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can i request angst where reader and abbot used to know everything about each other, and they meet again but as complete strangers when she transferred to the ptmc as the new night shift attendant !!! 🥹🥹🥹

Steady

summary: three years. it's been three years since jack saw you. three years since you saw jack. with a new position back at pittsburgh, you and jack convince yourselves you don't want each other again no matter how bad you want it.

pairing: jack abbot + night shift attending!reader

word count: 8.6k

warnings/tags: reader and jack are just stubborn idiots, very inaccurate medical terms n scenes, foul language, kinda oc jack (he smokes but swears he's trying to quit), workplace romance interfering w patients health

notes: this is my first ever LOOOOONG fic so pls be nice :(

reblogs, likes, and comments are so so appreciated! if you want to read more from me, kindly submit in my inbox !!! xoxo

The lights in the parking lot flickered like a faulty heartbreat, casting uneven shadows across the floor. Jack hadn't meant to linger there, but his cigarette burned than usual tonight, as if even the air resisted his hurry.

Inside, the night shift was in full swing. Machines humming, distant voices muffled by the thick glass doors. Jack had worked here long enough to recognize the rhythms.

The 2 AM lull, the sudden rush of an incoming ambulance, the way the coffee in the break room tasted like regret after midnight. He didn't expect anything to disrupt that rhythm. Not until he saw you.

You stood behind the nurses' station, adjusting the stethoscope around your neck with the same absentminded precision he remembered. You hadn't noticed him yet, too busy flipping through a patient's chart, brow furrowed in the way it always did when you were concentrating.

The sight of it sent a stupid, unbidden warmth through his chest. Three years, and you still had tells he could read like braille.

He crushed the cigarette under his boot, the embers scattering like tiny red warnings. This was his last one before he'd quit, he promised himself.

The automatic doors hissed open, and the sterile smell of antiseptic hit him. Jack could've walked straight past you, could've buried himself in the chaos of the ER, but his feet betrayed him. He stopped at the counter, his shadow falling across the paperwork you were signing.

You didn't look up immediately. Just tapped the pen against the clipboard once, twice, like you were counting the seconds before acknowledging him.

When you finally did, your expression didn't change, but your fingers tightened around the pen.

"Jack," you said, your voice steady in a way that made him wonder how long you'd practiced saying his name like it wasn't a virus.

Jack leaned against the counter, deliberately casual, though his pulse thrummed in his throat.

"Y/N," he echoed, nodding toward the stethoscope. "Didn't know they let attendings steal the good equipment."

Your mouth twitched. Almost a smile, but not quite. You set the pen down. "They don't," you said. "Brought my own. Some of us still care about decent auscultation."

The dig was soft, barely there, but Jack felt it like a papercut. He remembered the argument. You tossing his cheap, battered stethoscope into the trash after a missed murmur, him fishing it out with a shrug.

"It's just noise until the machines confirm it anyway."

You'd hated that answer. Still did, apparently.

Jack exhaled through his noise, a quiet laugh that wasn't really a laugh at all. "Some of us also care about paying rent."

He tapped the counter where the laminate was slightly peeling at the edge. The hospital hadn't replaced anything in a long time. Not the chairs in the breakroom with their duct-taped seams, not the ancient monitors that flickered like they were on its last life.

"Guess you got lucky with your new gig."

Your gaze flicked to his bare left hand. Just a split second, but he caught it. You used to do that when you were decided whether to pick a fight or let something slide.

"Luck had nothing to do with it," you said, sliding the clipboard into its slot. "I applied. Twice."

The silence stretched between you. Jack flexed his fingers against the counter, the ghost of an old habit. He used to reach for your hand when the quiet got too heavy. Now, he shoved them into his pockets instead.

"Twice, huh?" he said. "Guess they needed convincing."

You tilted your head. "Or they just needed someone who wouldn't half-ass the job."

Your voice was calm. Jack could almost admire it, if it didn't sting so much.

A monitor down the hall beeped in frantic noises, and your attention snapped toward the sound, body tensing like a sprinter at the starting block.

For a second, Jack saw the Y/N he remembered. The one who'd bolt toward a code without hesitation. But then you straightened and tapped something into the computer instead.

Jack watched you, something hollow opening in his chest.

"You gonna check that?" he asked, nodding toward the alarm.

You didn't look up. "Dr. Shen's got it."

The ER's overnight rhythm had a way of amplifying whispers. Nurses passing hushed observations, residents trading glances between patient rooms. By 3 AM, the whole floor had caught the tension radiating from the nurses' station.

Mateo pretended to adjust an IV bag while watching Jack linger near your workstation for the third time that hour.

"Either Abbot's finally losing it from sleep deprivation," he muttered to Lena, "or those two have history."

Lena snorted, "Oh, they've got something. Did you see how she flinched when he 'accidentally' brushed her shoulder earlier?"

Down the hall, Nazely nearly dropped a suture kit when Jack, usually the king of cutting corners, suddenly straightened a stack of your discharge papers without being asked.

"Since when does Dr. Abbot care about paperwork aesthetics?" Nazely asked Ellis, who smirked.

"Since never. But Y/N? She's made me re-lable an entire speciment cart because my handwriting 'looked like a drunk spider.' Abbot's smart enough to know she'd set his charts on fire if they're messy.

The break room gossip hit critical mass when Jack, infamous for his 'coffee is for the weak' stance, wordlessly slid a fresh cup toward you during a shift change.

Shen nearly choked on his iced coffee. "That's what, the fourth time tonight?"

"Black, two sugars," Mateo noted. "Either he's memorized her order from what was missing in the breakroom, which is creepy. Or he's known this for years."

You yourself moved through the speculation. But when Jack 'coincidentally' appeared beside you during a blood draw for Mr. Wilson (who, at 87 and delightfully seniles, kept calling you 'the nice young couple'), your fingers faltered mid-tourniquet.

The old man beamed. "You fight like me and Grace did back in '62!" Jack's choked laugh sounded suspiciously like a gasp.

Your reply came clipped as you tightened the band. "Mr. Wilson, please hold still."

The crash cart alarm blared, and Jack's body moved before his brain caught up, muscle memory propelling him toward the commotion in Room 4.

He didn't realize you had mirrored him until your shoulders bumped at the doorwar, your hip brushing his as you both reached for the door handle at the same instant.

A stupid, electric jolt shot through him.

Three years ago, you'd done this exact thing. You darting left as he went right, your bodies slotting together like gears in motion. Back then, you laughed, breathless, as you untangled yourselves.

"We're worse than the interns," you teased, your fingers lingering on his wrist for half a second longer than necessary. Tonight, you recoiled like he had burned you.

Inside the room, the patient (a middle-aged man with a dissecting aortic aneurysm) was crashing hard. Jack grabbed the paddles without being asked, his hands steady even as his pulse hammered.

The body jerked, the heart line flatlined. Your voice cut through the chaos. "Epi, now."

Someone slapped the syringe into your waiting palm, and Jack watched as your thumb depress the plunger with precision.

He used to marvel at your hands. How something so delicate could hold such certainty. Once, after a grueling double shift, he'd caught you massaging your fingers in the locker room, wincing.

"They ache," you admitted, when he raised at eyebrow at you. He pulled your hand to his mouth without thinking, pressing a kiss to each knuckle.

"Then stop working so hard," he mumbled against her skin.

You yanked your hand away, cheeks pink. "You're ridiculous."

The heart monitor stuttered back to life, a jagged rhythm that wasn't good but wasn't death. Jack exhaled, rolling his shoulders to loosen the tension. You were already rattling off orders to the team, your voice cool as ice.

"Prep for OR, we need vascular stat. OR'll let me work on him." You didn't look at him, but your posture was rigid, like you were bracing for impact.

Jack remembered that too. How you'd tuck every frayed emotion behind professionalism until you were alone. The first time he'd seen you cry was in a supply closet after a pediatric code, your fists clenched in his scrub top.

"Don't tell anyone," you whispered. He kissed your forehead instead of answering. Now, the distance between you felt like a physical thing.

Later, in the break room, Jack found you staring into your coffee like it held answers. He leaned in against the counter beside you. Close enough to smell your shampoo. You changed it.

"You were good in there," he said.

Your grip tightened around the mug. "I have to." A pause. "You were good too, you know."

It was the closest they'd come to civility all night. Jack swallowed a bitter laugh. You used to debrief like this after ever code. You dissecting every decision, him pretending to listen while really just watching the way your lips moved.

And every time you caught him staring, you asked, "What?"

"Nothing. You're cute when you're bossy."

Down the hall, a phone rang, shrill in the quiet. You set your coffee down.

"I should--" you gestured vaguely toward the door. Jack nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets so he wouldn't reach for you.

You hesitated, just for a second, and he could almost hear the unspoken words between you. The thousand little things you'd promised each other in dark hospital corridors.

Then, you were gone, footsteps fading down the hall. Jack stared at the abandoned mug, the lipstick smudge on the rim like a wound.

He found you inside a supply closet moments later, the door creaking open and a sound you knew by heart, one that used to make your pulse spike for entirely different reasons.

Now, you didn't turn around. You didn't need to. The scent of antiseptic and stale coffee gave him away before his voice did.

"You're avoiding me," Jack said.

You were suddenly counting bandages. "I'm working. Unlike some people who treat this place like a social club."

The words came out sharper than you intended, but you didn't soften them. Three years ago, you would've. Three years ago, you'd have bumped his hips with yours and said, "You're blocking the good bandaids, Abbot."

Jack exhaled through his nose, a sound you recognized as his I'm trying not to take the bait" exhale.

"Right, I forgot," he said, leaning against the shelf. The metal groaned under his weight. "Because Y/N L/N has never taken a five-minute break in her life."

He reached past you for a box of gloves, his arms brushing your sleeve. You didn't flinch this time. Progress.

You snapped the supply cabinet shut with more force than necessary. "What do you want, Jack?"

Silence. Then, so quiet you almost missed it, "You never called."

Your fingers froze on the shelf handle. The words hung between you like a scalpel balanced on the edge of a tray.

You could lie. You could say you lost his number when you switched phones, or that you've been so busy settling into your new position. But Jack knew your tells better than anyone.

He'd spot the lie in the way your thumb rubbed against your index finger, a nervous habit you've never managed to break.

Instead, you turned slowly, leaning back against the supply shelves as if they could steady you. The closet was too small for this, too small for the way his presence seemed to expand, filling the space until you could barely breathe.

"You never called either, just a stupid drunk miscall," you said, voice softer than you intended. It wasn't an accusation, it was a fact.

Jack's jaw tightened. He looked older in the dim light, the shadows under his eyes more pronounced. Three years had carved new lines around his mouth, etched by sleepness nights and too many codes that ended with flatlines.

"I didn't think you'd answer," he admitted, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. The gesture was so familiar it ached. He'd done that the first time he asked you out too. The memory lodged in your throat like a pill you couldn't swallow.

You crossed your arms, fingers digging into your sleeves. "We could've kept in touch," thought the words tasted hollow even to you.

You both knew why you hadn't. The breakup had been messy, a slow unravelling of missed calls and half-finished arguments, until one day you both simply stopped trying.

Outisde, the PA system crackled to life, calling you to Trauma three. The interruption was a relief. You straightened, smoothing your scrubs, "I have to go."

Jack caught your wrist before you could slip past him. Not hard, just enough to pause you. His fingers were warm against your skin, calloused from years of gripping scalpels and threading IVs.

"Y/N," he started, then stopped, his throat working like the words were stuck there. You hated how he called your name, hated more that your pulse jumped when he did.

"They need me there," you said, voice low.

Jack's thumb brushed the inside of your wrist. Just once, a ghost of a touch. "You're right."

He said, releasing you. "We're not doing this here."

You almost asked what this was. Almost. Instead, you stepped back, the space between you suddenly too wide and too small all at once. "There's nothing to do, Jack."

The PA crackled again, more urgent this time. Jack shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels. "Go save lives, Y/N."

The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. "I'll be here when you're done."

The trauma room shut behind you, sealing you into the sterile, bright chaos of the room. Your fingers flexed once inside your gloves, but the ghost of Jack's touch lingered on your wrist like a phantom pulse.

Damn him.

Across the table, Shen raised an eyebrow. "You alright, Y/N? You look like you've seen a ghost."

You adjusted your mask, the paper crinkling loudly in your ears. "Just tired," you lied, reaching for the scalpel

The metal was cool against your palm, familiar. Focus.

But your mind kept drifiting back to the supply closet, to the way Jack's voice had cracked when he said You never called. Three years of silence, and he still knew exactly where to press to make you bleed.

You had rehearsed this moment a hundred times in your head. What you'd say, how you'd stand. None of it had accounted for the way his shoulders slumped when he admitted I didn't think you'd answer.

"Clamp," you ordered, voice sharper than intended. Nazely fumbled, nearly dropping the instrument. You bit back a sigh. God, I sound like him.

Jack had always been impatient with newbies in his early days. Either learn fast or get out, he'd always growl, while you prided youself on your patients.

And now here you were, snapping at interns like a sleep-deprived resident.

The aneurysm repair bled like a son of a bitch. Your gloves were slick with it. Shen swore under his breath as the suction gurgled. "Where is it coming from?"

You didn't answer. Your mind flickered to a different trauma three years ago. Jack, still in his blood-streaked scrubs, leaning against the sink with that infuriating half-smile.

"Relax, Y/N. It's just a job."

The memory hit like a mallet to the sternum. You'd thrown something at his head, you don't remember what it was.

"Just a job? That kid coded because you skipped the pre-op labs!"

You remember the way his smile had vanished.

"I checked his chart. His numbers were fine."

"You of all people know that you can't just trust numbers, Jack. That's why we look at the patient!"

You remember the way the fight had unspooled from there. His cutting corners, your relentless protocols, until he'd slammed his palms against the locker.

"Christ, you're exhausting."

You never forget the way you walked out without looking back.

"Y/N, focus," Shen's voice yanked you to the present. The bleeding vessel pulsed obscenely under you fingers. You clamped down hard enough to bruise.

The clock ticked loud. Your sutures were flawless, each stitch identical, unlike Jack's closures that used to make you grit your teeth.

"They hold just fine," he'd argue when you critiqued them.

"Fine isn't good enough, Jack."

The memory made you pull the suture threat tighter than necessary. Shen shot you a look.

The aneurysm repair took three grueling hours. Three hours of blood and sweat and Shen's muttered curses blending with the steady beep of the monitors.

When you finally stepped back, your neck screamed from tension, your fingers stiff as claws inside the gloves. You peeled them off with a snap that echoed in the sudden quiet. The patient would live. Another tally in the win column.

So why did it feel like you lost something?

The hallway was surprisingly empty. No Jack loitering by the window, no half-smirk waiting to greet you. Just the buzz and the distant wail of an ambulance pulling into the bay.

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders. Good. You didn't need his hovering, didn't need the way his presence seemed to rewrite the gravity in the room.

You rounded the corner toward the nurses' station and froze. Your coffee cup sat centered on the counter, steam curling from the rim. Black. Two sugars.

The lipstick smudge from earlier was gone, rinsed clean. A post-it stuck to the side in handwriting you'd recognize anywhere.

You're out of practice if Shen had to remind you to focus. - J

You crumpled the note without reading it again. The audacity. The nerve. To watch you through the window like some supervising attending, to critique your technique as if he hadn't spent years cutting every corner imaginable.

You snatched the coffee and took a scalding sip. It was perfect.

The cup was halfway to your lips again when a commotion erupted at the doors. Gurney wheels shrieked against the tiles, voices overlapped in urgent bursts.

You set the coffee down too hard, liquid sloshing over the rim. Instinct propelled you toward the chaos before your brain caught up.

The gurney barreled through the doors like a ship. Jack appeared at the end of the bed, his forearm braced against the rail as he barked orders. You caught a glimpse of his hair streaked with blood before the team surged past you.

You shouldn't follow. You had to hand off post-op reports, debrief with Shen, clock out before your hands started shaking from the caffeine crash. But your feet moved anyway.

Inside Trauma 1, it was a mess. Jack had his good leg on the mattress, pinning the patient's thrashing legs with his knee while Ellis strugged to secure an IV.

"40 of propofol," he snapped, his palm cradling the man's forehead to keep it from slamming back against the rail. You recongnized what he was doing, the way his fingers spread to distribute pressure, the thumb hooked just so to avoid obstructing the airway.

Your technique. He'd stolen it years ago during a particularly ugly overdose, mimicking your movements with a smirk. "What? It works."

The patient seized, his back arching off the bed. Jack didn't flinch.

"Get me-" He glanced up, spotting you in the doorway mid-sentence. "Dr. L/N. Nice of you to join us."

The dig had Jack labled on it that you almost smiled. Almost. Instead, you stepped forward, gloving up with a snap. "What's the story?"

Jack's grin was all teeth, the kind that used to make your pulse stutter. "GSW to the lower left quadrant," he said, shifting to make room for you at the bedside without being asked. "Lost consciousness en route. BP's tanking."

You moved in, fingers already probing the wound. The bullet had entered clean but the exit was a ragged mess, tissue blooming purple around the edges.

"Liver's involved," you murmured, more to yourself than anyone. The patient, so young, twitched under your touch, his breath coming in wet, shallow gasps.

Jack reached across the gurney, his forearm brushing yours as he adjust the oxygen mask.

"Transfusing now," he said, nodding to Ellis hanging the second unit of blood. "But he's bleeding out faster than we can replace."

You didn't look up. "OR. Now."

Everyone sprang into motion, but Jack lingered half a second too long, his hip pressing in tyours as he reached for the crash cart.

The OR doors swung shut behind them, sealing you into the familiar chaos. Jack lingered, one hand braced against the doorframe like he was debating whether to follow.

You didn't turn to check. Didn't need to. The weight of his stare prickled between your shoulder blades, an itch you couldn't scratch.

"Scrubs are in the locker," you said, snapping your gloves tighter than necessary. The patient, He couldn't be older than twenty, was already prepped, his abdomen covered in betadine and blood.

Jack exhaled through his nose, "You got this, Y/N."

The first cut was deliberate, careful not to bruise what lay beneath. Blood welled instantly, a slow ooze that suction couldn't keep up with.

The scent of cauterized flesh curled into your nostrils as you worked, something like burnt sugar and iron, a combination that used to make Jack gag during your first year of residency.

"Smells like a barbecue gone wrong," he muttered once, pressing his forehead to your shoulder after a twelve-hour shift.

You laughed then, fingers sticky with saline as you peeled off your gloves. You let him stay there, his breath warm through your scrubs, until the charge nurse cleared her throat pointedly.

Now, Jack's voice cut through from the window above. "Liver's looking rough."

You didn't glance up, but your fingers tightened around the forceps.

The post-op debrief bled into the night. You scrubbed at your hands until they burned, the soap foaming pink down the drain. The locker room was empty, but you could feel the weight of Jack's presence before you heard the creak of the door.

The door clicked shut behind Jack. You didn't turn around. You knew the exact cadence of his footsteps. The slight drag of his right leg from when he lost his leg.

His reflection materialized in the locker room mirror over your shoulder, hovering just outside your personal space.

"You missed the bleeder," he said, leaning against the sinks. His scrubs were crumpled, the collar stretched where he'd clearly yanked at it. Some habits never died.

"I didn't miss it. I prioritized the hepatic tear."

Jack's smirk was a familiar sight. "Prioritized. That's one word for it."

The lights buzzed like an angry hive. You focused on the soap dispenser, anything to avoid acknowledging the way his arms crossed over his chest in the mirror, the way his sleeve rode up to reveal his forearms.

"You gonna say something," he said, not a question, "or are we just gonna keep pretending this isn't weird as hell?"

You shut off the water. "What's there to say? You commented on my surgery, I saved the kid's liver. Business as usual."

You reached for a fresh towel, but Jack's hand shot out, snagging the stack first. Your fingers didn't touch. He'd always been good at that, getting to close without crossing the line.

He held out the towel like a peace offering. "Business as usual," he echoed, his voice softer now. "That what we are now?"

You could lie. You could say yes and walk out and let this thing between the, turn into something manageable, something that didn't keep you up at night replaying every stupid moment.

Instead, you met his gaze in the mirror, really met it.

"No."

The lights flickered again. Jack exhaled through his nose.

"No," he repeated, softer now, like he was testing how it sounded. His fingers twitched toward your shoulder, then retreated. "Guess that's something."

You watched his reflection in the mirror. The way his throat worked when he swallowed, the shadow of stubble along his jaw that you knew would feel rough under your fingertips.

You gripped the sink edge until your knuckles whitened. "We should--" you gestured vaguely toward the door. "Shift change."

Jack's mouth quirked. "Of course. You wouldn't dare to miss a hand-off." He pushed off the counter, his shoulder brushing yours as he reached past her to toss the towel.

"Coffee," he said suddenly, stepping back. "Tomorrow. Seven AM. The place with the terrible croissants."

Your pulse stuttered. You knew the place--a dingy corner cafe two blocks from the old hospital you and Jack worked at, where you'd spent half your residency trading case notes over burnt coffee.

Where he'd first kissed you, mid-sentence, because 'you were talking to much baby, and I got distracted.' Your nails bit into your palms. "Jack."

You stared at him. Really stared at him for the first time since you'd walked out of your shared apartment three years ago with a duffel bag and a silence so heavy.

"Coffee," you repeated. Not a question. Not quite a refusal.

Jack shrugged, the motion careful, like he was afraid any sudden movement might scare you.

"Or don't," he said turning toward the door. His fingers tapped once against the locker, a nervous tell you remembered too well. "I'll be there either way."

The door swung shut behind him with a quiet click, leaving you alone with the hum of the lights and the echo of his words.

I'll be there either way.

You didn't realize you made a decision until your feet carried you out of the locker room, down the hall, past the nurses' station where Dana was pretending not to watch.

The doors hit open just as Jack hit the parking lot, his silhouette backlit by the street lamps. Your voice cut through the distance before you could stop it.

"You still take it black?"

Jack froze mid-step, his shoulders tensing beneath the thin fabric of his scrubs before he turned. Slow and deliberte, like he wasn't sure if he heard you right.

The sunlight cast his face in sharp relief, highlighting the way his brows lifted slightly, the way his mouth parted just enough to betray his surprise.

"Never changed," he said finally, voice rough with something that wasn't quite laughter. "You know I'd never change that."

Your fingers curled into your palms. You did know. Knew it the way you knew the weight of a 10 blade in your hand, the way you could time a suture pull without looking. Knew it like muscle memory, like the ghost of his fingers between yours, sticky with gel from the ultrasound machine.

The memory came. Jack grinning, smearing the gel across your cheekbone just to hear you yelp. 'You're such a child,' you groaned, swatting at him.

He caught your wrist, his thumb pressing into your pulse point. 'Yeah, but you like it.' You did. You liked it so much.

The distance between you now felt both infinite and paper-thin. You exhaled, watching your breath fog in the cold air.

"Seven AM," you said. "Don't be late."

The cafe smelled exactly as you remembered. Burnt espresso beans and the faint, greasy sweetness of croissants left too long under a heat lamp.

You hesitated in the doorway, fingers tightening around your bag strap. This is so stupid. You should just leave.

Across the room, Jack sat at your old table by the window, two steaming cups already waiting. He hadn't seen you yet, his head was turned toward the window while his fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the table.

A bell jingled as you stepped inside. Jack's head snapped up, his gaze locking onto yours. For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then pushed the second cup toward the empty chair.

Black, two sugars, the ceramic clinking softly against the table. And you felt something in your chest twist.

You slid into the seat with speaking, the leather booth creaking under your weight. The silence between you was thick, interrupted only by the hiss of the espresso machine and the low murmur of other customers.

Jack cleared his throat. "You came."

You wrapped your hands around the cup, letting the heat seep into your skin. "I said I would."

The coffee was perfect. Bitter enough to make you wince, sweet enough to keep you sipping. Just like Jack remembered. He watched your fingers tighten around the cup.

"You're staring," you said without look up.

"Just making sure you don't dump it on me again," he said, leaning back. The memory hung between you, a fight three years ago, you tossing a full cup at his chest, him laughing through the slight sting.

"That shirt was beyond saving, by the way."

Your mouth twitched. "It was hideous."

You traced the chipped rim of your coffee cup with your thumb, before lifting your gaze to meet Jack's. The morning light slanted through the window, catching the glow of his irises.

"You kept your lucky scrubs," you said.

Jack's grin was slow, familiar. "'Course I did. Burned the rest. Some things stick."

The bell above the door jingled as a group of interns flooded in, their laughter too loud for the hour. You watched them jostle for counter space, their scrubs crisp and unmarked.

You wondered if they'd last. If any of them would still be here after a good five years. Jack nudged your foot under the table, just enough to make you look up. "You never answered my question."

The steam from your coffee curled between you like a question mark. You didn't pull your foot away from Jack's under the table.

"What question?" you ask, even though you knew. The way you knew the weight of his palm on your waist at 5 PM, the exact pitch of his groan when you'd wake him for his shift.

Jack rotated his cap. "Why now?" His voice was rough. "It's been three years. And you walk back in like--" He cut himself off, jaw working.

You studied the dregs of your coffee. The truth sat heavy behind your teeth. Because I missed your stupid face. Because ever since I started working here you were the only one who ever made these shifts bearable. Because I still dream about the way you laughed when I beat you at beer pong that one time.

None of it made it past your lips. Instead, you shrugged. "Better pay."

Jack snorted, knocking his knee against yours. "Liar."

The ambulance siren faded into the hum of the cafe's faulty refrigerator, leaving an ache in your chest like a bruise. Jack's knee pressed against yours under the table. Warm, solid, a touch so familiar it made your throat tighten.

"Better pay," he repeated, rolling his eyes.

"They offered better than my last job," she admitted. A half-truth. The PTMC's pitch offered the attending position, a direct line to the chief of surgery.

None of which explained why she'd taken the graveyard shift in the same hospital Jack worked at.

Jack leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Double pay," he echoed. "That why you're here at seven AM after a night shift? To talk shop?"

"Not just shop," you said. Your thumb rubbed at a scratch on the table's edge.

Jack leaned back, the seat squeaking. The morning light caught the silver in his stubble, the new lines at the corners of his eyes. Time had touched them both, but his smile. That damn smile. Was still a reckless, lopsided thing.

"So talk."

"You first."

The espresso machine hissed. You watched Jack's fingers drum against his cup. Three quick taps, a pause, two slower ones. A rhythm she'd once deciphered as morse code for I'm sorry during your first year of residency, back when apologies still caught in his throat.

"You first," you repeated, softer this time.

Jack exhaled through his nose. "Fine. I kept your plant."

Your thumb stalled mid-scratch against the table. The spider plant, the one you rescued from his best friend Robby's house after it had been abandoned there for weeks.

You named it Shawn as a joke, but Jack had watered it religiously, even whispering encouragement to its limp leaves when he thought you weren't listening.

"It's dead by now," you said, too quickly.

"Thriving, actually. Took a clipping to the new place. It's got three pups."

Your coffee cup froze halfway to your lips. Shawn had pups. The absurdity of it, that Jack had not only kept the damn plant but nurtured it, propagated it, let its roots tangle into his new life.

"You're joking."

Jack's grin was all teeth, the kind that used to make your breath hitch.

"Come see for yourself." He tossed a key onto the table between you. A single brass key, slightly tarnished, dangling from a keychain shaped like a tiny scalpel.

The one you'd given him during your first years, back when "your place or mine" meant bunk beds in the on-call room.

You stared at it. They key gleamed under the harsh lighting. You could picture his apartment now. The mismatched mugs in his cupboard, the half-empty coffee pot, that stupid plant hanging in his kitchen window where it would catch the after light--just like you taught him.

Your fingers twitched toward the key before you curled them into your palm. "We're not doing this."

"Doing what, Y/N? Have coffee? Talk about plants?" His voice dropped, "Or are you afraid if you step through the door, you'll remember how good we were at the things that weren't work?"

Your pulse pounded in your temples. You could walk away right now. You should walk away right now. Three years of silence, of carefully constructed distance, of pretending you didn't still dream about the way his stubble scraped your sensitive tighs.

And it was all undone by a fucking spider plant.

The key glinted between you. A decade ago, you would've snatched it without hesitation. Five years ago, you would've rolled your eyes and pocketed it with a smirk.

Now, your hand remained in the charged air between you, trembling faintly.

Jack watched you, his gaze the minute twitch of your fingers. "It's just a plant, Y/N," he said, but the rasp in his voice betrayed him.

You both knew it was never just about the damn plant.

You exhaled sharply through your nose and finally, finally closed the distance. Your fingertips brushed the key, warm from his pocket, heaver than brass had any right to be. And in that instat, three years collapsed like a purely stitched wound.

"Not today," you said, pushing the key back toward him with one finger.

Jack's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. Instead, he reached into his scrubs pocket and opened a folded post-it, the edges softened from repeated handling.

He smoothed it carefully on the table, revealing you own handwriting from years ago.

Shawn's water schedule: DO NOT OVERWATER, ASSHOLE.

Beneath it, there was Jack's messy handwriting.

Still alive. Still miss you.

The post-it trembled slightly under your gaze, the edges frayed from time and the unconscious habit of fingers at paper. Still alive. Still miss you.

Jack's fingers twitched toward the note before curling into his palm. "Found it in my pocket the other day," he said. "Lucky scrubs." A half-truth.

You both knew he kept it, the same way you kept the habit of turning your pager to vibrate because he once joked it sounded like an angry cicada.

You traced the crease in the paper with your thumb before sliding it back across the table.

"Shawn never liked tap water," you said instead of I missed you too.

Jack's laugh was a quiet punch of air. "I know. Used filtered, just like you--" He caught himself, jaw tightening around the words taught me.

The bell jingled again, a group of med students this time. Their chatter too loud, too bright for the fragile thing balanced between you and Jack.

You straightened, posture snapping back into place as if summoned by the interruption. You pushed your coffee away, the mug scraping against the table.

Jack watched you retreat behind professionalism with the same practiced ease, a flicker of something unreadable behind his eyes before he masked with infuriating soft smile.

"Guess that's my cue," he said, palming the key and the post-it in one motion. His fingers lingered on the table for a heartbeat too long, leaving behind the warmth where his skin had pressed against the table.

You stood abruptly, your chair screeching against the tile. The medical students paused mid-laugh, sensing the air, before quickly redirecting their attention to the menu board.

You couldn't meet Jack's gaze, not when your pulse was hammering a traitorous rhythm against your ribs, not when the memory of his mouth on yours felt closer than the steam rising from your abandoned cups.

"You still owe me a shirt," Jack murmured, rising to his feet with deliberate slowness. His scrubs wrinkled at the knees where he'd been bouncing them under the table.

The morning light caught the silver in his stubble, the new lines at the corners of his mouth. Time had carved its marks, but the way he was looking at you, that hadn't changed.

Your fingers twitched at your sides. You'd have flicked his earlobe for that comment back then, touch lingering just long enough to make him shiver.

Instead, you tucked your hands into your pockets. "It was ugly," you said, voice steadier than you felt.

The parking lot was slick with rain when you pushed through the doors, the key to Jack's apartment burning a hole in your pocket.

You hadn't taken it, not really. But when you stood to leave the cafe, it somehow migrated from his side of the table to yours, nestled against your phone like it belonged there.

Jack pretended not to noitce, his smirk hidden behind his cup as he left cash on the table.

You paused under the awning, watching the rain. Three years ago, Jack would've followed you out, would've crowded under this same awning with his shoulder brushing yours, would've said something stupid like "It's just water, Y/N." before dragging you into the storm.

The space beside you remained empty, the only sound the drum of rain and the distant wails of an ambulance.

Your fingers closed around the key. You could still toss it into the storm drain ten paces to your left. Could still walk away clean. Instead, you turned it over your palm, the brass warming against your skin.

You stopped walking once you reached the ED's entrance. You exhaled, your breath fogging the damp air. You didn't turn when the door swung open behind you, didn't react when Jack's footsteps paused at your shoulder.

"You forget something?" His voice was light, but you heard the tension beneath it.

Your fingers tightened around the key until its teeth bit into your palm. The rain intensified, sliding down the awning's edge in a silver curtain that blurred the hospital's neon sign.

"You always were terrible at subtlety," you said, voice barely audible over the downpour.

Jack stepped closer, close enough the you could smell him. "Well, my subtlety never worked on everyone, just not you." His shoulder brushed yours.

The key was warm now, pulsing against your skin like a second heartbeat. You turned it over once more before pressing it back into Jack's hand.

His fingers closed around yours instinctively, calluses catching against your knuckles. You mapped those ridges with your lips in the call room after a thirty-six-hour shift. You hate yourself for still remembering that.

"Not like this," you said, pulling away. The rain swallowed your words, but Jack's flinch was unmistakable.

He recovered fast. Always did. Shoving the key back into his pocket with a shrug that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yeah, you always have rules to follow."

The jab landed softer than he'd intended, diluted by the way his gaze dropped to your lips.

You inhaled sharply before turning fully toward Jack. The downpour plaster his scrubs to his shoulders, turning the fabric dark.

"Rules exist for a reason, Jack," you said, louder now, as if volume could drown out the memory of his hands sliding up your spine in the on-call room. You never gave a shit about rules.

Jack wiped rainwater from his brow with the back of his wrist. "Funny," he said, "You never used to mind breaking rules when--"

"When it mattered," you finished for him. The words hung between you, weighted with every stolen moment in supply closets, every faked signature on logs to cover for each other's exhaustion, every time you risked your licenses (and more) without hesitation.

A code blue blared from the hospital's PA, heard from outside. Jack's phone buzzed against his hip, yours vibrated in your pocket. Neither moved. Your phone vibrated again. Insistent, urgent.

Your fingers curled around Jack's wrist, where you caught him reaching for you. His pulse hammered against your thumb, a rhythm you could time without counting.

Jack exhaled sharply, "Y/N--"

"Don't." You tightened your grip, nails leaving crescents in his skin. The hospital's neon sign flickered overhead, painting his face in bursts of red.

Sirens wailed. Another ambulance, another trauma, another life at risk. Your voice cracked. "Just-- don't."

Jack went still beneath your touch. The key dug into your palm where your hands were tangled, its teeth drawing blood. Three years. A thousand cases. A million moments where you turned expecting to find him scrubbed in beside you, only to face an unfamiliar resident's nervous smile.

The ER doors burst open behind you--Langdon, breathless, scrubs soaked through. "Abbot! Gunshot wound, liver lac, they need you--"

The man's gaze flickered between you, registering your clasped hands. He hesitated. "Oh, I can tell them you're busy."

Your grip on Jack's wrist tightened. Langdon's voice faded into the rain as the world narrowed to the pulse thundering beneath your fingertips. The key's teeth bit deeper into your palm.

You let go first.

"Tell them we're coming," Jack said, not looking at Langdon, noit looking at you, only at the blood welling in the marks your nails had left on his skin.

The doors hissed shut behind you, the sound drowning out Langdon's hurried footsteps and the distant wail of another ambulance. You didn't look back. You couldn't look back.

The case ended an hour later. Your palm stung where the key had bitten in. A physical ache to match the one throbbing in your chest.

The locker room was empty when you pushed inside. Your fingers hesitated over your locker combination 12-29-75, Jack's birthday.

The door screeched open, revealing the set of clothes you kept inside. Beneath them, tucked into the corner like a secret, was a faded note in Jack's handwriting.

Don't forget lunch. - J. Three years old, edges curled with time, the ink smudged.

You slammed the locker shut, the sound echoing off the tile. You turned toward the door just as it swung open, revealing Jack silhouetted against the lights, scrubs rumpled, his hair still damp from the rain.

Jack didn't speak. Just stepped inside and let the locker room door swing shut behind him with a click that sounded too loud in the silence.

"You missed a bleeder back there," he said. His gaze dropped to the towel pressed against your palm, the blood seeping through the fabric. "That's a first."

You tossed the towel into the bin harder than necessary. "Langdon handed me the wrong clamp." The lie tasted bitter.

Jack's eyebrow arched, but he didn't call you out. Just leaned against the lockers, arms crossed, watching her with the stare that said 'I know you're full of shit' without words.

You yanked opened your locker again, grabbing your bag with more force than needed. "If you're here to rub it in my face--"

"Your place or mine?" Jack interrupted.

"You're joking."

Jack pushed off the lockers, close enough now that you could see his eyes properly. "Dead serious. You owe me a shirt, remember?"

The storm had worsened by the time you reached Jack's apartment building, rain slashing as you followed him into the elevator. Why the fuck did you say yes?

His key turned stiffly in the lock, the door groaning open to reveal a living room lit only by streetlights filtering through the rain-streaked windows.

"You actually kept Shawn."

Jack tossed his keys on the counter with a clatter. "Told you I did." He didn't look at you as he moved through the dimness, flipping switches.

Light pooled around Shawn hanging near the window. Three smaller pots sat beneath it, each with a thriving pup.

The apartment door slammed shut behind you with a force that made Shawn's leaves tremble. You barely registered it, your pulse roared louder than the storm outside.

Jack stalked past your toward the kitchen. "You want something to drink?"

Your fingers curled into fists. "Stop." The word cracked like a bone set wrong.

Jack froze, shoulders tensing beneath his shirt. When he turned, his face was shadowed by the flickering streelight through the window.

"Stop what, Y/N? Pretending? Because you've been doing that for three goddamn years."

It landed like a punch. Your breath hitched, before you rallied. "You think this is easy for me?" You advanced on him. "Walking back into that hospital? Seeing you approach me like nothing happened?"

Jack's laugh was bitter. "Nothing did happen. That's the fucking problem." He shoved a hand through his hair. "You left. No note, no call."

His voice broke. "You just left."

Rain lashed against the windows. You could taste copper where you've bitten your cheek. "I transferred," you said, but the defense sounded hollow even to your own ears.

"Bullshit. You ran." He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the pulse jumping in his throat. "Just like you're doing now."

"That's not--"

"True?" Jack's laugh was a raw, wounded sound. He swept a hand toward Shawn trembling in its pot. "You left Shawn. You left your goddamn clothes in my closet. You left--"

His voice cracked on the last word, barely audible. "Me."

The words hung between you. Your breath came too fast, your pulse thundering in your wrists where his fingers had once traced your veins like roadmaps.

"You think I wanted to?" The words tore from your throat, ragged and unrecognizable. "Every damn case, every patient--I kept turning expecting to see you there. But you weren't there."

Jack went very still. "Because you left. You left after--"

The storm outside rattled the windows as your fingers dug into the edge of Jack's kitchen counter. "Because you told me to."

Jack's breath left him in a rush, like you'd just punched him square in the stomach. "That's not--"

Now it was your turn to laugh. "Not what? True?" You stepped closer, close enough to see the exact moment his pupils dilated, the way they always did when you called his bluff.

"You said it plain as day, Jack. Maybe we're bad for each other. Your exact words."

Jack's breath hitched audibly, his knuckles whitening around the counter's edge. The storm outside intensified, wind howling against the window.

"And you believed me?" His voice scraped raw. "After everything. After that night. You thought I actually mean it?"

"You said it," you repeated, voice cracking under the weight of three years worth of unsaid sentences.

Jack's hands came up as if to grab your shoulders, then stopped, hovered there between them like he wasn't sure whether to shake you or pull you in his arms.

His fingers twitched once before dropping back to his sides. "I said that after," he ground out. "After you told me--"

Your breath caught in your throat like a fishhook. Three years ago, you stood in this same apartment, Shawn trembling above the counter, and told Jack that you couldn't do it anymore.

Couldn't watch him flinch every time you came closer to him, couldn't pretend you didn't see the way his hands shook after trauma calls.

"We're killing each other," you said.

Jack had laughed back then and tossed your words back at you like a grenade. "Maybe we're bad for each other."

And the worst part? He said it while stitching the gash in your forearm you got from a violent patient and the stitches broke, his fingers steady as always even as his voice cracked.

You've both been interrupted multiple times that night. Two pages for code blue, one for a GSW to the chest, and by the time you stumbled back to his apartment by morning, the fight had curdled into something too exhausted to finish.

"You meant it," you said, quieter now. The storm outside had muted into low growls, the occasional flicker of lightning painting Jack's face.

"You said it right after I told you I kept seeing your face in every dying patient. That I couldn't--" Your voice broke. "Couldn't tell if you were alive or dead when my pager went off because you were deployed."

Jack's hand flexed at his sides, the way they always did when he was fighting the urge to reach for you.

"I was trying to give you and out," he admitted, voice rough. "You looked at me like I was already gone."

You remembered the exact moment you realized you loved him. Not some slow dawning, but a sucker punch to the gut when he glanced up from a bleeding vessel and winked at you over his mask.

"You were always better at walking away," Jack said, dragging you back to the present. "Three years, Y/N. Not a single word."

Your palm throbbed. You pressed it harder against the counter's edge. "Would you have answered if I called?"

"No," he lied.

"Liar."

"You really think I wouldn't have picked up?" His voice was quieter now, stripped of its usual bravado.

"I think you would've let it ring out." You flicked a glance upward. "Just like when you called me drunk."

Jack's throat worked. He didn't even remember he did that until you mentioned it now. He called exactly once. And he was drunk. Hung up before the voicemail. And you knew because you were drunk too, staring at his contact photo until the screen went black.

Your pulse hammered against your ribs. You remembered the last fight. The fight. How you were mid-sentence when both your pagers blared simultaneously. A multi-car pileup on the interstate.

You both ran to the ER still screaming at each other, scrubbed in back-to-back without speaking, saved seven lives between them, then collapsed in the locker room too exhausted to finish the argument.

"We were never good at quitting," you said, watching his thumb catch on Shawn's leaf.

"No," he agreed. "Just good at leaving."

Your nails bit fresh wounds into your palms. Three years ago, you'd have thrown the nearest object--a scalpel, a suture kit, even Shawn-- but now you just stood there.

"You told me to go."

"And you listened? Since when?"

"You gave me an out," you said. "And I took it."

Jack's scoff was sharp. "Bullshit, Y/N. You ran. Just like you're running now."

"You think I wanted to leave, Jack?"

"I think you're still running," he said quietly. "Just like you did when things were going so well. We were a team."

You recoiled. We. Team. That was the single thread still tying you to him without crossing the line. Jack's cases always bled into yours; his notes lingered in the charts you reviewed; his mug appeared in the sink.

"What does that even mean?"

He leaned against the counter, closer now. "Tell me why you transferred to New York."

"You checked my transfer record." Your voice sounded foreign to your own ears.

"Took me eight months to find you." His gaze flicked up. "Then you were back for exactly seventeen days before leaving again."

You ran from him twice. First to another city, then coming back to the place where your paths would cross, then went away again. You exhaled sharply through your nose. "Why does it matter?"

Jack's fingers stilled on the counter.

"Because you came back."

thank you for reaching until the end! i'd love to know what you thought about this story anddddd if you'd like to see more ;)

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