trauma 3, forcing your focus back where it belonged.

Patient first. Always. Langdon was already there, scanning the chart while the patient lay on the trauma bed—a middle-aged man in his late fifties, brought in after a construction site accident.

Collapsed scaffolding. A steel beam had struck him across the torso before he fell roughly two meters onto concrete. Now he was pale, sweating, and struggling to stay still despite obvious pain.

“Possible rib fractures,” Langdon said quickly as you entered. “Maybe flail segment on the left side. He’s got decreased breath sounds there.”

You nodded, moving immediately to the bedside. The man groaned as you gently palpated his chest wall, stopping the moment he flinched hard. “Pain here?”

“Yes… god—yes.”

You exchanged a quick look with Langdon. Not good.

His breathing was shallow, uneven, guarded—like every inhale hurt too much to complete. You stepped back toward the ultrasound machine already being prepared. “Let’s get a FAST exam,” you said. “And chest X-ray stat.”

Langdon adjusted the oxygen while speaking calmly to the patient. “We’re going to take a look inside quickly, okay? You may have some broken ribs and possibly air or blood where it shouldn’t be, but we’re going to confirm and treat it fast.”

The man nodded weakly, clearly trying to stay composed. You pressed the probe against his abdomen and then up toward the chest area, eyes locked on the screen.

Fluid lines. Subtle, but there. Langdon leaned slightly closer. “Left side isn’t expanding properly,” he noted.

You nodded once. “Suspected hemothorax.”

The words settled into the room instantly, shifting everything into faster motion. “Prepare chest tube set,” you ordered without looking away from the screen.

The patient’s breathing hitched again. “Am I—am I going to be okay?”

You looked at him immediately, voice steady. “We’re catching it early. Right now we just need to help your lung expand again.”

Langdon was already positioning equipment while you focused entirely on the scan, your hands moving automatically through protocol. Clinical. Precise. Controlled. Even if your mind still wasn’t fully quiet.

Because somewhere under the focus, under the urgency, everything else was still there, waiting for the moment you stopped moving.

Langdon moved first, already opening the sterile chest tube kit as the rest of the team shifted the room into full procedural mode. “Scalpel, clamp, sutures ready,” he called out calmly.

You stepped to the side of the bed, eyes still flicking between the monitor and the patient’s breathing pattern. Oxygen saturation was holding—but barely. The left chest barely rose compared to the right, every inhale shallow and strained.

“Prep left lateral chest,” you said. A nurse swabbed the area quickly with antiseptic while the patient winced, jaw clenched in pain.

Langdon glanced at you. “Triangle of safety?”

You nodded once. “Fourth or fifth intercostal space, anterior to midaxillary line.”

He gave a small confirming nod and made the incision with practiced precision. The patient tensed immediately, letting out a sharp cry. “Deep breath,” you instructed him firmly but calmly. “I know it hurts, but don’t fight us.”

He tried, but it came out broken. Langdon carefully dissected down, then advanced the tube with steady control. For a second, the room stayed completely focused on the movement—no noise, no distraction, just procedure.

Then, a sudden rush of air. Followed by a darker fluid release into the tubing. “Got it,” Langdon said.

You watched the monitor immediately. The change wasn’t instant—but it started. Oxygen saturation creeping upward. Respiratory effort slightly easing. Heart rate slowing out of panic-driven tachycardia. “Good,” you said quietly. “Keep it secured.”

Langdon connected the drainage system and dressed the site while you adjusted the oxygen flow and rechecked lung sounds with the stethoscope.

Still diminished—but improved. Much improved. The patient’s shoulders slowly relaxed against the bed, tension easing out of his face as the worst of the pressure started to resolve.

“I… I can breathe a bit better,” he whispered. You nodded. “That’s what we wanted.”

Langdon looked at you briefly. “Chest tube is functioning. No active complications.”

You checked the vitals again. Stable. Not perfect—but stable. Enough.

“X-ray to confirm placement,” you said, straightening up. “And keep monitoring closely for re-accumulation.” The nurse moved to document everything while the patient was carefully repositioned more comfortably.

The room finally started to slow down again—the sharp edge of emergency easing into controlled recovery.

You stepped back slightly, pulling your gloves off as the immediate tension released from your shoulders.

Langdon glanced at the monitor once more, then back at you. “Good catch on the hemothorax,” he said.

You gave a small nod. “Good procedure.”

A beat passed. For a moment, the only sound was the steady beep of a now-stable monitor. Another patient not lost to time. Another shift survived.

Only once the monitor settled into a steadier rhythm did the tension finally start to drain out of the room. The patient was still pale, still in pain—but breathing was no longer a struggle that looked like it might win.

Langdon exhaled slowly, peeling his gloves off one finger at a time. You did the same, almost in sync, like your bodies had been holding the same breath through the entire procedure without realizing it.

For a second, neither of you spoke. Just that shared pause. The kind that only comes after you’ve dragged someone back from the edge and are finally allowed to feel your own lungs again.

You glanced at him briefly. He met your gaze, calm now in a way that had nothing to do with adrenaline anymore.

“Good work,” he said simply.

You gave a small nod. “Same to you.” It wasn’t competitive. Not tense. Just… clean acknowledgment.

The patient shifted slightly on the bed, eyes flicking between you both. “So… what happens now?” he asked weakly.

You turned back immediately, professional mode snapping into place again. “Now,” you said gently, “we monitor you closely in trauma until imaging confirms everything’s stable. The chest tube will keep draining fluid and letting your lung re-expand.”

Langdon added smoothly, “You’ll likely go to observation after that. Pain management, repeat scans, and we’ll reassess the ribs once things settle.”

The man nodded slowly, looking a bit more reassured now. “Okay…”

You gave him a small, steady look. “You’re not out of the woods yet, but you’re no longer falling into it.”

A faint, tired breath left him—almost like relief. “Thank you,” he murmured. You offered a brief, professional nod.

Then you and Langdon stepped out of the room almost at the same time. Gloves off. Into the bin. Hand sanitizer immediately after. The cold gel spread across your palms as you rubbed it in quickly, the smell sharp and grounding in a way only hospital sanitizer could be.

When you and Langdon finally stepped fully away from Trauma 3, the pressure of the case had eased enough for conversation to come naturally again.

“You know,” Langdon said while walking beside you, “most people usually panic at least a little during chest tubes.”

You looked at him sideways. “I panicked internally.”

“Ah. Very convincing performance then.”

You laughed softly under your breath. “Thank you. I’ve spent years perfecting emotional repression.”

“That explains why you work here.”

You pointed at him briefly. “That sounded personal.”

“It was.” The two of you kept walking side by side down the hallway, still riding that strange post-emergency relief that made people either dead silent or unexpectedly talkative.

In your case: slightly sarcastic.

In Langdon’s: effortlessly charming.

And unfortunately for certain people, you were laughing. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But relaxed. Easy. Natural.

From the middle nurses station, Princess looked up from her computer slowly. Then immediately elbowed Perlah beside her. Perlah followed her gaze toward you and Langdon walking together. “Ohhh,” she whispered instantly.

Princess nodded dramatically. “Exactly.”

A second later Dana arrived carrying charts and coffee, looking exhausted already. Princess grabbed her sleeve immediately. “Look.”

Dana frowned. “At what?”

Perlah silently pointed toward the hallway. Dana looked over. Saw you laughing with Langdon.

Then her eyebrows lifted slowly in realization. “Oh no.”

Princess looked delighted. “Oh yes.”

Meanwhile, completely unaware of the live audience forming behind you, you leaned against the counter beside Langdon while finishing the discussion about the trauma case.

And then, from farther down the hallway, another pair of eyes noticed too.

Abbot stopped briefly near the board.

Saw you smiling. Saw Langdon smiling back.

And even from across the ER, Dana physically watched his expression change.

Abbot recovered quickly. Too quickly for most people to notice anything at all. His expression barely shifted—just a small tightening near the jaw, a flicker in his eyes before he looked back down at the board like nothing had happened. Controlled. Professional. Classic Abbot.

Honestly, if it had been anyone else watching him, they probably would’ve missed it entirely. But Dana had worked with him for years. She knew every version of his moods: irritated Abbot, tired Abbot, trauma-mode Abbot, emotionally constipated Abbot.

And this one? This one was painfully obvious to her.

Because for half a second, just half, he had looked bothered.

Not angry. Not annoyed at work. Personally bothered.

Dana slowly looked back toward Princess and Perlah with the expression of someone watching live television drama unfold in real time. “Oh he hates this,” she whispered.

Princess looked delighted. “He’s jealous again.”

Perlah nearly choked trying not to laugh.

Meanwhile Abbot calmly placed a chart down at the station like absolutely nothing was wrong, though the movement was just a little sharper than usual. Dana noticed that too. Of course she did.

Her eyes narrowed slightly with growing amusement while she watched him pretend not to look in your direction again.

Which naturally meant, he looked again. Quick. Subtle. Right as Langdon made you laugh another time. Abbot’s jaw tightened almost invisibly. Dana physically had to look away before she laughed directly in his face.

Dana watched Abbot glance toward you one more time before immediately pretending to focus on another chart again.

Pathetic. Honestly, deeply pathetic. And because she unfortunately cared about both of you more than she should, she decided to intervene.Again.

Before anyone could stop her, she suddenly grabbed a chart from the pile and raised her voice across the station. “Y/N!”

You turned immediately from beside Langdon. “Yeah?”

Dana waved the chart dramatically. “Come with me, I need help with the next patient.”

You frowned slightly. “…You’ve been a doctor for like thirty years.”

Dana pointed at you offensively. “Rude.” Then she started walking away already. “Come on.”

You exchanged a quick confused glance with Langdon before pushing yourself off the counter. “Duty calls apparently.”

Langdon smiled lightly. “Try not to insult any elderly physicians on the way.”

“No promises.” You walked off toward Dana while she tried very hard not to look suspiciously pleased with herself. The second you disappeared around the corner with her, Princess immediately looked toward Abbot. He was still pretending to read the exact same page for the third consecutive minute.

Princess leaned toward him innocently. “So…”

Abbot didn’t look up. “No.”

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“You were about to.” Perlah snorted quietly behind her computer.

Dana kept walking beside you through the hallway, chart tucked under one arm while the other hand pointed vaguely toward the waiting area. “Okay,” she said casually, like she hadn’t just interrupted your conversation on purpose. “Who do you want next?”

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously at her.

“That sounded weirdly ominous.” Dana ignored you and opened the chart slightly. “We have a drunk guy who stapled his own thumb during a DIY project—”

“Absolutely not.”

“—or,” she continued dramatically, “a teenager with a possible nasal fracture after attempting a backflip off a vending machine.”

You blinked slowly. “…Why was he on the vending machine?”

Dana shrugged. “Apparently for love.”

You sighed. “Of course.”

Dana smirked slightly. “So. Choose your fighter.”

You crossed your arms while pretending to seriously think about it. “Hm…”

“The thumb guy also threw up in triage.”

“That information feels manipulative.”

“Correct.”

You were just opening your mouth to answer when—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

A violent noise slammed against one of the waiting room windows.

Both of you froze instantly. Then another round of hitting.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Not accidental. Not normal.

Every instinct in your body shifted immediately. The joking vanished. You and Dana turned at the exact same time toward the waiting area where muffled shouting suddenly erupted from behind the glass.

Another loud impact rattled the window.

People inside the waiting room started backing away. “Shit,” Dana muttered already moving. And both of you broke into motion immediately.

From down the hallway, the yelling became clearer. “HELLO?! Can you hear me?! Helloooo?!”

Another bang against the glass echoed through the waiting room.

You and Dana arrived quickly, slowing only once you reached the entrance. The man stood at the reception window, palm slamming hard against the glass separating him from Lupe.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Construction jacket half open. Dark blond hair messy like he’d been pulling his hands through it for hours. And the anger radiating off him filled the entire room. Not drunk.

Not out of control yet. But very close to becoming both. His jaw was clenched so tightly it visibly moved when he breathed, pacing one step before turning sharply back toward the desk again.

People in the waiting room had started staring now. Some moving farther away quietly.

Lupe herself stayed composed behind the glass, though you could tell she was getting tense too.

Dana immediately stepped forward first, lifting both hands slightly in a calming gesture.

“Whoa, whoa—sir, sir,” she said firmly but calmly. “What’s the issue here?”

The man turned sharply toward her, frustration written all over his face.

And behind Dana, you stopped instinctively. The waiting room. The yelling. The glass. The sudden aggression. Your chest tightened before you could stop it.

You stayed a little behind Dana automatically, shoulders tense despite yourself, eyes fixed carefully on the man while old memories crawled unpleasantly at the back of your mind.

“The issue?” the man snapped immediately, stepping closer to the glass again. “The issue is that I’ve been here all damn day and you people haven’t done a single fucking thing to help me!”

His voice boomed across the waiting room hard enough that several people visibly startled. The anger on his face was impossible to miss now. Red cheeks. Tight jaw. Eyes wide with frustration that had clearly been building for hours.

Dana kept her posture steady, calm voice carefully measured despite the tension climbing rapidly.

“Sir, we are doing everything we can to help you, but you need to calm down—”

“DON’T tell me to calm down!” he exploded instantly.

The sound made your shoulders tense automatically behind her. He pointed aggressively around the waiting room now, arm sweeping toward the other patients sitting silently nearby.

“I’m not like all these losers!” The room went completely still.

“I have insurance,” he yelled louder. “Good insurance! And I pay my taxes which pays for THEM not to have insurance!”

His voice echoed violently against the walls now, anger fully taking over while people looked away uncomfortably or shrank deeper into their seats.

Another sharp movement from him, another loud yell, and you flinched slightly before you could stop yourself.

Dana noticed. She noticed the slight flinch behind her without even turning around. And instantly, her posture changed. Still calm. Still controlled. But firmer now.

“Sir,” she said sharply, voice cutting through the room with authority this time, “you’ve got about five seconds to change your entire attitude before security gets involved.”

You could feel it immediately, Dana was getting irritated too. Not scared. Annoyed.

But she was trying hard not to let it fully show, probably knowing that if she pushed too hard, the man would only escalate more.

The guy stared at her breathing heavily, anger still written all over his face. Then suddenly he threw one hand up dismissively.

“Fuck it,” he muttered. “I’m leaving.”

His voice was calmer now—but not calmer emotionally. The anger was still there in his eyes as he started turning away from the desk, looking back at both of you with that same simmering frustration.

And then, from behind the reception glass— “HEY!”

The voice cut through the waiting room sharply. You turned immediately.

Langdon had appeared beside Lupe’s desk seemingly out of nowhere, one hand braced against the counter as he looked directly at the man.

The man turned sharply toward him, still visibly angry. Langdon didn’t move. Didn’t raise his voice either.

“You are absolutely free to go,” he said calmly through the glass, “but if you do, you’ll be leaving against our medical advice.”

He grabbed a paper from the desk beside Lupe and slapped it flat against the glass hard enough to get the man’s attention.

“This form states that I advised you to stay and complete your evaluation,” Langdon continued evenly, “but that you are choosing to leave anyway, understanding and accepting all risks of heart attack, stroke, disability, and death.”

The waiting room had gone almost completely silent now. Even the man’s anger seemed to hesitate slightly under Langdon’s tone. Professional. Cold. Unmoved. Then Langdon slid the paper calmly under the glass toward him.

The man stepped slowly back toward the desk, still breathing hard, and aggressively snatched the paper from under the glass.

He looked down at it briefly before scoffing bitterly. “Sounds like a CYA in case I drop dead on the curb.”

Langdon didn’t hesitate even a second. “That’s exactly what it is.”

The blunt honesty seemed to catch the man off guard more than anger would’ve. His shoulders lowered slightly now, some of the fight draining out of him as frustration slowly replaced rage. “I just wanted to be treated fairly,” he muttered, quieter this time.

Langdon’s expression softened just enough. “I assure you that is our intention,” he said calmly. “We’re not back here playing Go Fish.”

And before the silence could settle awkwardly, Dana stepped in smoothly right after him. “We are helping very sick people,” she said gently but firmly. “You will be seen, okay?”

Between the two of them, the tension in the waiting room slowly started easing down, the man no longer yelling now—just tired, frustrated, and finally listening.

The man finally backed away from the desk, the fight draining out of him as he sank down into one of the waiting chairs. His anger didn’t vanish completely—but it softened into something quieter, heavier. He sat there among the other patients, staring down at the form in his hands with a strained, almost embarrassed half-smile, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself anymore. The waiting room slowly exhaled with him.

Dana’s posture loosened just slightly as the immediate threat passed, but when she turned, her attention immediately landed on you. You were still standing near the glass. Still watching him. Still not fully back in the room.

Your grip on the edge of the counter was tighter than it should’ve been, knuckles faintly tense. Your breathing had changed without you even realizing it—shallower, faster, stuck somewhere between the present and something older your body remembered too well.

The noise in the waiting room dulled around you. The fluorescent lights felt too bright again. For a second, it wasn’t this man you were seeing anymore. It was another room. Another moment. Another version of a waiting area your mind didn’t want to return to.

Dana noticed immediately. Her expression shifted—subtle, but concerned now instead of focused on the situation. Dana didn’t wait for you to spiral further.

Your eyes stayed locked on the man, even though you weren’t really looking at him anymore. Your breathing hitched slightly. Just enough for it to show. And suddenly the ER felt too loud again.

She stepped in immediately, gentle but firm, and placed a steady hand on your shoulder. “Hey…” she said more softly.

You blinked once—like you were trying to refocus, to pull yourself back into the present—but your breathing was still slightly uneven.

Dana didn’t push. She just guided you, turning you away from the waiting room with careful pressure. “Come on,” she murmured. “Out here.” You let her move you without resistance.

The two of you stepped back into the ER hallway, the sound of monitors and voices washing over you again, grounding and sharp in the best possible way.

Only once you were fully out of sight of the waiting room did Dana stop. You exhaled slowly, forcing your shoulders to drop. “I’m okay,” you said quickly. Too quickly.

Dana raised an eyebrow, unconvinced but not pressing immediately. You ran a hand over your face, trying to steady your breathing properly now. “I’m fine,” you repeated, more controlled this time. “It just—caught me off guard.”

Dana studied you for a second, then nodded slightly like she was choosing not to argue with you in public about it. “Okay,” she said gently. “But don’t do that thing where you pretend you’re fine and then disappear into your head for the rest of the shift.”

That almost made you let out a small breath of a laugh. Almost. You shook your head faintly. “I’m not disappearing.”

Dana tilted her head. “Good.” A pause. Then, a little softer, “You’re here with me, yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

And even if your pulse was still a little off, you were back in the ER now. Not the waiting room. Not the memory. Just here.

————————

A few moments later, things had already moved on like they always did in the ER—no time to linger, no space to stay stuck. Dana had eventually steered you back into the flow of the shift, handing you the chart again with a quiet glance that said she was still keeping an eye on you without making it obvious.

And just like that, you made your choice. “The teenager,” you said, closing the chart decisively.

Dana smirked faintly. “Of course you picked chaos.”

“You gave me chaos options.”

“Fair.”

Now you were in one of the exam rooms with him—Room 6—standing across from a lanky teenage boy sitting on the bed, holding a makeshift ice pack against his nose like it was doing him any real good.

He looked embarrassed more than anything. Bruised nose. Slight swelling already starting. Eyes darting around like he was hoping this was all a misunderstanding.

You pulled on fresh gloves, voice calm and professional as you started your assessment. “Okay,” you said gently. “Tell me what happened.”

He hesitated. “…So. Hypothetically.”

You looked at him. “Not a great start.”

He winced. “Okay—no—so I tried a backflip.”

You paused slightly. “…On purpose?”

He nodded slowly. “On a vending machine.”

You stared at him for a second. Then exhaled through your nose. “Why.”

He shifted awkwardly. “…There was a girl.”

You didn’t even react at first. Just nodded like you had heard this exact sentence too many times in your career. “Of course there was.”

He rushed to explain.

“It was supposed to be impressive, like—cool, you know? I’ve done it before but not on a vending machine and—”

“Okay,” you cut in gently, already checking his nose and facial structure. “Let’s focus on the important part. Did you lose consciousness?”

“No.”

“Any dizziness?”

“A bit, but I think that’s mostly embarrassment.”

A small breath of amusement slipped out of you before you could stop it. “Fair.”

You carefully palpated the bridge of his nose, watching for instability or severe deviation while continuing in a calm tone. You finished your exam calmly, moving with the same steady rhythm you always relied on when the ER felt too loud inside your head.

“Alright,” you said after a final quick check of his nose and facial bones. “Nothing feels unstable, which is good. We’re going to get imaging to confirm there’s no displacement or hidden fracture lines.”

The teenager nodded slowly, still holding the ice pack like it was doing emotional support more than medical work. “So I’m not dying from… vending machine karma?” he asked.

You gave him a flat look. “No.”

He visibly relaxed. “Nice.”

You let out a small breath through your nose, already reaching for the chart. “I’m going to give you something for the pain and swelling while we wait for imaging,” you added.

His eyes widened slightly. “Is it gonna knock me out?”

“No,” you said immediately. “It’s not a movie sedation situation. Just something to take the edge off.”

“Aw.” You paused. “…Why ‘aw’?”

“I thought I’d get to experience hospital naps.” You shook your head slightly as you wrote the order. “Unfortunately, you’re not that interesting of a case.”

He looked offended. “That’s rude.”

A nurse passed by outside as you signed off the medication order, then returned with the dose a few minutes later.

You checked it carefully, then handed it over. “Take this,” you instructed gently. “It’ll help with the pain and swelling until imaging.”

He swallowed it with a sip of water, watching you like he was still trying to process everything that had happened to him in the last hour.

“…So,” he said slowly, “if I had just walked normally to the vending machine, I wouldn’t be here right now?”

You looked at him for a beat. “Yes.”

He nodded. “…Noted.”

You capped your pen and glanced at him one last time. “You’re staying here until imaging clears you, understood?”

“Yes, doctor.”

You turned slightly toward the door, already stepping back into the flow of the ER. “Good,” you said. “Try not to invent any more hobbies while you wait.”

You stepped out of the exam room a few minutes later, still finishing your notes as you walked.

The teenager was stable, waiting for imaging, pain under control—straightforward enough to close out for now. You scribbled the last line of documentation while moving through the hallway, already shifting your attention to the next task without really thinking about it.

ER rhythm. Move, assess, move again. Just as you were about to pass the nurses’ station, Princess was on the phone, one hand covering the receiver while the other waved frantically at you.

“Y/N!” she called out sharply. You looked up immediately. She pointed down the hallway toward the emergency bay, eyes wide with urgency.

“Go find Dana—she’s been out there way too long and she’s not answering!”

You frowned slightly. “…Out where?” Princess mouthed emergency entrance while still half-listening to the call.

Your grip tightened a little around the charts in your hands. That was enough information. “Got it,” you said quickly.

No hesitation. You turned on your heel and headed straight for the emergency bay, already tucking your paperwork tighter against your chest as you walked faster, the noise of the ER fading slightly behind you with each step.

You pushed through the emergency bay doors quickly, barely glancing toward the infamous bet board as you passed it this time. Not now.

The second you stepped outside, the contrast hit immediately. Fresh air. Sunlight warming your skin. The faint city noise beyond the ambulance entrance.

After hours trapped under fluorescent lights, blood, noise, and tension, the outside air almost felt unreal for a second. You inhaled deeply automatically while scanning the area.

Empty ambulance bay. No Dana. Your brows pulled together immediately. “Dana?” you called out once, stepping farther outside. Nothing.

A small knot twisted instantly in your stomach. You walked farther toward the edge of the bay, eyes searching quickly—and then you saw her.

Down near the concrete beside the side wall. On the ground. Moving only slightly. Everything inside you dropped. The charts slipped from your hands and scattered across the pavement without you even noticing.

“DANA!” You broke into a run immediately.

You dropped to your knees beside her so fast it hurt against the concrete.

Dana was trying to push herself up weakly, one hand braced against the wall while the other stayed over part of her face like she was instinctively hiding it.

“Hey—hey, don’t move,” you said immediately, panic already rising in your throat. Your hands grabbed carefully at her shoulders and arm, helping steady her into a sitting position against the wall.

And then you saw it.

Blood. A dark smear on the concrete beside her. Your stomach twisted violently. “Oh my god…”

Your eyes darted over her quickly in automatic assessment mode now, adrenaline taking over hard. “Dana, look at me.”

She tried to turn away slightly instead. “Dana.” Your voice cracked sharper this time. Slowly, reluctantly, she lowered her hand just enough for you to finally see her properly.

And the sight made your chest tighten instantly.

Blood streamed heavily from Dana’s nose, running over her lips, down her chin and neck, staining the collar of her scrub top.

Too much blood. Your heartbeat spiked instantly. “Jesus—”

You grabbed gently at her wrist and shoulder, trying to keep her upright while quickly checking her responsiveness at the same time. “Dana, stay with me.”

“I’m fine,” she mumbled thickly through the blood, which immediately told you she was absolutely not fine.

“Don’t say that,” you snapped automatically, panic and adrenaline sharpening your voice. You grabbed gauze from the emergency wall kit beside the entrance and pressed it carefully toward her hand. “Hold this.”

Dana obeyed weakly, still looking dazed.

Your eyes scanned her rapidly now:

• bleeding nose

• possible facial trauma

• maybe a fall

• maybe worse

“Dana,” you said again, trying to steady your breathing enough to think clearly. “What happened?”

She swallowed painfully, blood still dripping between her fingers. Then finally muttered, “…I got dizzy.”

You stared at her for half a second. No. Absolutely not. Dana was many things, but she was not someone who casually “got dizzy” and ended up bleeding onto concrete outside the ER.

Your voice sharpened immediately. “Dana.”

She avoided your eyes. That alone told you enough. You adjusted your grip on her shoulder carefully, forcing yourself to stay medically calm even while panic and anger started twisting together inside your chest. “What happened?”

“I told you—”

“No,” you cut in firmly. “You lied to me.”

Dana closed her eyes briefly like she was already exhausted by the conversation. Blood still slipped slowly between her fingers onto the gauze. You leaned closer slightly. “Tell me.”

For a second she stayed silent. Then finally she let out a small, shaky breath. “…That guy from the waiting room.”

Your stomach dropped instantly. “What.” Dana swallowed hard before continuing quietly, “He followed me outside.” Every muscle in your body went rigid.

“He said he’ll take the risk,” she murmured.Your hands tightened unconsciously around the gauze pack. “And then?” Dana gave a humorless little laugh through the blood. “And then he hit me.”

The words slammed into you harder than you expected. You physically froze. Like your brain needed a second to catch up with what she had just said. “He what?”

Dana finally looked at you now, eyes tired more than emotional. “He swung at me once,” she admitted quietly. “Caught my nose. I fell.”

You stared at the blood on her face again. The concrete. The smear beside her. And suddenly your pulse was roaring in your ears. “Where is he?”

Dana immediately grabbed your wrist weakly before you could even fully stand. “Y/N.”

“Where is he?”

“He left.”

“I swear to god—”

“He left,” she repeated more firmly despite how exhausted she sounded. Your hands start shaking after the adrenaline hit. Dana noticed instantly. Even hurt, she still noticed you first.

“Hey,” she said softly. You looked back at her immediately. “I’m okay.” But the blood on her face made that impossible to believe.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself back into motion before panic fully took over. “Come on,” you said quickly.

Carefully, you slid one arm around Dana’s waist while guiding one of hers over your shoulders. She winced slightly as she pushed herself upright, blood still staining the front of her scrubs and your hands.

“Easy,” you murmured automatically. Dana leaned more weight against you than she probably wanted to admit. Together, slowly but quickly enough to matter, you started moving back toward the ER entrance.

Your heart was still pounding violently. Every step felt wrong. Too familiar.

The automatic doors slid open the second you crossed back inside. And immediately, everything stopped around you. People turned. Nurses froze.

Someone cursed quietly nearby. Because Dana looked bad. Blood down her face. On her neck. On her clothes.

And beside her, you looked furious.

Abbot saw you first from across the station. Then saw Dana. And he moved instantly. “Jesus Christ—”

Robby was right behind him before either of them had fully processed the situation. “What happened?” Robby asked sharply, already reaching for Dana’s arm to help support her.

Abbot’s eyes snapped between the blood and your face. His expression changed immediately. Not confusion. Not concern alone. Rage. Cold and immediate. “What happened?” he repeated harder this time.

You looked at him, breathing still uneven from adrenaline.

“That guy from the waiting room,” you said tightly. “He followed her outside.” A beat. “He hit her.” The entire atmosphere of the ER shifted instantly.

Dana kept insisting—still stubborn even while being sat down— “I’m okay… I’m fine, really.”

But no one was treating it like “fine” anymore. Robby guided her into the nearest chair by the nurses’ station, already fully in exam mode. His hands were steady as he leaned in, careful but efficient.

He tilted her face slightly. “Look at me,” he said gently. Dana obeyed with a tired sigh.

He checked her nose first—slow, precise—then moved the penlight up to her eyes, watching for reaction, tracking her pupils.

“No obvious deviation,” he murmured. “But we’re still going to ice this and monitor you. Any nausea?”

“A bit,” Dana admitted. Robby’s expression tightened slightly. “Okay. No hero answers, alright? Just facts.”

Dana muttered something under her breath but stayed still this time. You stayed a few steps back. Arms crossed. Watching. Not just Dana anymore—but the whole scene. Robby taking over care instinctively, grounded and calm. Dana trying to act like it was nothing.

The ER already moving again around you like it hadn’t just shifted violently a few minutes ago.

But your hands were still tense. Fingers tapping lightly against your arm without you noticing. Your chest still hadn’t fully unclenched. Anger sat under your skin like static.

Abbot noticed. Of course he did. He stepped closer to you—closer than usual, enough that the noise of the ER faded slightly around him.

You turned your head just slightly toward him. And before you could even process it— his hands came up. Gently. He cupped your face. Not forceful. Not dramatic. Just steadying.

His thumbs stayed still near your jaw as his eyes scanned you properly now—your expression, your pupils, the tension in your face, your breathing he was clearly reading without you saying a word.

“You,” he said quietly, voice lower than before, “are you okay?” The question landed differently this time. Because he wasn’t just asking. He was checking.

And his worry wasn’t hidden anymore. It was right there in his eyes—focused, real, unguarded in a way you weren’t used to seeing from him at all.

For a second, your brain just stalled. The anger didn’t disappear. The fear didn’t either. But something else pushed through both of them. And you didn’t immediately know what to do with that look on his face.

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at him. Really looked.

The ER noise blurred slightly at the edges, like your brain had decided to narrow the world down to just this moment—his hands on your face, his eyes scanning you like he was trying to verify something beyond medical facts.

It made something in your chest tighten in a way you couldn’t immediately name.

Not panic. Not anger. Something… quieter. Weirdly grounding.

After a second, you gently lifted your hands and guided his away from your face—not rejecting it harshly, just easing the contact down.

“I’m okay,” you said softly, more steady now. “He left before I even got there.”

Abbot’s hands dropped, but not abruptly. Like he was still reluctant to let go of the check he’d just done. His gaze stayed on you a moment longer, searching your face like he didn’t fully trust the words yet.

Then he exhaled slowly through his nose. “Okay,” he said, quieter. Just that.

But it didn’t sound like he meant “okay” the way people usually did in the ER. His eyes flicked briefly toward Dana, then back to you again—still alert, still tense in a different way now. Like the danger hadn’t fully left the room for him either.

And for a second, neither of you moved. Just stood there in the middle of the chaos, both of you slightly off balance from something neither of you was saying out loud.

————————

A few hours later, the ER had finally started to wind down into that late-shift exhaustion—less chaos, more lingering tension. People still spoke quieter than usual.

Glances lasted a second too long. Everyone was moving like the memory of what happened was still hanging in the air, even if the emergency itself was over.

Dana had refused to fully “be a patient,” of course. Robby had tried. You had tried. Abbot had very firmly tried.

She ended up in one of the small rooms off the main ER anyway, officially under observation—nose iced, vitals checked, “no unnecessary movement” instructions given like she was ever going to follow that completely.

Still, she managed to turn it into something productive. Charts spread out on the small desk. Pen in hand. Laptop open. Half lying back against the bed like it was just an inconvenient office chair instead of a recovery space.

Every time someone passed her room, they slowed down automatically. Not out of curiosity anymore. Out of concern. Inside, Dana kept working anyway, stubborn as ever, occasionally pausing to press the ice pack back to her nose with a quiet sigh before continuing her paperwork like the day hadn’t tried to knock her out of it completely.

Outside, the ER kept moving.

But slower. Careful. Like everyone was still waiting for the tension to fully leave.

The fluorescent ER lights felt harsher now against everyone’s exhaustion. People were quieter while packing up. More drained than usual. Not physically. Emotionally.

You changed slowly in the locker room, pulling your hoodie over your scrubs while your mind kept replaying flashes from earlier: Dana on the ground, blood on the concrete, Abbot’s hands on your face. the waiting room.

You shoved your things into your bag with a tired sigh. Then after a moment of hesitation, you decided to go see Dana one last time before leaving. The hallway toward her room was calmer now, most of the day shift already gone home. A few nurses crossed paths with you quietly, the ER settling into its nighttime rhythm again.

When you reached her room, the door was still half open. And of course, Dana was still working. You leaned lightly against the doorway for a second before speaking. “You know observation usually involves observing,” you muttered.

Dana looked up immediately from the paperwork on her lap. The bruising around her nose and eye had darkened slightly now under the soft room light, making the whole thing look worse than earlier. Still, she smiled faintly when she saw you. “Well look who came back.”

You stepped inside slowly. “You got punched in the face. The least I can do is bully you a little before going home.”

Dana huffed a quiet laugh through her nose, instantly regretted it, and winced. “Okay, maybe don’t make me laugh.”

You pulled the nearby chair closer and sat beside her bed. For a second, neither of you spoke. The quiet felt different tonight. Heavier. You looked at the ice pack resting against her cheek. “…You scared me today,” you admitted softly.

Dana’s expression changed immediately at that. Not joking anymore. She looked at you carefully for a second before answering just as quietly, “I know.” And somehow that made the whole thing feel real all over again.

Dana adjusted the ice pack slightly against her face before looking at the clock on the wall. Then back at you. A small frown appeared. “…Wait.”

You looked up.

“Why are you still here?”

You blinked once. “What do you mean?”

“Y/N,” Dana said slowly, “your shift ended like an hours ago.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. Because honestly? You hadn’t even realized how late it had gotten. Dana stared at you knowingly now. “You should’ve gone home a while ago.”

You looked down briefly at your hands resting against your knees. The exhaustion was finally settling into your bones properly now that things were quiet. “I know,” you admitted quietly. Dana watched you for another second before her expression softened slightly. “You stayed because of me?”

You immediately shrugged like it was obvious. “You got assaulted.” Dana gave a faint breath of a laugh through her nose again, more careful this time. “Still sounds dramatic when you say it like that.”

“It was dramatic.”

A small silence settled between you again. Then Dana tilted her head slightly, studying you. “You’re still shaken up.”

You instinctively tried to deny it. “I’m not—”

“You’re literally chewing the inside of your cheek right now.”

You stopped immediately. Damn her.

Dana’s voice softened more after that. “Hey.” You looked back at her. “I’m okay,” she said gently this time. “Bruised ego. Broken pride maybe. But okay.”

You exhaled slowly, leaning back slightly in the chair. “I know.” But your voice still sounded tense. Because logically, yes, she was okay. But your body hadn’t fully caught up with that fact yet.

You pushed yourself up slowly from the chair, grabbing your bag from the floor beside you. “I should go home,” you said quietly.

Dana nodded faintly. “Probably a good idea.”

You looked pointedly at the paperwork still spread across her lap. “And you need to stop working.”

Dana immediately smiled a little. “There she is.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“No, seriously, Dana.” You pointed at the charts. “You got punched in the face today. You are not secretly finishing paperwork at midnight.”

Dana laughed softly at that, the sound tired and rough around the edges. “You’re starting to sound like Robby.”

“That should scare you.”

“It does a little.”

You didn’t smile this time though. Still too serious. Still too wound up from the day. Dana noticed immediately. Her expression softened. Then, more gently this time, she closed the chart on her lap and set her pen aside. “…Okay.”

The simple answer relaxed something in your chest almost instantly. “Okay?” you repeated suspiciously.

Dana raised one hand slightly. “I said okay.”

You studied her for another second to make sure she actually meant it. Then finally nodded once.“Good.”

Dana watched you adjust your bag over your shoulder, her eyes following you carefully now in that quiet, almost maternal way she had sometimes.

“Go sleep,” she murmured softly.

You let out a tired breath. “That’s the plan.” And for once, Dana didn’t tease you when you left the room looking emotionally exhausted instead of physically tired.

You walked quietly through the hallway, the ER finally shifting fully into night mode behind you. Different voices now. Different rhythm.

The night shifters had taken over completely, moving through the halls with that strange exhausted efficiency unique to overnight staff. A few people nodded at you as you passed, too tired for real conversation.

You kept walking.

Past trauma. Past the nurses’ station. Past the ambulance entrance. This time you didn’t even look at the bet board. You just wanted to go home.

The automatic doors opened, cool night air brushing against your skin as you stepped outside and started down the sidewalk beside the hospital.

The city was calmer now. Dark sky above. Streetlights reflecting faintly off the pavement still damp from earlier rain. You exhaled slowly, shoulders finally loosening a little after the endless day.

Then, “Y/N.”

You turned at the sound immediately.

Abbot was jogging lightly to catch up to you from the hospital entrance, one bag slung over his shoulder, jacket half open like he had left in a hurry after seeing you go. You slowed instinctively. He stopped a few steps in front of you, slightly out of breath but trying not to show it.

For a second neither of you spoke. The noise of the ER stayed behind the doors now. Just the city. The cold air. And him standing there looking at you in a way that suddenly made your pulse feel annoyingly noticeable again.

For a moment, Abbot just stood there looking at you under the cold hospital lights, one hand still hooked around the strap of his bag.

Then finally, “I’m sorry.”

The words hit you so unexpectedly that you actually blinked. Because this wasn’t sarcasm. Wasn’t teasing. Wasn’t one of those half-joking apologies he usually hid behind. It was real. And somehow that made it feel heavier. You could actually see the effort it cost him to say it.

Abbot glanced away briefly before continuing, jaw tightening slightly like he physically disliked being emotionally honest this long.

“For the other night,” he said quietly. “With your patient.” Ethan. You stayed silent, surprised enough to let him continue.

“I shouldn’t have discharged him,” he admitted. “It wasn’t my call, and I had no right to interfere with your patient because I was…” He stopped himself briefly, visibly annoyed with his own sentence.

You crossed your arms lightly, mostly to stop yourself from looking too affected by this.

“You were…?”

Abbot looked at you immediately. You almost smiled. Almost. He exhaled through his nose. “It’s not important.”

That alone nearly made you laugh from shock.

“I broke the pact,” he continued more quietly now. “And you were right to be angry.” The mention of the pact made something shift strangely in your chest again.

The memory came back instantly, your hand in his outside the bar, the promise, the stupid sarcastic handshake that somehow had mattered more than either of you expected.

You looked at him carefully now. He looked exhausted. Not physically. Emotionally exhausted.

Like today had worn through whatever defenses he usually kept between himself and other people. “I know I’ve already apologized before,” he added after a second. “But this one’s… different.”

Your expression softened despite yourself. Because you could hear it too. This wasn’t him trying to end an argument. This was him genuinely regretting hurting you.

You were still processing the apology when Abbot shifted slightly on his feet, like he was weighing something in his head. Then, out of nowhere, “Do you want to get a drink?”

You blinked. Once. Twice. “…What?”

He didn’t look away this time. “It’s late,” he added, quieter but steady. “I know. But I want to apologise properly.”

That made your guard twitch immediately. You exhaled, shaking your head slightly as exhaustion finally caught up again.

“I’m tired,” you said honestly. “I should go home.”

A pause. Abbot didn’t argue right away, which somehow made it worse. Then, “You don’t work tomorrow,” he said simply.

You looked at him. He continued, more measured now. “So you can sleep later. Just—one drink.” That “just” did something annoying to your brain.

Because he wasn’t pushing. He was… asking again. Still calm. Still watching you like your answer mattered more than he was comfortable admitting.

You hesitated. The night air felt colder suddenly, or maybe it was just the fact that your brain had shifted from survival mode to something much more complicated. “I don’t know,” you admitted quietly.

Abbot nodded once, like he expected that. “Then don’t decide right now,” he said. “Just walk with me.”

That one landed differently. Not a demand. Not a trap. Just… time. A small pause. He adjusted his bag strap slightly.

“I’ll take you somewhere close,” he added. “You can leave whenever you want.” And for the first time since you stepped out of the ER— it didn’t feel like you were being pulled back into chaos. Just invited into something quieter.

Taglist ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

@slowburnsky @gandalfthegoatsblog @nosebeers @chaotic-taco-collector-blog @yosoylaprincesa2004 @thehockeynerd30

[sole-jpeg]

hey just wanted to say i'm reading your jack abbot fic (somewhere between hate and whatever this is) on ao3 but i can't leave a comment so i just wanted to say i love it and can't wait for more chapters <3

Aw thank you so so muuuuuuch ! I turned on the comment option for everyone on Ao3 now so I think you can comment there too 🤍

[dilflovingmisandrist]

i need him to come home from work and take my phone out of my hand and tell me to go to bed idk

[sole-jpeg]

i need him to **** *** ** ******* **** ** * ****** *** ******** *** ** **** me :)