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Sep 3, 2025

Affinity (1) | Jack Abbot x Popstar ! Reader

Jack Abbot x F ! Popstar ! Reader

Summary: You’re a breakout popstar on your first headlining tour. Fame hit fast, sold-out shows, screaming fans, and nonstop momentum. But behind the scenes, it’s overwhelming. You’re struggling to keep up with the pressure and pace. At your Pittsburgh show, you collapse on stage and is rushed to the ER, where you meet Dr. Jack Abbott.

Word Count: 7075

Warning: Age Gap (mid 20’s/early 50’s,) Mentions of mental health struggles, discussions of suicidal thoughts/behavior

Author's Notes: OKAY I DID IT GUYS, I DID IT!!! I rewrote/restarting Eyes On Me, but I changed the name to Affinity. This parts sorta the same as the og, but def made some changes. Holla at me if you want to be tagged 🙂‍↕️ Enjoy - Ryn

Pittsburgh. Night twenty-two of thirty-six on your North American tour, crammed into two relentless months.

You were the biggest pop star in the world, the It girl everyone talked about. Your face was on billboards, your songs were on repeat everywhere, and your social media flooded with millions of likes and comments. Fashion magazines fought for exclusive covers, paparazzi followed your every move, and fans screamed your name at every show. You were a trendsetter, the person everyone wanted to be or be with.

Your career exploded overnight. You dropped a single, and it became a hit, climbing the Billboard charts and blasting on the radio. Suddenly, you were performing live on late-night shows, attending Hollywood events and festivals, gracing magazine covers, releasing your debut album Sultry, and headlining your very first tour.

Performing and creating music was everything you had ever wanted—but it came at a cost. You’d been silently struggling for a while. The pace, the pressure, the expectations—the sheer magnitude of it all, were wearing you down physically, mentally, and emotionally. You wished you could hit pause, slow it all down, but everything was happening too fast. You were still trying to figure out how to process it all.

Beneath it all, a gnawing loneliness lingered. No one asked how you were really doing. No one noticed when the weight became too heavy. Everyone acted like you had it under control, like you’d been here before, but you hadn’t. It was new. It was frightening. And sometimes, it felt like you were facing it entirely alone.

You were exhausted, but you kept going anyway. You had to. People depended on you, your fans, your team, the crew, the label. You had to keep up appearances, to be polished, poised, perfect. Every smile, every movement had to be controlled, measured, flawless. You couldn’t let anyone down, so you pushed through, running on fumes, forcing your body to obey your mind. But tonight it caught up with you. The show. The weight. The mask slipped, and for the first time in a long time, control slipped away too

The lights were blinding, the crowd roaring, and your heart pounding like a drum in your chest. You tried to focus on the lyrics, the choreography, the smiles you were supposed to be giving, but everything was a blur. Your vision wavered, the stage spinning beneath your feet.

You took a step forward and suddenly your legs gave out. The microphone slipped from your hand. Gasps rippled through the crowd as you crumpled to the floor.

You lay there, struggling to catch your breath, your body trembling. Your dancers rushed to your side, their faces etched with concern, shouting for help. The cheers of the audience blurred into a mix of panic and worry as hands reached for you. You closed your eyes, surrendering to the exhaustion that had finally caught up, the roar of the crowd fading into nothing.

—

11:25 PM Doctor Jack Abbot reads on the computer at the ER’s Central station. His shift had started three hours ago, and so far, it had been uneventful. A few car accidents, a few bar fights, some run-of-the-mill illnesses, the occasional kitchen mishap—nothing out of the ordinary. The night was still young.

“We got the bus coming from PGG Paints Arena. ETA 5 minutes” a nurse calls out.

“Heard!” Jack shouts as he continues to type.

“Oh, skin to skin… your touch feels like a sin… I want you, can’t you see? I need your hands all over me…” Doctor John Shen sang under his breath, his high-pitched voice cutting through the quiet as he picked up a clipboard from the central counter and scanned it.

John continued mumbling the suggestive lyrics, oblivious to his surroundings. Jack raised an eyebrow, glancing up from the report he was typing. His fellow attending was clearly enjoying his own private performance and very loudly.

John could feel Jack’s eyes on him and finally looked up. He shrugged. “Hey, Hands is a catchy song… guilty pleasure,” he said, completely unbothered by being caught singing something vaguely suggestive.

Jack didn’t ask for details. He just assumed it was some pop song. “Never heard of it…”

John’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You’re kidding! You’ve never heard of Hands? It’s all over the radio…pretty sure it’s number three on the Billboard Hot 100.”

Jack sighed. “I don’t listen to the radio or pop music, for that matter, Shen.”

“Right,” John said, grinning. “You listen to a police scanner in your free time like you’re—” He dropped his voice into a gravelly imitation and made a grumpy face. “Batman.”

Jack rolled his eyes, continuing to type.

“Honestly,” John continued, already spiraling into one of his usual tangents, “If you are a superheroe, you’d definitely be Batman. You know, finding comfort in the dark and all—”

“Uh-huh,” Jack murmured, only half-listening.

“Anyway, the singer of Hands—” John told Jack your name, “—biggest pop star in the world right now. She had a concert tonight at the arena. Sold out thirty-six shows across North America. Pretty impressive, honestly… I wish I could have gone,” he added, frowning.

Jack hummed and nodded, pretending to follow along. Tangents like this were par for the course with John, especially when they weren’t about work.

“You should listen to her stuff. It's actually really good! Her album Sultry, I’ve been playing it on my way to work some nights. For a debut album, it’s solid. Bop after bop, banger after banger—”

“Don’t you have patients to attend to, Shen?” Jack cut in, needing him to stop yapping.

His attention shifted, drawn to sudden commotion in the ambulance bay behind him. Muffled shouting, screaming, and the strobe of camera flashes lit up the glass of the automatic doors. The chaos was visible—but just barely contained.

“What the hell is going on?” he muttered, furrowing his brow as he straightened from his hunch over the computer monitor and turned fully to face the scene.

“The bus just pulled up,” John said.

“Yeah, but—” Jack’s brow furrowed.

Before he could take a step or say anything more, the automatic bay doors slid open. The muffled roar from outside crashed into the ER like a tidal wave screaming fans, shouting, and the intermittent flashes of camera bulbs reflecting off the polished floors.

Jack’s gaze darted to the paramedics navigating between press photographers, who were craning for a glimpse through the bay doors. The scene felt surreal. Half emergency room, half paparazzi frenzy. And at the center of it all was you: a superstar stripped of every ounce of glitz. Paramedics barreled in with a gurney, the head propped at an angle. Jack’s eyes tracked the shallow, rapid rise and fall of your chest.

“Well, I’ll be damned… it’s her,” John said casually, as if Jack were already supposed to know exactly who she was.

Jack narrowed his eyes. “Who?”

John shot him an incredulous look, exasperation painted across his face. “Only the biggest pop star in the world— Ring any bells? The whole conversation we just had—come on, old man, weren’t you listening?”

From where Jack stood, he could see you trembling under the harsh fluorescent lights. Your hair was a tangled mess, sweat matting strands to your face, and your makeup smudged and streaked from exhaustion or tears. Your purple sparkly bodysuit clung to you, still glimmering faintly as though it hadn’t realized the performance was over.

The lights stabbed at your eyes. You wanted to close your eyes, to disappear, but your lids felt leaden, refusing to obey. A strange numbness settled over you, part relief, part disbelief, as your mind struggled to process what was happening around you.

The paramedic shouted over the commotion, “Twenty-five-year-old female, syncopal episode post-performance. Now conscious and alert—”

Your manager is talking at you, over the paramedics, their voices tumbling into a blur of noise you couldn’t make sense of.

Your eyes landed on someone. It felt like the world slowed between the two of you as your eyes locked. He was older, a doctor, you assumed, but it wasn’t his age or scrubs that struck you. It was the steadiness of his gaze. Dark, calm, unwavering, refusing to look away.

Something tightened in Jack. He didn’t know what was wrong, but he saw it in your eyes. Not a pop star, just a woman unraveling beneath a glittering mask. Exhaustion. Vulnerability. A silent plea for someone to notice. And maybe, just maybe, he did. He recognized that look, one he’d seen countless times before: the hollow ache of someone running on empty, the kind of quiet, gnawing brokenness that makes no sound but can’t be hidden from the right eyes

“I got this one—South Wing, Exam Room 4. Move her!” John barked, falling in step beside the gurney as it sped past, your eye contact with Jack breaking.

Snapping out of what felt like a trance, Jack returned to work.

“Call for more security!” he barked at one of the nurses as he bolted from central toward the ambulance bay. The two security guards on duty were already struggling to control the crowd.

“Hey! HEY!” Jack yells trying to get the attention of the crowd.

“You can’t be here unless you’re sick, injured, dying, or here for someone who is!” he shouted over the chaos. “If not, get the hell out of my ER and ambulance bay!”

The commotion only grew, cameras flashing, people yelling, shoving for a better view, the frenzy thick with blinding light and screaming voices.

Additional security arrived, pushing the crowd back and restoring some order. Jack exhaled, knowing they had it under control. Without another word, he turned on his heel and made his way back inside, the chaos fading behind him like background noise.

He was about to head to your exam room, something about you lingered. That look in your eyes. He’d seen pain before, but this was different. Quieter. Deeper. And he couldn’t shake it.

But before he could move, a nurse intercepted him.

“Doctor Abbot! We need you in trauma room one!”

Jack glanced down the South Wing, hesitating for a fraction of a second.

“Copy that,” he said, and with a sharp pivot, he rushed toward Trauma Room 1.

—

You lay curled on the exam bed, motionless. You wished for someone, anyone to sit beside you. A friend. A steady hand to hold. But the room was empty, and you were alone.

Your boots were kicked off on the floor beside the bed forgotten, abandoned like the rest of you. The tights clung uncomfortably to your skin, and the purple bodysuit shimmered under the sterile fluorescent lights glitter that belonged under a spotlight, not in a hospital room that smelled of antiseptic and bleach. The sparkle mocked you, a reminder of the stage you’d just collapsed on.

The IV needle jabbed at your arm, tethering you to the bed, to a reality you couldn’t escape. Every twitch, every shift, sent a sharp pull through your vein. Your chest tightened, shallow breaths barely filling your lungs. Your fingers trembled, your legs jittered uncontrollably, and a buzzing restlessness crawled up your spine. The walls pressed closer, closing in, the air thick, stifling, filled with the hum of machines and the harsh glare of fluorescent lights.

Panic coiled in your stomach, spreading into your limbs. You needed to move. You needed air. You needed anywhere but here. Every instinct screamed at you to get up, to run, to vanish—but the IV held you hostage, and the weight of everything. Expectations, disappointment, exhaustion, crushed you down until you could barely think, barely breathe, barely exist

Your hands shook as you yanked the IV needle from your arm. A sharp sting flared.

You didn’t think, didn’t pause. You just moved, each step driven by a restless urgency, your heart hammering beneath the thin fabric of the bodysuit. Down the hall, past the flurry of activity, the beeping, the shouting, your body barely registering it, until you found the stairwell.

Up, up, your legs shaking with each flight, the air growing thinner, colder, sharper as you ascended. The hospital receded behind you, the chaos fading, until finally you burst onto the roof.

The wind hit you immediately, sharp and biting, tugging at your hair and your clothes. You pressed your hands against the low railing, shivering, panting, finally tasting the freedom of space.

—

Jack peeled off his gloves and paper gown, tossing them into the overstuffed disposal bin without a second glance. His safety glasses came off next, dropped into a tray with a soft clatter.

The stabbing victim he was working on had finally been stabilized, barely. They’d coded multiple times on the table, the blood loss severe, the damage extensive. It had been a fight, but for now, they had a pulse.

Jack moved through the ER, alert to the organized chaos around him. Monitors beeped steadily, nurses and techs moved with precise efficiency, and doctors coordinated like a well-oiled machine. It was busy, but controlled.

He made his way to the center of the ER and saw John approaching, a chart in hand, his expression calm but edged with concern.

“I got Popstar’s results back.”

“What do they show?”

“Well… we need to keep her overnight. Labs were all over the place when she came in—dehydration, low electrolytes, stress markers through the roof. But mostly…” He paused. “She’s just… completely drained. Bone-deep exhaustion. Extreme fatigue. Burnout, plain and simple.”

“Okay—”

“But there’s a problem.”

“Problem?”

“She’s gone,” John said, voice calm but urgent.

“Gone?” Jack’s eyebrows shot up.

John said, holding the chart a little tighter. “I went back to check on her… she wasn’t in the exam room. She’s gone.”

“Did you ask around? Did anyone see her?” Jack asked,

John ran a hand through his hair. “I did. Nobody’s seen her. Someone should have seen her. She was wearing a sparkly purple bodysuit, bright enough to blind someone in this fluorescent hellhole!” He shook his head, exhaling. “I’ve looked in every corridor, every stairwell. She just… vanished.”

Jack stood there for a moment, scanning the controlled chaos of the ER. His mind raced, trying to piece together where she could have gone. Stairwells? Hallways? The waiting rooms? Nothing seemed to fit. Then, a sudden thought struck him.

“I think I know where she might be.”

Jack’s heart quickened. Of all the places she could have gone, only one made sense, the roof. He pushed through the busy ER, weaving past nurses and techs, ignoring the beeping monitors and the chatter of the staff.

He spotted his hoodie draped over a chair and grabbed it, as he continued toward the stairwell. Metal steps rattled under his boots as he sprinted upward, two at a time. Each flight brought colder, sharper air, the sounds of the hospital fading behind him.

When he finally burst through the door, the night air hit him, crisp and biting. The city lights stretched out in the darkness, casting a muted glow over the rooftop. There you were, small against the low railing, your sparkly purple bodysuit, shimmering faintly in the darkness.

Jack slowed his pace, careful not to startle her. Yet he couldn’t ignore the coil of worry in his chest, the urgent pull that made him move closer.

“Hey,” he says, his voice low but steady.

You let out yelp, startled by the sudden voice. You hadn’t expected anyone else up here. Your hands instinctively grab the railing behind you, gripping it tightly for support. There was still a sliver of space between you and the edge, but your heart was already racing.

“Whoa, whoa—careful now,” says quickly, a hoodie draped over his arm. His hands rise in a calming gesture, fanning out as if to steady you.

You glance over your shoulder, blinking in disbelief. It’s him. The man you locked eyes with earlier across the chaos. Tall, calm, dressed in black scrubs that cling to his frame like a shadow. His salt-and-pepper curls are tousled just enough to soften the sharpness of the stubble along his jaw.

“I didn’t come up here to jump—” you say, your voice defensive, a little shaky.

“I’ve heard that one before,” he says lightly, but there’s no judgment in his tone.

“No, really! I’m serious. I just—” You hesitate, your eyes drifting to the edge of the railing, the city lights blurred beneath the dark sky.

It wasn’t a total lie. The thought had crossed your mind once or twice before, on different nights, in different places. But this… this wasn’t that. You just needed space. A moment to think, to breathe, to feel like the world could pause for just a few seconds.

“Hey…” he says softly, stepping a little closer, though not too close. His voice is calm, grounding. “I get it. I head up here to get away from everything down there.” He nods toward the bustling hospital below. “That spot? It’s usually mine.”

You glance at him, surprised by the unexpected honesty, the quiet understanding in his eyes. The wind tugs at your hair, the chill brushing against your skin, but there’s something steady in his presence, something that makes the night feel a little less heavy.

He steps closer to the railing.

“Do you mind?” he asks, gesturing to the space beside you, silently asking for permission.

You give him a quick glance, and he understands, it’s okay. He ducks under the railing and settles beside you, moving with a quiet ease that doesn’t demand attention.

He lowers himself to the ground, knees drawn to his chest, arms resting loosely on top. His back leans against the railing with a kind of calm familiarity, like this was a place he’d claimed before, a little refuge from the world.

After a moment, you follow suit, folding your legs beneath you, settling cross-legged in the hush of the night.

A silence stretches between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. The city skyline glimmers below, distant and indifferent. The wind whispers around the edges of the roof, tugging at hair and clothes, but here, beside him, it feels like a shared pause, a moment stolen from the chaos.

He studies you for a moment, then says gently, “You don’t have to tell me everything. But… you look like someone who hasn’t been asked if they’re okay in a long time.”

The words land heavier than you expect. Your throat tightens, because it’s true—everyone always asks about the show, the next project, the numbers. Never you.

He doesn’t press, doesn’t move closer, just lets the silence sit. “I mean you,” he adds, quieter now. “Not the version of you they put onstage. Just… you.”

The ache in your chest shifts, loosens, and before you can stop yourself, the words start to rise—the things you’ve been holding down, the exhaustion you’ve been burying.

You force a small, shaky smile, brushing a hand over your face like it will make everything lighter. “I’m fine,” you say, voice a little too casual. “Really. Just… tired, I guess.”

He doesn’t push, just keeps watching, steady and patient. There’s no judgment, no impatience—just quiet presence.

“I mean, it’s nothing serious,” you add quickly, shrugging, trying to sound effortless. “Everyone has long days, right?… nothing I can’t handle.”

The words feel hollow even as they leave your mouth, but you hold them anyway. You don’t want to show him the raw exhaustion, the weight pressing down on you. Not yet.

He tilts his head, a faint, knowing look tugging at his lips. “Yeah… but it doesn’t sound like just a long day,” he says softly, not accusing, just noticing.

Your throat tightens. You want to argue, to insist you’re okay, but deep down, you know he already sees the cracks in your mask. So you say nothing more, forcing yourself to breathe, to appear collected, even as the tension coils in your chest.

It’s a little while before he speaks.

“I come to the roof because down there, in the ER… I’m always on. Always the doctor. Always responsible for life and death, always expected to have the answers, to stay calm, to stay strong. Up here… I can just breathe. I can be me, not the attending doctor. No one depends on me up here. No one’s in danger. It’s the one place I can stop pretending”

Jack hadn’t shared that part of himself because he was looking for comfort. He shared it because he saw something in you—a reflection of himself.

He couldn’t shake the look in your eyes from earlier, when they wheeled you in. That numb, exhausted sadness. The silent plea buried deep in your gaze. A quiet scream for someone, anyone, to really see you.

You were young. A pop star. To the world, untouchable. Perfect. Living the kind of life most people only dream of.

He knew the pressure you must feel—the expectations, the eyes on you to be flawless, entertaining, always on.

But up close, all Jack saw was someone unraveling. Someone barely holding on. And he knew, pain doesn’t care who you are, how famous you are, or how bright the spotlight shines.

To be watched by everyone… yet never truly seen.

He lets out a slow breath, softer now. “I guess what I’m trying to say is… this is where I come to stop pretending. So… no pretending. You don’t need to be anything up here, okay? I see you.”

Your head snaps up at his words. “W-what?” My eyes widened, caught off guard.

“I said… I see you,” he repeats, voice steady, eyes locked on mine with quiet intensity.

Something in you breaks. Your lips tremble, and then the tears come, uncontrollable, unstoppable. You start to sob, the weight of everything finally cracking open.

This man, this stranger, was the first person to really look past the surface. To notice the pain you’d been drowning in. To see you, not the version of you the world demands.

He understood. You both had different lives, different professions, but the feeling was the same: the pressure, the loneliness, the weight of always having to hold it together.

Without a word, he takes the hoodie he’s been holding and gently drapes it over your bare shoulders, shielding you from the cool night air. The fabric is warm, worn, and smells faintly of him, clean soap and something grounding.

You lean into his side, drawn by a comfort you didn’t know you needed. He hesitates for a moment, then instinct takes over. His arm wraps around you, slow and careful, like he doesn’t want to startle you. His hand rubs your arm in slow, steady circles, not to fix anything, just to let you know you’re not alone.

The sobs come in waves, raw and jagged, leaving your chest aching and your throat tight. You try to stifle them, but he doesn’t flinch. He just stays beside you, steady and still, his hand never leaving your arm.

Eventually, it passes. Not completely, but enough for you to breathe again. Your chest still hiccups with the occasional shuttered breath, yet you feel… lighter.

“I’m sorry,” you say, pulling away slightly, wiping your tears as you sit up straighter.

“Hey,” he says softly, “you have nothing to be sorry for. Don’t ever feel like you need to apologize for crying, for showing emotions. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“You must think I’m a drama queen,” you whisper, voice brittle at the edges. “Running out here like this… like I don’t already have enough attention on me. Like I just wanted more.” You give a small, self-deprecating chuckle, the sound shaky and hollow, more a release of tension than amusement..

“If I thought that, I wouldn’t be sitting here.”

You tug your arms into the sleeves of his hoodie, pulling it close around yourself. The warmth wraps around you like a shield, and your arms cross over your chest, clutching it like a lifeline. The faint scent of him drifts in, grounding you, soft and reassuring.

“I… I don’t know where to start,” you let out a long sigh, shoulders tense.

“Hey,” he says softly, giving you a reassuring look, “take your time. No pressure. You don’t have to say anything you’re not ready for.”

You hug the hoodie tighter around yourself.

“Everything’s happening so fast—my career. I guess the best way to describe it is… like being on a train. Trains take you where you need to go, different stations along the way. You expect to stop at the stops… but this train just keeps going. No brakes, no pause, no time to catch your breath. You’re just along for the ride, trying not to fall off.” You sniffle.

“It’s a non-stop ride,” you admit, voice breaking, “but I just… I just want to get off. I’m just so exhausted, but everyone is counting on me. My fans, my team, my label… I can’t let anyone down. I can’t stop, even when I want to. It can be lonely.”

“And it’s scary,” you continue, trembling slightly. “All of this is new to me. I feel like my team forgets I haven’t been in the industry that long. It’s… overwhelming.”

Jack listens quietly, his eyes soft and steady on you. He doesn’t rush to speak, letting your words settle in the air. When he finally speaks, his voice is calm, gentle, and grounding.

“You don’t have to carry all of it alone,” he says. “I get it… the train never seems to stop, and it feels like everyone’s counting on you. But it’s okay to breathe, even just for a moment. Taking care of yourself doesn’t mean you’re letting anyone down.”

He shifts slightly, leaning forward just enough that you feel his presence. “This is new for you, and it’s scary. That doesn’t mean you’re failing—it means you’re human. You’re allowed to feel overwhelmed. You’re allowed to be exhausted. And you don’t have to face it all alone.”

He pauses, letting you absorb it. “If it ever gets too much… if the ride feels unmanageable, there are people who care. People who will help steady you. You’re not alone, even if it feels like it sometimes.”

You swallow hard, voice barely above a whisper. “I… I know I should ask for help. But I’m scared—scared I’ll seem weak, scared I’ll let people down, scared it’ll ruin my career if they think I can’t handle it.”

Jack’s expression softens, eyes gentle but firm. “Hey… I get that. Asking for help doesn’t make you weak. It doesn’t make you any less capable. It makes you human.”

He leans in slightly, voice lowering, protective. “You don’t have to be perfect all the time. You don’t have to carry everything yourself. Anyone who truly cares will want you to take care of yourself, not push yourself into breaking.”

You swallow, fingers knotting together in your lap. “Do you think you could…help me? like—point me toward someone? Something? Resources, maybe? Because right now it feels like I don’t even know where to start.”

His gaze softens, the tension in his jaw easing. “Yeah. I can help with that. I know some good people, places that are safe.”

“Thank you…” Your voice is soft, almost swallowed by the quiet around you, and then it hits you—you don’t even know his name.

“Doctor Abbot…Jack” He offers his hand, steady and warm, the kind of presence that somehow feels safe even when everything else feels overwhelming.

“Jack,” you repeat, letting the name roll off your tongue, grounding yourself in it. You lift your hand to shake his, feeling the firm but gentle grip, and introduce yourself in return, a small tremor betraying your nerves.

There’s a pause after, quiet but not uncomfortable. Jack’s calm energy feels like an anchor, something real and solid in the whirlwind of your thoughts. For a fleeting moment, the noise of expectations, the chaos of your career, all of it… fades just enough for you to catch your breath.

He chuckles again, quieter this time, like he’s amused by his own confession. “You know… I honestly had no idea who you were until a few hours ago. I’m pretty behind on all that stuff.”

“Really?” you reply, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Honestly, that’s kind of refreshing. But… I think you’re aging yourself here.”

He grins, unbothered. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been called old.”

Your smile widens, a little laugh slipping out. “Old? I didn’t say that. I just meant… maybe slightly out of touch.”

“Ah, so now I’m out of touch and old. Great.” He presses a hand dramatically to his chest, pretending to be wounded, but the amusement in his eyes betrays him.

You narrow your eyes at him, though your smile lingers. “People who aren’t out of touch at least know who the current pop stars are,” you counter, a teasing edge in your voice.

He grins, leaning back just enough to look relaxed. “Guess that means you’ll have to educate me, then.”

“You really haven’t heard any of my songs?”

He shakes his head, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Not a single one. I might’ve caught a line or two somewhere, but nothing I could actually hum along to… wait—actually, I do know one. My coworker was singing it earlier on our shift… uh… Hands?”

Your cheeks heat up instantly. That song was definitely on the steamy side.

You laugh nervously, half-mortified, half-amused. “Oh, please don’t sing that one.”

He arches a brow, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Why not?”

“That’s…seriously the only one you know?” you ask, disbelief mingling with amusement.

He shrugs, still grinning. “For now. But I’m a quick learner… if you’re willing to give lessons.”

You wrinkle your nose, trying and failing to hide the blush creeping up your cheeks.

“Why don’t you sing it?” He suggested.

Your eyes widen in mock shock. “Excuse me?” Your embarrassment makes it impossible to look entirely composed, a faint pink creeping up your cheeks.

Jack has a playful smirk on his face “What? I might as well hear it from the professional.”

You stare at him, mouth open. “You want me to sing that song? Right now? On this…on this rooftop?”

He shrugs with a teasing glint in his eye, like he’s daring you. “You’re the one who wrote it. Own it.”

You groan, flopping back dramatically so your shoulders hit the railing “Absolutely not!”

He arches a brow, clearly amused, eye crinkling at the corners. “Why not?”

“Performing it on stage is one thing. But in everyday, mundane life? No way. That song’s way too suggestive.”

He grins, leaning closer so the sunlight catches the mischievous glint in his eyes. “I mean, you might as well you’ve got the outfit, so you’re halfway there.”

You snort, trying to keep it lighthearted, but your words slip out a little flirty without meaning to or thinking. “The only way you’ll see me perform that song… is if you’re lucky enough to get a private concert.

He tilts his head, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh? So I’ve earned a private show? Didn’t know I qualified for the VIP treatment.”

Immediately, you feel your cheeks heat up, realizing how that sounded. You cross your arms, trying to act casual. “I-I mean…I didn’t—I’m just… joking!”

You both knew you shouldn’t be flirting. He was a doctor, years older, and you were a popstar, a patient at the ER, and still raw from breaking down in front of him. And yet, here you were, words slipping between you, playful and dangerous, bending boundaries neither of you were supposed to cross.

Every glance, every teasing word felt charged, a quiet rebellion against the rules. He was supposed to be steady, professional; you were supposed to be vulnerable, guarded, careful.

But at this moment, neither of you were. The city stretched out below, distant and irrelevant, and the line between patient and doctor, pop star and stranger, young and older blurred into something fragile and electric.

He glanced at his watch. Time was slipping by, and he needed to get back downstairs. Patients were waiting, and his rounds couldn’t be put off.

“We should probably head back down,” Jack says, standing up and using the railing to steady himself.

“Right…” You nod, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, probably… before someone notices we’ve gone off the grid.”

“Exactly. Don’t want to start a search party for the elusive doctor and popstar.”

He ducks under the bars, making his way back to the safe side.

You follow suit, and he extends his hand toward you, offering support as you step back over to the safer side. You take his hand, steadying yourself as you make the move.

—-

John notices Jack guiding you through the ER, having managed to find you and bring you back to your exam room. His hand rests lightly on your back, offering steady reassurance, while the hoodie draped over your shoulders conceals most of your glittering bodysuit, though occasional flashes of it catch the light as you move.

As they pass central, John retrieves your chart and hands it to Jack without a word, recognizing immediately that Jack is taking care of you. He watches Jack and you, a quiet thought lingering in his mind, then turns back to the controlled chaos of the ER, letting them continue without interruption.

You disappear around the corner toward your exam room. Inside, you notice your boots still discarded on the floor along with the IV needle. You move to sit on the bed, and Jack pulls a chair over, setting it beside you. He glances down at your chart, reviewing it carefully, his attention steady and thorough.

“The test results are back,” he says, calm but measured. “You’re experiencing significant fatigue and exhaustion. Your body has been running on empty for too long, and it’s beginning to take a serious toll.”

He pauses, letting the words sink in. “I recommend taking some time off to rest and recover. I’ll speak with your team to ensure they understand the need for you to step back for a while. It’s important that you focus on yourself and allow your body to heal.”

Jack meets your eyes, concern evident but controlled. “For now, you’ll need to stay overnight. We’ll discharge you once you’re stable, and I’ll provide a list of resources…therapists and support services…to help you manage this properly.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, the weight on your chest easing slightly.

Jack gives a small, reassuring nod. “The nurse will be back shortly to start an IV and get you re-hydrate. Try to rest as much as you can.” He pauses for a moment, then adds softly, “I’ll come by to check on you soon.”

He turns toward the door, hand on the handle, but you call out, your voice catching slightly.

“Jack… wait.”

He pauses, glancing back at you, eyebrows raised in quiet attention, waiting.

“Do you think… Do you think you could stay with me until I fall asleep?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah, of course”

Slowly, he reaches up and flicks off the main light, leaving only one overhead light glowing.

He moves the chair closer to the bed, settling in beside you with careful, deliberate ease. The soft hum of the machines and distant beeps of the ER become background noise, almost comforting in their regularity. You pull the blankets around yourself, letting your body sink into the mattress, feeling the steady presence beside you.

The quiet stretches, but it isn’t uncomfortable. With him there, just sitting, just watching, the room finally feels safe—a small island of calm, and for the first time tonight, you allow yourself to breathe.

—-

6:30 AM. You stand at the nurses’ station, boots in hand, still wearing Jack’s hoodie, waiting for John to finish discharging you.

“All right, you’re good to go,” Doctor Shen says, officially releasing you from the hospital.

“Thanks, Doctor Shen,” you reply, gratitude in your voice as you start to turn away.

“Wait!” he calls, stopping you mid-step. “I know this is unprofessional, but… any chance I could get your autograph?”

You pause, catch off guard, then smile. “Yeah, of course.” With a soft laugh, you walk back and sign for him, pen gliding across the paper before you hand it back with a warm smile. “Thanks for everything.”

John beams at you, pumping his fist in excitement. You laugh and start to turn away but then you notice Jack approaching.

“Want an autograph too?” you tease.

He looks shocked, eyebrows raised. “Wow, really? I went from the VIP experience, the private show, to standing in line for a signature?” He jokes.

You laugh, shaking your head. “Hey, fame has its perks… and apparently, its lines.”

Jack grins, stepping closer, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Guess I’ll have to settle for the standard package then.”

“Oh? And what does that include?” you tease, tilting your head slightly.

He leans just a little closer, smirk softening into something more genuine. “I think… It comes with a conversation. Maybe even a laugh or two.”

You can’t help the little chuckle that escapes. “Well, I think I can manage that much.”

“So… what are your plans now?” he asks, curiosity lacing his voice.

You glance over your shoulder, spotting Mac pacing near the automatic doors of the ambulance bay, phone pressed to his ear. “Uh… headed back home, actually,” you reply. “Mac, my manager, is going to talk to the rest of the team and my label about me canceling the rest of the tour, just… focusing on my wellbeing.”

Jack’s expression softens, his eyes meeting yours. “That’s really good to hear,” he says, with genuine warmth in his tone.

Then silence settles between you, heavy and quiet, the kind that says everything without words. Both of you know, deep down, that this is probably the first and last time your paths will cross.

For a fleeting moment, you let yourself wish things were different.

Jack clears his throat, and reality tugs you back. You force a small, bittersweet smile. He glances down at the floor for a moment before meeting your eyes one last time. “Take care of yourself, alright?” His voice is quiet but sincere.

You nod, holding his gaze for a heartbeat longer than feels necessary. “You too.”

And then, without another word, you turn away, carrying the memory with you, knowing some moments are meant to shine briefly and then fade.

You start to walk toward the automatic doors, but you stop. You can still feel Jack’s eyes on you, pulling you back. Almost without thinking, your feet turn, and you walk back to him.

He looks confused by your sudden change of direction, but before he can say anything, you drop your boots to the floor and fling your arms around his shoulders, hugging him tightly. You hold him for a moment, feeling the warmth of his embrace, his hands finding your waist and wrapping under his hoodie that you’re still wearing.

Michael Robinavitch, Jack’s best friend and the morning attending, stops in his tracks as he notices you hugging Jack. The sparkly outfit you’re wearing, paired with Jack’s hoodie, catches his attention. He watches the scene quietly unfold, a cup of coffee in his hand.

“I never thought anyone would notice, let alone truly see how I was doing, how I really felt,” you murmur, your voice low and fragile. “But somehow, you did. Thank you, for noticing me, and for listening.” Your eyes tear up as you thank him.

Before you pull away, you give him one last squeeze. You press a soft kiss to his cheek, a gentle gesture that lingers a second longer than expected. You let go, pick up your boots, and walk toward the automatic doors.

You take one last glance back, giving him a small wave, and for a fleeting moment, you catch his gaze. Then, you turn away, making your way out, leaving the hospital, and the weight of everything, behind you.

Jack stood there, still in a daze. He hadn’t noticed Michael approaching. He could still feel the warmth of your kiss on his cheek, the sensation lingering far longer than it should have.

Michael raised an eyebrow, taking in Jack’s stunned expression. “Okay… what was that?” he asked, a mix of curiosity and amusement in his voice.

Jack rubbed his cheek absently, the warmth of your kiss lingering stubbornly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I… I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice quiet, almost unsteady.

Michael leaned against the counter, arms crossed, studying him with a teasing grin. “Don’t ‘I don’t know’ me, Jack. Who was she? What happened last night?”

Jack hesitated, glancing toward the automatic doors as if still half-expecting you to reappear. “Nothing,” he said softly, almost too quietly to be heard.

“That wasn’t nothing,” Michael shot back, eyebrows raised, a grin tugging at his lips. “She took your hoodie. That’s not nothing.”

Jack’s fingers flexed slightly as he rubbed his cheek, still feeling the faint warmth of your kiss. “I know,” he said simply, his tone calm but carrying the weight of unspoken thoughts. “Some things… are better left unsaid.”

Michael shook his head, amusement and disbelief mixing on his face. “Classic Jack. Always mysterious, even when it’s obvious you’re completely smitten.”

Jack let out a small, almost reluctant chuckle, his eyes glinting with a mixture of mischief and something softer, more vulnerable. “Smitten? That’s… you’re exaggerating.” He leaned back slightly, pretending to adjust his shirt as if the movement could shield him from the truth.

“Whatever,” he said playfully, rolling his eyes at Jack’s teasing, and the two of them fell step side by side.

Patients came and went, some left only faint impressions, others barely registered at all, but you… you were different. Your presence lingered in a way no one else had. He would never forget you. Not now, not ever.

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