Summary: The night shift introduces a system that runs on precision, instinct, and unspoken understanding. As the team moves through the controlled chaos of the ER, you establish your place within it—someone who keeps things steady when it matters.
Warnings / Content Notes:
workplace tension
medical setting / ER chaos
slow burn setup
mild language
unresolved attraction
Recommended Listening:
Reader's Song: Cough Syrup – Young the Giant
Jack's Song: Smooth – Santana ft. Rob Thomas
Chapter 1: Baseline
Night shift starts loud. Not dramatically loud. Not cinematically loud. Real loud—the kind that gets under your skin before you’ve even signed in, settles behind your eyes and stays there. Phones are ringing before anyone has fully settled in. Monitors chirping in uneven rhythm. Wheels rattling over tile. The printer at the central station is coughing out labels like it resents being alive. Someone in triage is asking for a blanket while already wearing one. Someone else is asking whether he can smoke if he does it “near, but not technically inside” the ambulance bay. The board is half full before sign-in. And somehow, morale is still offensively high. Because nights are built differently—half feral, half functional, and loyal enough to make up for both.
You’re halfway through your second year.
Long enough that you don’t think about it anymore.
You just move.
The best shift in the hospital, according to everyone currently working it and several people who should probably know better. You stand at the nurses’ station, loading your scrub pockets with the things people always seem to need from you. Penlight. Trauma shears. A couple of hemostats. Extra pens. Hair tie. Granola bar. Three kinds of chargers. You check each pocket automatically, fingers moving with the efficiency of ritual. It is less preparation than compulsion at this point. A habit built from too many shifts where someone needs something, and you can hand it over before they finish asking. Useful first. Everything else later. Maybe always.
Across the desk, Lena watches with narrowed eyes and a clipboard tucked against her chest.
“One day,” she says, “I’m going to unzip those pockets and find an entire urgent care clinic.”
You tuck in one last pen. “Only if you get a warrant.”
She snorts once, which, from Lena, counts as open affection.
The ambulance bay doors hiss open. Shen walks in, carrying a cardboard drink tray like a man transporting contraband.
“I bring offerings,” he says, expression flat.
A cheer goes up anyway.
Crus reaches first. “That’s my attending.”
“You’re not my resident,” Shen replies, handing him a coffee.
“Close enough.”
At the computer bank, Ellis keeps typing. “Can someone emotionally intubate room six for me?”
You laugh. It escapes more easily here than it does anywhere else. Shen stops in front of you and offers the last drink. Iced shaken espresso. Brown sugar. Oatmilk. Perfect.
Cold through the cup. Condensation gathering against your fingers. “You remembered.”
He glances at you. “I remember everything. It’s exhausting.”
“That’s why you’re my favorite,” you say, already taking the cup.
“Ouch. Hostile workplace,” Crus mutters, shooting a hurt look at you, already halfway into his own coffee.
“Document it,” Ellis says.
Lena claps once. The sound cracks cleanly across the station.
“Where is Abbot?” As if summoned by administrative irritation, Jack Abbot steps through the bay doors—dark jacket over scrubs, badge clipped straight, calm stride. The kind of presence that makes a room unconsciously recalibrate around it before he says a word. He isn’t loud about authority. Never has to be. He just arrives, and the department seems to remember its spine.
He takes in the drink tray. “Shen brought coffee?”
“Try to keep up, old man,” Crus says.
Abbot ignores him completely. He lifts one hand. “Alright, night crew.”
Everyone closes in automatically around the station like a football huddle. You shoulder in between Shen and Ellis, coffee in hand, already smiling.
“We are the night crawlers. We deal with the weirdest and the wildest because—”
The team answers in one voice. “We are the weirdest and wildest of them all!”
“That’s right, now go get some!”
“HOOHAH!” The shout bounces off tile, glass, and every remaining shred of professional dignity in the room. Then the shift breaks apart in motion. Charts grabbed. Phones answered. Doors opening. Shoes already moving. Family, if family came with trauma shears and caffeine dependency. You didn’t expect to find that in residency. You definitely didn’t expect to need it.
By 8:14 p.m., you have already handed out two chargers, found a missing hearing aid, passed meds to a nurse whose hands were full, and talked a terrified teenager through her first IV. Externally, you are calm. Inside, your thoughts move fast enough to spark.
That has always been the split.
Cool, collected, reassuring on the outside.
Internally, one long ribbon of contingency plans, pattern recognition, and the quiet conviction that if you stop helping for too long, you might disappear.
A call light flashes in room four. Then room eight. Then the triage lights up red. The charge board updates twice in under a minute. Normal.
A woman in her sixties is furious because her husband refuses to admit the chest tightness brought him here and insists it was only “a little pressure.” A college kid in room seven has a laceration over his eyebrow and keeps asking if he is still hot. A toddler with a fever screams every time anyone in scrubs gets within five feet of her.
You move through all of it in pieces. A hand on a shoulder. A blood pressure cuff reset. A blanket tucked higher over an old man’s knees. A joke offered at just the right moment to a scared mother whose hands won’t stop shaking. That part matters to you. Maybe more than it should. Not the joke—the release after. The moment people unclench.
At 9:03 p.m., Mateo jogs over from triage, holding a chart and looking harried. “Room ten says his stomach pain is from a curse.”
“That’s differential-worthy,” Ellis says.
“Did you ask who cursed him?” Crus adds.
“His ex-husband.”
Lena points with her pen. “Y/N, room ten. Shen, triage. Crus, stop being helpful in that tone of voice.”
You take the chart and head for room ten. Abbot falls into step beside you without a word. You notice that too. Not because it’s unusual for him to jump in on an interesting case. Because your body recognizes his presence before your brain finishes processing it. That is inconvenient.
“What do we know?” he asks.
You glance down at the chart. “Forty-eight. Acute abdominal pain. Vitals stable. Says the onset was sudden after dinner.”
“What was dinner?”
You skim. “Hot wings.”
“Of course it was.” He responds.
The corner of your mouth twitches. His eyes catch the reaction. A beat passes.
Then he pushes the curtain aside. Room ten smells like sweat, peppermint gum, and anxiety.
The patient is curled on his side, groaning dramatically while his boyfriend apologizes to everyone in sight. Abbot’s whole demeanor changes at the bedside. Shoulders loose. Voice warm. Questions asked in a tone that people trust immediately.
Show-off.
“Vitals?” he asks.
“Stable,” you say.
You’re already moving.
He’s already where you need him to be.
You don’t have to look.
You never do.
You move to the monitor while he gets the story. “When did it start?” Abbot asks.
“After wings.”
“How many wings?” you ask.
The boyfriend answers quietly. “Thirty.”
You and Abbot look at each other at the same time. “There it is,” you say.
The patient lifts one hand weakly. “I’m dying.”
“No,” you tell him. “But you are committed to the performance.”
His boyfriend laughs into his sleeve.
Abbot takes the clipboard from your hand. His fingers brush yours in the exchange. Brief. Incidental. Still enough that you notice. The contact registers a second later, heat rising after it’s already gone.
He glances at the chart. “Let’s rule out something surgical before we blame poultry. Gallbladder’s still on the table.”
You nearly smile.
Outside the room, he gestures toward the labs.
“Differential.”
You do. Fast, clear, ordered. He asks two follow-ups you should have anticipated. Annoying. Then he nods once. More annoying. It’s always like this with him.
“You two are weird,” Crus mutters, watching the two of you move around the bed.
“Efficient,” Jack corrects.
You don’t correct either of them.
You feel more capable around him and more sharply aware of every place you might fail. Not because he makes you feel small. Because he never does. Because he treats you like someone worth pushing. That’s worse.
By 10:21 p.m., the stomach pain turns out to be less of a curse and more of a gallbladder issue. You arrange imaging, reassure the boyfriend, and get the patient laughing just enough to stop catastrophizing. When you step back into the hallway, Abbot is waiting with another chart in hand. “Bed three’s repeat vitals?” he asks.
“Improved.” You answer, grabbing another chart.
“Room six?”
“Still dramatic.” You grab a pen out of your pocket.
He nods once. “Good.”
That should not feel like praise. It does anyway. The next two hours go by in the rhythm of the night shift. Flu complaints. Laceration repairs. One septic workup. A drunk who swings at security and misses by enough to become funny later. A woman with a migraine who cries when you dim the lights and says no one ever remembers that part. At some point, while you are charting at the central station, a protein bar lands beside your keyboard. You look up.
Crus is already walking away. “You haven’t eaten,” he says.
“I’m fine.” You say.
“That’s not what I said.” He disappears into trauma before you can throw it back.
You stare after him.
Shen glances over his monitor. “Eat it.”
“You all are deeply controlling.”
“We love you,” Ellis says without looking up.
The answer lands lightly. Too lightly for how much it means.
You unwrap the bar.
At 11:48 p.m., a psych hold tries to elope through the ambulance bay.
At 12:06 a.m., Bridget catches a critical potassium before anyone else sees it.
At 12:43 a.m., the board flips red.
Single vehicle rollover. Hypotensive on arrival. Decreasing responsiveness. The room narrows instantly. Gloves snapping on. Monitor cables stripped loose. EMS report coming fast over the movement, half-heard and fully understood. You move to the airway before anyone asks, already reading the jaw, the blood, the way the chest is trying and failing to compensate. Abbot is opposite you at the bedside.
No wasted motion. No hesitation.
“Large bore access.”
“On it.”
“Pressure?”
“Dropping.”
“Prep blood.”
Already done.
It’s not something you think about.
It just… works.
You pass instruments before he asks. He redirects before you need to ask. The rhythm between you is so practiced it almost feels visible. No one comments on it. No one needs to. At one point, you reach across the bed for suction at the same time he reaches for gauze. Your forearms slide briefly against each other. Warm skin. Brief drag of contact. Gone immediately. Neither of you reacts. Your pulse does, a beat late. The patient crashes once and nearly takes the room with him. You catch the airway before it collapses into something harder to recover. Abbot secures the central line. Ellis calls for blood. Shen clears the doorway with one sharp instruction. Lena reroutes a nurse from another bay without even raising her voice.
Nights move like that when it matters. Like one organism. The patient stabilizes after twenty brutal minutes and two rounds of everyone pretending not to hear how hard they’re breathing. When the room exhales, Abbot strips off his gloves and looks at the line you placed. “Nice work.” Simple words. Professional tone.
They still land lower than they should. A second later, he is already asking Bridget for updated vitals on the other room, as if the moment never happened. You strip off your own gloves and force your breathing back into something normal.
Later, while you’re entering orders, Ellis drops into the chair beside you. “You two are getting weird.”
You don’t look up. “That is not actionable feedback.”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“I don’t, actually.”
She studies you for a second. “Sure.” Then she steals your pen and leaves.
At 2:05 a.m., the night crawlers have quietly rerouted three tasks so Abbot doesn’t have to cross the department more than necessary. Not because he asked. Because everyone else noticed the slight hitch in his gait after trauma and adjusted around it without discussion. Mateo grabs supplies. Bridget handles a discharge. Crus volunteers for transport for once in his life. Abbot says nothing. Just keeps moving. You watch the whole exchange with something warm and complicated in your chest. This place is impossible. So are the people in it.
Near three, you’re reaching for a chart on the top rack when someone steps in behind you. Close enough that you feel the heat of him before you turn. A hand reaches past your shoulder and lowers the chart.
Your breath catches before logic arrives. Abbot hands it to you.
“Thanks,” you say.
He nods once. Then his eyes flick briefly to the untouched water bottle on your desk. “You haven’t taken a drink since sign-in.”
You blink. “Were you monitoring my hydration?”
“I was monitoring your bad decisions.” He walks away before you can answer.
You stand there holding a chart you no longer remember needing.
At 3:37 a.m., the emotional case of the night arrives in room fourteen.
Teenage girl. Seventeen. Shortness of breath. Chest tightness. Hands shaking so badly that she can’t get the words out in a straight line. Her mother hovers so close it looks painful, caught between wanting to help and making it worse. When you walk in, the girl’s eyes lock onto your badge, then your face.
“I can’t—” she says, breath catching. “I can’t—”
You know that look. You’ve known it in other people for years—the body panicking before the words can catch up. Panic can look like a lot of things before anyone names it correctly. You lower yourself onto the stool beside the bed so you’re not standing over her.
“Okay,” you say softly. “You don’t have to get all the words out at once. Just look at me for a second.”
Her breathing stutters. Her hands clench harder in the blanket. You keep your voice even. Calm. Deliberately slower than the room outside.
“Can you do one breath with me?”
Her mother starts to speak. You lift one hand gently without taking your eyes off the girl.
“Just a second.”
The mother goes quiet. You breathe in slowly. Out slowly. Again.
The girl tries to follow. Misses. Tries again.
By the third attempt, the worst of the spiral has loosened just enough for the rest of the exam to begin. Abbot steps into the room midway through, reads the situation in one glance, and stays back. No interruption. No takeover. When he finally speaks, his tone is quieter than usual. “Any chest pain?” The girl shakes her head. You do the workup anyway. EKG, labs, history. Rule out the dangerous things first because reassurance is useless if you haven’t earned it. By the time the medical concern narrows back down to panic and exhaustion, the mother is crying more than the girl is.
You stand in the hallway explaining discharge steps and follow-up resources while the mother keeps apologizing for “making a scene.”
“You didn’t,” you tell her. “She was scared. You were scared. That’s allowed.”
The woman’s eyes fill again. “Thank you for not making her feel stupid.” Something in your throat tightens unexpectedly. You nod once. When you turn back toward the room, Abbot is standing by the charting station just outside, watching you. Not the mother. Not the room. You.
“What?” you ask, quieter than you mean to.
He blinks once like you pulled him back from somewhere.
“Nothing.” His voice is level. It still sounds a little rough around the edges.
He looks toward the room, then back at you. “You handled that well.”
There are a dozen ways he could mean it. The problem is that all of them matter.
By 7:15 a.m., the waiting room finally thins. The fluorescent lights feel harsher in the last stretch of the night. Everyone gets quieter. Even Crus.
You’re finishing a note when Shen appears beside you with his jacket on. “You know he likes you.”
You nearly drop your pen. “What?”
Shen takes a sip of melting ice. “Relax. I meant as a doctor. Probably.”
“That was evil.” You jab your elbow into his side.
“I contain multitudes.” He leaves before you can retaliate further.
Across the department, Abbot glances up as if he knows he’s being discussed.
Your eyes meet.
For one second, neither of you looks away. Then a call light goes off. The moment breaks. By sunrise, the board is manageable. You rub the ache out of the back of your neck and gather your things. As you pass the station, you find a fresh lid snapped onto the coffee you forgot was still there. No spill. No note. Just fixed. You stop. Look up automatically. Abbot is at the far desk, discussing handoff to the day shift. He doesn’t glance over. Maybe he didn’t do it. Maybe he did. Maybe that uncertainty is becoming its own kind of problem.
You leave with your bag over one shoulder and too many tiny moments replaying in your head. Nothing happened. That was the problem.
If you don’t though, here is a little chance to learn a little bit more about me.
My spawnpoint if you will, was a little town called Banks, Oregon. The year I was born, the population of my little burg totaled a whopping 563 people!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Banks,_Oregon
My main point is to say that my hometown is not a metropolis by any means, and there will always be a soft spot in my heart for small towns. When it comes to public safety and health, two things that I do in fact care quite a lot about, rural communities like these are some of the most severely under serviced places.
Banks Fire District 13, my hometown’s fire district is up for a grant that would allow them to put 20 additional AED’s into the community(up from the current 1 AED), provide community training on the use of said AED’s, and have their locations logged into the PulsePoint App so that they are able to be quickly located by those in immediate need.
Banks is the only fire district in Oregon to get this far into the grant program and needs to place in the top 40 to qualify. It would be REALLY EFFING NEAT if this could get a little Tumblr love.
Voting on this is NATION WIDE. Not sure about my friends out of the country, but hey, give it a go? Even a reblog would be amazing. The link below allows you up to ten votes a day, and the voting poll runs until 8/23. So if you’ve got a couple seconds and feel like helping me blow this up it would be greatly appreciated. Thank you all, so much!
Summary:
A case that doesn’t quite add up forces a closer read, and the right call comes down to instinct. In the process, someone notices how you work—and it lands more than it should.
Warnings / Content Notes:
medical assessment/diagnostics
head injury (subdural hematoma)
patient distress
mild emotional intensity
Previous Chapter(s): | Chpt. 1 |
Recommended Listening:
Reader's Song: Pocketful of Poetry – Mindy Gledhill
Jack's Song: You Are The Best Thing – Ray LaMontagne
Chapter 2: Triage
The board flips red before you’ve finished clocking in. You feel it before you process it. Not dramatic. Just steady. Relentless. Room three is still pending discharge. Room seven flagged for imaging. Psych hold pacing in triage. Chest pain in nine, waiting too long already.
Normal.
You slide into the chair at the workstation, fingers moving automatically over the keyboard, catching up on notes you already remember better than you should. Across the desk, Ellis is mid-argument with radiology. “I don’t care if it’s ‘in the queue,’ I care that it’s been in the queue for forty minutes.” She pauses, listens. “Then move it.”
She hangs up. Doesn’t look at you. “They love me,” she says flatly.
“Deeply,” you reply.
From the far end of the station, Shen lifts his cup in acknowledgment.
Crus drops into the seat beside you with the energy of someone who has already caused a problem. “Room five tried to leave.”
“And?” you ask, jotting a quick note.
“I got him to stay.”
You glance up. “How?”
“I told him we’d find his vape.”
You chuckle. “That’s not ethical.”
“That’s effective,” he corrects, tipping his head back and briefly closing his eyes
Before you can respond, a chart lands beside your keyboard. Placed. Not dropped. You don’t look up right away. You already know.
“Room twelve.”
You pull the chart toward you. “What are we working with?”
“Seventeen. Assault. Refusing evaluation.”
That makes you pause. Just long enough to feel it. Then you’re already standing.
“Let’s go.”
Room twelve is too quiet. Not empty. Not calm. Just… contained. The kind of quiet that comes from something being held in place by effort. The boy sits on the bed, shoulders pulled in, hoodie still on despite the gown folded beside him. Bruising is already blooming along his cheekbone, a split lip crusted dark at the edge. Seventeen. Eyes sharp. Guarded. Angry.
A man stands near the foot of the bed, arms crossed, posture loose in a way that reads as disinterest more than calm. Dad. You clock it immediately.
You step in first. Lower yourself onto the rolling stool instead of standing. Same level. Same eye line.
“Hey,” you say, easy. “I’m Dr. Y/L/N.”
The boy watches you. Doesn’t answer. That’s fine. You don’t rush it.
Abbot moves in behind you. Not crowding. Not looming.
Just taking a position near the counter, picking up the chart, and giving the room structure without pulling focus.
“You want to tell me what happened,” you try again, “or I can guess, and you can fix it?”
A beat.
“They jumped me.”
Voice flat. Controlled. You nod once.
“Okay.” You don’t ask why. You don’t ask who. Not yet.
“You hit your head?” You ask.
A shrug. “Maybe.”
“Passed out?” You question, not pushing, establishing trust.
“Don’t think so.”
You glance up at Abbot. He’s already watching. Not you. The patient. Then his eyes flick to you. Just once. A check.
You look back at the boy. “Any nausea?”
“Yeah.” He murmurs.
“How bad?” You ask, gentle but firm.
“Bad.”
That’s enough. You shift slightly, bringing the monitor into your peripheral vision. Vitals are… not terrible. But not clean either. Heart rate elevated. Pressure borderline. Not something you ignore. Behind you, his dad exhales sharply.
“He’s fine,” he says. “We don’t need all this.”
You don’t turn. Not yet.
“Okay,” you say, still focused on the boy. “But I’m not worried about the fine. I’m worried about missing something.”
The boy’s eyes flick to yours. Something there. Recognition.
Abbot steps in then. Not forward. Just enough to redirect.
“Sir,” he says, calm, steady, “we’re going to take a look and make sure nothing serious was overlooked.”
The man shrugs. “Do whatever you want. He’s being dramatic.”
There it is. You feel something tighten low in your chest. You ignore it. Stay with the boy.
“Can I take a look at your eyes?” you ask.
He hesitates. Then nods. You move carefully. Light in one eye. Then the other. A beat. You frown. Just slightly. Something’s off. Not obvious. Not enough to call. But enough to feel. You lean back.
“Headache?” you ask.
“Yeah.” He averts his eyes.
“How does it feel? Is it a pounding rhythm or more of a steady pressure?” You ask, searching his face for anything you could be missing.
“Like… pressure.”
You glance up again. Abbot’s already watching you. This time, you don’t look away first.
“Something’s not clean,” you say quietly. He doesn’t ask what you mean. Doesn’t interrupt. Just nods once. “Walk me through it.” You do. Short. Focused.
“Could be nothing. Could be early.”
“Okay.” That’s all he says.
Then, louder: “Let’s get imaging.”
The dad straightens. “No. We’re not doing that.”
The boy’s shoulders tighten. “I said I’m fine.”
You stay still. You don’t push.
Not yet.
“Okay,” you say. You let that sit. The room holds. Then you add, “If you walk out and it gets worse, you’re coming back in worse shape. That’s the part I care about.”
Silence.
The dad scoffs. “You’re overreacting.”
You turn then. Not sharp. But clear.
“Maybe,” you say evenly. “But if I’m wrong, we wasted an hour. If I’m right, we catch it early. I like those odds.”
The boy looks between you and the door. Then back at you. “Will it take long?”
“Not as long as doing this twice.”
A beat.
“…fine.”
There it is. You nod once. “Okay. Thank you.”
You don’t make it bigger than it is. You just move. “CT, labs, access,” you say. You don’t look at Abbot. You don’t need to. There’s a pause behind you. A breath. Then his voice: “Do it.”
Simple. Clear. Final. No correction. No second layer. The room moves.
The next thirty minutes pass in clean motion. Access placed. Labs sent. CT called. The boy stays still for you in a way he didn’t for anyone else. You talk him through it. Not too much. Just enough. The dad stays quiet. Not convinced. But not fighting. Abbot handles the rest. Consults. Timing. Space. He never steps into your lane. Not once.
The labs on the teen boy come back. “Subdural,” radiology says. “Small. Active.”
Your stomach drops. Not because you didn’t expect it. Because you did. You step back into the room. The boy looks at you first.
“Hey,” you say, stepping in, pulling the stool closer, and lowering yourself back to his level. Same eye line. Same steady tone you used before. “You were right to come in.”
He watches you, something tight in his expression. “What is it?” he asks.
You keep your voice even. “It’s a small bleed,” you say. You gesture lightly toward the side of your own head. “Right here—between your brain and your skull.”
His face shifts. Not panic. But close. “Is that… bad?”
“It can be,” you answer, calm, measured. “What happens is the blood puts pressure where it shouldn’t. Sometimes it stays small. Sometimes it doesn’t.” You give him a second to take that in. “The problem is, you don’t always feel it getting worse until it already is.”
The room goes quiet. His dad straightens.
“So what does that mean?” he asks.
“It means we caught it early,” you say. “Which is exactly what we needed to do.”
A beat.
“If you’d gone home, there’s a chance it would’ve gotten worse before anyone noticed. That’s when it gets dangerous.”
The boy swallows. “…so I’m not fine.”
You hold his gaze.
“No,” you say gently. “You’re not. But you’re here.”
A pause.
“And that’s the part that matters.”
His shoulders drop, just slightly. That’s enough.
Behind you, Abbot shifts. You don’t turn. You don’t need to. But you feel it—the way his presence settles back into the room, not stepping in, not interrupting, just… holding space at the edges of it. When you stand, his eyes are on you. Not the chart. Not the monitor. You. Just for a second. Then he looks away first.
It hits you in the hallway. Not panic. Not fear. Just impact. The kind that comes after the right call, when the adrenaline has somewhere to go. You press your hand briefly to your temple, grounding yourself before the adrenaline can spike.
Breathe in. Out. Again. The door opens behind you. You don’t turn. You already know it’s him. Abbot steps into the hallway. Stops a pace behind you. Not crowding. Not interrupting. Just there.
“You good?” he asks.
You nod. Too fast. “Yeah.”
A beat. He doesn’t call it out. Doesn’t push.
“That was a good catch,” he says.
Quieter than before. Closer.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
“Yeah,” you say. “It just—” You stop.
He shifts slightly.
Just enough that his hand comes to rest briefly at the back of your shoulder.
Steady. Grounding. Gone a second later. Like it didn’t happen.
“You saw it before it was obvious,” he says.
The words land differently this time. Not clinical. Not just professional. Something else underneath.
You nod once. Don’t trust your voice. He doesn’t stay. Doesn’t turn it into more than it is. He steps back. Gives you space again. And somehow, that makes it matter more.
Back at the station, Ellis looks up as you sit. “You good?”
“Yeah.” You collapse into a chair.
She studies you for a second longer than necessary. Then nods. “Okay.”
Crus leans over your shoulder. “You look like you saved someone.”
You don’t answer.
Shen doesn’t look up from his screen.
“You did.”
You stare at your chart. Your hands don’t move. Nothing about the shift changes after that.
Same noise. Same movement. Same rhythm. But something has shifted anyway. You feel it in the way your thoughts keep circling back. In the way his voice sounds different in your head now. In the way that one line won’t settle. Nothing happened. Not really. But something did. And you don’t know what to do with that yet.
Summary: The epilogue brings Jack, you, June, and Otis home in the softest way. On an ordinary morning after a long night shift, the house is warm with coffee, cinnamon rolls, baby noises, dog hair, and the kind of love that no longer has to ask permission to stay.
It is quiet. It is chaotic. It is theirs.
Warnings / Content Notes:
references to foster/adoption uncertainty and Safe Haven placement aftermath
adoption
happy emotional overwhelm
newborn/infant care
and references to past loneliness.
I don’t really know how to say goodbye to this story.
Writing Jack and Reader has been one of the most unexpected, emotional, and meaningful creative journeys I’ve ever had. What started as a story about coffee, cinnamon rolls, shift changes, and two people trying very hard not to want each other too much somehow became something so much bigger. It became a story about home, found family, healing, being seen, letting yourself be loved, and learning that sometimes life does not arrive in the right order — but it can still be yours.
To everyone who read, commented, reblogged, messaged me, screamed with me, cried with me, loved Otis, loved June Bug, loved Robby, and loved Jack and Reader through every soft, messy, impossible moment: thank you.
The support and love this story received was something I never expected. It has meant more to me than I can explain. You made this feel like a safe place for my art and my craft, and I will always be grateful for that.
This story also gave me something I didn’t fully see coming: the courage to start dreaming bigger. Writing Pulse Point has inspired me to begin working toward an original novel — something born from the same love of romance, emotional healing, found family, and the kind of ordinary life that feels sacred because of who you get to share it with.
So while this is the end of Jack and Reader’s main story, it is not the end of what this story gave me.
Thank you for staying until the porch light.
Thank you for loving this little family.
And thank you, truly, for helping me believe in my writing a little more.
Xoxo, Del
Epilogue: Where The Life Is
The adoption decree had been framed for three weeks, and Jack still looked at it as proof that was worth checking twice.
He never said that.
Of course, he didn’t.
Jack Abbot did not announce his fears unless cornered, exhausted, or emotionally ambushed by someone under twenty pounds.
But you knew him.
You knew the way his eyes moved to the bookshelf whenever he passed through the living room. Knew the pause in his step, the brief stillness of his hands, the way his gaze found the black letters printed neatly beneath the county seal.
June Michaela Abbot.
A name.
A real one.
Not Baby Jane Doe.
Not a temporary label.
Not a hope written carefully into forms no one could promise would become anything.
June Michaela Abbot.
Your daughter.
His daughter.
Yours.
The decree sat in a simple wooden frame beside a photo from your wedding day: you and Jack in the garden, his hand at your waist, June asleep in Robby’s arms, Otis sitting proudly at the front as if he had personally officiated. Next to that sat the tiny keepsake box with June’s ivory dress folded safely inside, the sash made from your wedding dress fabric tucked over the top.
Jack had arranged the shelf himself.
Then rearranged it.
Then pretended he had not.
You let him.
Some things were better left unteased until they could bear the weight of it.
This morning, though, Jack was not standing in front of the bookshelf. For once, he was asleep. Really asleep. Upstairs, behind a half-closed bedroom door, after an extra-long night shift that had turned into fourteen hours, three traumas, one septic workup that refused to behave, and a nine-thirty a.m. phone call where he had said, voice scraped raw with exhaustion, I’m leaving now. Don’t start the coffee until I get there.
You had started the coffee anyway. It was your day off, you could do as you pleased. Now the kitchen smelled like brown sugar, oat milk, cinnamon, and the kind of morning you used to think only existed in other people’s houses. The cinnamon rolls were in the oven, rising into golden spirals beneath a sheet of foil. Jack’s good mug waited beside the coffee maker. The baby monitor glowed softly near the sink, even though June was in the kitchen with you, sitting on the changing pad you had spread over the kitchen floor because sometimes parenting meant surrendering to the nearest flat surface. Otis lay at your feet with his chin on his paws, pretending not to monitor the baby’s every breath.
June stared up at you with her usual severe expression. Dark hair, thicker and longer now, stuck up slightly at the crown no matter what you did. Blue-gray eyes watched everything. Long lashes. Rosy cheeks. A solemn little mouth that made her look like she was three complaints away from filing with hospital administration. Seven months old, legally yours, and still somehow the most judgmental person in the house.
You held up the tiny black biker jacket.
June blinked.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you whispered. “Your uncle Robby is going to cry.”
June kicked one foot. A foot currently wearing a tiny sock covered in motorcycles.
Also from Robby.
“You’re right,” you said. “He did this to himself.”
The jacket had been ridiculous when Robby bought it. June had still been impossibly small then, tucked into soft sleepers and swaddles, her whole body fitting against Jack’s chest like a question none of you were allowed to answer yet. The sleeves had swallowed her arms. The tiny zipper had looked absurdly bold against her newborn softness.
Robby had said, “I saw it and thought…someday.”
Jack had said, “Over my dead body will my daughter ever get on a motorcycle.”
Now the jacket fits.
That was what got you.
Not perfectly. The sleeves still bunched a little. The collar sat crooked because June had no interest in helping. But it fit well enough that when you zipped it over her little white onesie and smoothed one hand down the front, your throat tightened. She had grown into it. Into the jacket. Into the house. Into her name. Into the places all of you had been afraid to make for her too early.
You reached for the tiny jeans next. June kicked again.
“Excuse me,” you said. “This is fashion.”
She opened her mouth and made a low, serious babble.
“Exactly. Strong point.” You nod at her.
Otis thumped his tail once without lifting his head. You pulled the tiny stretchy jeans over June’s legs and adjusted her motorcycle socks. One was already starting to slide down. Naturally, you fixed it. Then you reached for the two tiny black bows waiting beside the changing pad. June stared at them.
“Don’t judge me,” you whispered. “This is a milestone.”
Her hair was finally long enough for two tiny pigtails. Barely. It was still fine and soft around the edges, thicker at the crown, dark and stubborn in a way that made every attempt at symmetry feel like a negotiation. You parted it with the focus of a surgeon and the emotional stability of someone who had waited months to put bows in her daughter’s hair. The first pigtail leaned slightly left. The second one had opinions. You secured the tiny black bows anyway. “There,” you said, smoothing a wisp back from her forehead. “Perfect.”
June blinked at you with grave disapproval.
“I know,” you said. “Beauty is a burden.”
From upstairs, a floorboard creaked. Otis’s head came up instantly. June went still. You looked toward the ceiling. Another slow creak. Then the faint sound of Jack moving around the bedroom.
You smiled before you could stop yourself. “I think your dad is awake June,” you murmured.
Otis stood and trotted toward the doorway, then stopped halfway, torn between greeting Jack and maintaining his official post by the baby.
June slapped one palm against the changing pad.
“Agreed,” you told her. “He’s taking forever.”
Jack appeared in the kitchen twenty minutes later, looking like a man who had slept hard and not nearly long enough. His hair was crushed on one side. His T-shirt was wrinkled. His sweatpants hung low on his hips. Sleep still pulled at the edges of his face, softening the creases around his eyes and mouth. He had not shaved. He had one hand braced briefly on the doorframe, the other rubbing over his jaw like he was trying to convince his body to fully join the day.
But his eyes found June immediately. Of course they did. Before the coffee. Before you. Before anything.
They found her.
You lifted June carefully from the changing pad and settled her on your hip, tiny jacket creaking softly as she moved.
Then you turned her toward him. “Say hi to Daddy.”
Jack stopped in the kitchen doorway. The word still did that to him.
Daddy.
Even now. Even with the adoption decree framed on the bookshelf, and her last name finally matching yours and Jack’s.
His face changed in a way that was small enough that someone else might have missed it. You didn’t. June stared at him with grave suspicion, dark hair sticking up between the two little bows, one motorcycle-socked foot kicking lightly against your hip.
Then she opened her mouth and said, very clearly, “Da.”
The kitchen went still. Jack did not move.
You gasped. “June.”
Jack looked at you.
You turned her slightly toward yourself, scandalized. “No, ma’am. Say ma.”
June blinked at you. Jack’s mouth started to curve.
“Don’t,” you warned him.
June looked back at Jack. “Da,” she said again.
Jack’s smile went fully smug. “Interesting,” he said.
You narrowed your eyes. “It is a normal developmental sound.”
“Twice,” Jack replies.
“Randomly.” You argue.
Jack grins at June, “Directed.”
“You are insufferable.” You reply, rolling your eyes.
Jack crossed the kitchen, still looking far too pleased with himself, and bent to kiss June’s soft dark hair. “Morning, Bug,” he murmured. His voice was rough from sleep.
June grabbed a fistful of his T-shirt like she had been expecting him. Which, legally and emotionally, she had every right to do. Jack’s smugness softened immediately into something much more dangerous. Something quiet. Something overwhelmed.
Then he looked at you. “She said it twice.”
“I heard her.” You grumble.
Jack smirks, “Just making sure.”
“I can still divorce you.” You shoot back.
His eyes warmed. “You won’t.”
He was right.
He kissed you then, sleep-warm and smiling, one hand at your waist and the other still carefully supporting June’s back where she leaned between you. Not a wedding kiss. Not a hallway kiss. Not a kiss that asked for anything. A kitchen kiss.
A husband kiss.
A father standing barefoot in the morning with his daughter between you and his whole life written all over his face.
When he pulled back, June babbled again.
Jack looked down at her. “Exactly.”
“You don’t even know what she said.” You say with a laugh.
Jack nods at June, “She agreed with me.”
“She is seven months old.” You point out.
“And discerning.”
June blinked up at him, serious and unimpressed.
“See?” he said. “Discerning.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too hard for it to land.
Jack’s gaze moved over her then. Slowly. The tiny jeans. The motorcycle socks. The black jacket. The two tiny bows perched in her dark hair like punctuation marks on an already bad idea.
His expression shifted. “What did you do to her hair?”
You straightened immediately. “Her hair is finally long enough for me to do it. Let me have this.”
Jack looked from June’s tiny pigtails to your face. Whatever he had been about to say changed shape before it left him.
His mouth softened. “I didn’t say it was bad.”
You glare at him, “You said it with your face.”
“My face has been misinterpreted,” Jack replies.
You shake your head, “Your face is very clear.”
June babbled once, solemn and sharp. You pointed gently toward her. “She agrees with me.”
Jack looked down at June. One pigtail leaned left. The other stuck almost straight out.
His mouth twitched. “She looks like she knows something we don’t.”
You nod, “She always does.”
“Yeah,” he said, softer. “She does.”
Then he bent and kissed one tiny bow, then June’s hair. “Perfect,” he murmured.
He straightened and looked at the jacket. “Still no motorcycle.”
You widened your eyes. “What?”
“Why is my daughter dressed like Robby had influence?” Jack asks.
You try to look innocent. “She’s just wearing the outfit because Robby is coming over.”
“That sentence is not comforting,” Jack grumbles.
You tilt your head, “It’s his day off.”
“Still not comforting,” Jack murmurs.
You bounced June once on your hip. “You’re being dramatic.”
Jack gives you a look, “I’m being observant.”
“You’re being threatened by baby outerwear.” You correct him.
Jack points at June, “That jacket has an agenda.”
June slapped her hand against his chest.
Jack looked down. “Don’t defend it.”
She babbled at him, eyebrows lifting in a way that looked so judgmental you had to turn your face into your shoulder to laugh.
Jack saw. His eyes narrowed. “She gets that from you.”
You laugh but narrow your eyes at him, “She gets that from you.”
“She gets it from Robby,” Jack says, smiling softly.
You nod, “She does love Robby.”
“That’s a separate problem,” Jack replies, smoothing a hand down the back of June’s head. June kicked both feet at the sound of Robby’s name, one motorcycle sock immediately sliding halfway off her heel.
Jack pointed at it. “Even the socks are unstable.”
You reached down to fix it. “The socks are adorable.”
“They have motorcycles on them.” Jack deadpans.
“Yes.” You agree.
He shakes his head once. “No.”
You looked up at him. “You keep saying no like it will change something.”
Jack looked at June. Then at you. Then at the tiny jacket again.
His mouth twitched as he sighed, “I’m tired.”
“I know.” You reply.
“My defenses are compromised.” He continued.
You smile, “I know.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed, “You planned this.”
“Yes.”
His eyes warmed despite himself. “You’re trouble.”
You smiled. “Still?”
His hand shifted at your waist, thumb brushing over your shirt. “Always.”
The cinnamon rolls saved you from answering. The oven timer chirped. June startled, then frowned toward the noise like appliances had personally offended her.
Otis barked once.
Jack said, “Report received.”
You handed June to him so you could grab oven mitts. He took her automatically, settling her against his chest with one arm while reaching for his coffee with the other.
“Careful,” you said.
Jack stopped mid-reach. His brows lifted. “With coffee?”
“With June. She’s been flinging her arms all morning.”
“I perform life-saving procedures,” he said. “I think I can handle drinking coffee and holding a baby at the same time.”
June chose that exact moment to throw one arm out with the dramatic force of a tiny conductor. Her fist bumped his wrist. The coffee mug shifted half an inch.
Jack froze.
You pointed at them. “See?”
He looked down at June. June stared back at him, deeply unimpressed.
“Hey bug,” Jack said to her. “Remember, you’re on Team Dad.”
You scoffed. “No. Team Mom.”
June looked from Jack to you. Then turned her head toward Otis. Otis thumped his tail once.
Jack’s mouth flattened. “She chose the dog.”
You smiled. “Smart girl.”
Jack looked offended. “Betrayal before coffee.”
June babbled. You reached for his mug and moved it out of range. “Team Mom handles risk management.”
“Team Dad performs life-saving procedures,” Jack replies.
You click your tongue, “Team Otis has her full attention.”
Otis wagged again, proud of himself for reasons he did not understand. You laughed as you pulled the cinnamon rolls from the oven. The kitchen filled instantly with warmth. Cinnamon. Brown sugar. Butter. The smell of every ridiculous, tender, impossible thing that had somehow become a foundation.
Jack went quiet.
You noticed as you set the pan on the stove. He stood near the island with June tucked against him, coffee still untouched, eyes on the cinnamon rolls like they had carried him across the past 2 years. Maybe they had.
June pulled at the collar of his shirt. Otis sat at his feet. The baby monitor glowed on the counter even though the nursery was empty. The adoption decree waited on the bookshelf. Your rings caught the morning light as you set the oven mitts down. Jack looked around the kitchen. Really looked. And you saw the old shadow pass near him. Not through him. Not this time. Just near.
The memory of all the years he had believed ordinary happiness belonged to other people. That it was something he visited briefly between disasters. Something borrowed. Temporary. For other houses. Other men. Other lives.
Then June babbled against his chest. “Da.”
Jack blinked. The shadow went. You did not say anything. You only reached for his coffee and slid it toward him. “Here.”
He looked at it. Then at you. “You started it before I got home.”
“You told me not to.” You reply.
“I did.” He says.
You smirk, “I ignored you.”
His mouth softened. “Good.”
You cut into the cinnamon rolls, spreading icing over the tops while they were still warm enough for it to melt into every spiral. June watched with the fixed intensity of a baby who could not have sugar and knew injustice when she saw it.
“You are not getting cinnamon rolls,” Jack told her.
June stared.
“You can judge me all you want.” She reached for his chin. He let her. Of course he did.
“Robby will be here soon,” you said.
Jack closed his eyes briefly. “Do we have to let him in?”
“He’s your best friend.” You reply.
Jack sighs, “He’s June’s legal namesake. He’s gotten enough.”
You turned, spatula in hand. “You agreed to Michaela.”
“I was emotionally compromised,” Jack grumbles.
You raise a brow, “You cried.”
“I did not,” Jack responds immediately.
“Jack.” Your tone indicated that you were not playing this game.
“I had a reaction,” Jack grumbles, taking a sip of his coffee.
“You cried.” You repeat.
June babbled.
You smiled sweetly. “She remembers.”
Jack looks down at her, “She was at the hearing for twelve minutes before falling asleep.”
“She is very intuitive.” You shrug.
Jack looks at you, “She is seven months old.”
You look over at June, then back at Jack. “She said da.”
Jack’s face rearranged itself into unbearable smugness again. “Twice,” he said.
You pointed the spatula at him. “Do not weaponize the baby.”
Jack looks at June, “She started it.”
Before you could respond, the low rumble of a motorcycle rolled up the street.
Jack’s head turned toward the front window. His entire expression changed. “No.”
You glanced toward the driveway, then back at him. “It’s Robby.”
“That is the problem,” Jack responds.
June kicked both feet. Otis trotted to the front door, tail wagging, because unlike Jack, he had accepted Robby as a necessary part of household ecology. The motorcycle cut off. A second later, footsteps came up the porch. Then a knock. Not the doorbell. Robby had learned that the doorbell woke June once and never recovered from the shame. You went to answer it before Jack could decide not to. Robby stood on the porch in jeans, boots, and his leather jacket, helmet tucked under one arm, hair flattened from the ride, and a grin already halfway to unbearable.
“Good morning to my favorite family,” he said.
Jack called from the kitchen, “No.”
Robby’s grin widened. “He sounds rested.”
“He worked fourteen hours and slept four,” you said, stepping aside.
“So emotionally delicate,” Robby says, shaking his head.
You huff a laugh, “Correct.”
Robby walked in, then stopped dead in the entryway. His eyes found June. Tiny black jacket. Tiny jeans. Motorcycle socks. Two tiny black bows. Serious face. For once, no immediate joke came.
His hand went to his chest. “She’s dressed for me.”
Jack appeared behind you with June now on his hip, looking deeply unimpressed. “Unfortunately.”
Robby looked at June like she had personally rewritten the morning. “June Michaela Abbot,” he said, solemn as a proclamation. “Named after excellence.”
Jack looked at him. “Named despite you.”
“Revisionist history,” Robby replied.
June reached for the zipper on Robby’s jacket. Robby looked triumphant. “She knows.”
Jack deadpans, “She wants the zipper.”
“She wants family.” Robby corrected.
Jack shoots back, “She wants the shiny thing.”
“Both can be true,” Robby says with a shrug.
You laughed and took June from Jack before the two of them could turn this into a deposition.
Robby stepped closer, his eyes still soft on June. “Hi, Bug.”
June stared at him. Then made a sharp little babble that sounded like an accusation.
Robby nodded gravely. “Completely fair.”
You passed June to him, and Robby received her with the same careful awe he had never really lost, even now that she was bigger and sturdier and fully capable of grabbing his collar with alarming force. He held her against his chest and looked down at the jacket. “She grew into it.”
The words were soft. For a second, no one teased him. Not even Jack.
Robby blinked once, fast. Then he cleared his throat. “Terrible for my composure.”
Jack muttered, “You never had any.”
Robby turned towards him, “I heard that.”
“I intended that,” Jack replies, taking a long gulp of coffee.
Robby ignored him and looked back at June. “Your father is threatened by style.”
June slapped Robby’s zipper.
You leaned against the counter, watching them. Jack moved behind you, one hand finding your waist out of habit, his coffee in the other now that June was safely out of range.
“You did plan this,” he murmured.
You looked up at him. “Maybe.”
His eyes narrowed, but the warmth in them ruined the effect. “What else did you plan?”
You smiled. Then turned back toward Robby and June.
“Okay,” you said brightly. “Ready for your first motorcycle ride, June Bug?”
Jack turned so fast his coffee sloshed dangerously close to the rim. “No.”
Robby’s face lit with immediate, catastrophic delight.
You turned towards your husband.
Jack stared at you. Flat. Unamused. Entirely awake now.
You lasted three seconds. Then you laughed. “Seriously, Jack, what kind of mother do you think I am? I’m kidding. It’s just a picture. The bike is off. Robby will hold her.”
Jack looks from you to Robby. “Robby is the part I’m concerned about.”
Robby pressed one hand to June’s back, offended. “I have excellent baby reviews.”
“From who?” Jack asks.
Robby lifts June slightly, “The baby.”
June babbled. Robby lifted his brows. “See?”
Jack pointed at both of them. “That was not a review.”
Robby shrugs, “It sounded positive.”
“It sounded like drool,” Jack grumbles.
Robby glared, “You hate joy.”
“I hate motorcycles near infants.” Jack corrects him.
“Parked motorcycles,” you corrected.
“Near infants,” Jack says. “Our infant.” He added quietly.
Robby shifted June carefully to one arm and reached into the pocket of his leather jacket.
Jack pointed at him immediately. “Whatever that is, no.”
Robby paused, deeply wounded. “You don’t even know what it is.”
“I know you,” Jack says.
Robby pulled out tiny baby aviator sunglasses.
You gasped with delight.
Jack said, “Absolutely not.”
June stared at the sunglasses with the grave suspicion of a tiny federal judge.
“They’re UV-protective,” Robby said.
Jack looked at June, “She is not going on the road.”
“They’re for the photo,” Robby replies.
Jack narrows his eyes, “She does not need aviators for a photo.”
“You don’t know that,” Robby says, offended.
Jack gives him a look, “I very much do.”
You took the tiny sunglasses from Robby’s hand and turned them over. They were absurd. Tiny. Black. Completely unnecessary.
Perfect.
You looked at June. She stared back. “Just for the picture?” you asked.
June blinked.
Jack said, “She cannot consent to eyewear.”
You slipped the aviators gently onto June’s face. She went completely still. For one full second, everyone waited. Then June turned her head slowly toward Jack from behind the tiny dark lenses. Robby made a wounded sound. You covered your mouth. Jack stared at her.
His mouth twitched once. Then flattened immediately. “No.”
You burst out laughing.
Robby pointed at her, voice reverent. “Look at her.”
“I am looking,” Jack replies.
Robby touches June’s pigtails, “She’s perfect.”
“She looks like she’s about to reject a plea bargain,” Jack says, fighting a smile and failing.
Robby grins, “Exactly. Perfect.”
Otis barked once from the door. Robby nodded. “Even Otis agrees.”
Otis did not know what he agreed to, but he wagged anyway. The cinnamon rolls cooled on the counter while the four of you migrated outside. The morning was bright and mild, the porch light off now because daylight had finally taken over. The driveway still held the faint warmth of Robby’s motorcycle engine, but the bike was off, kickstand down, stable and silent.
Jack checked all three of those things. Twice. You noticed. Robby noticed too, but for once, he did not say anything.
Smart man.
Robby sat on the motorcycle first, both boots planted firmly on the ground, helmet set safely aside. Then he held out his arms.
Jack looked at you.
You smiled sweetly. “It’s a picture.”
“It becomes evidence,” Jack replies.
“Of what?” You ask.
Jack gives the motorcycle a disapproving look. “Poor judgment.”
You kissed his cheek before taking June from your hip and passing her to Robby. Jack hovered within immediate catching distance. Robby settled June securely against his chest, one arm around her body, one hand supporting her carefully, the way Eileen had taught everyone and Jack had corrected until the entire household developed a complex. June sat solemnly in her tiny jeans, black jacket, motorcycle socks, black bows, and baby aviators, staring into the middle distance like she had seen the open road and found it lacking.
Otis stationed himself beside the front tire.
Jack pointed at him. “Good.”
Otis wagged.
Robby looked down at June. “You hear that, June Michaela? Your father is a hater.”
Jack said, “Your father is standing close enough to stop this nonsense at any second.”
Robby groans, “You are ruining the vibe.”
“I am protecting the baby.” Jack corrects.
Robby shakes his head. “The bike is off.”
“You keep saying that like it addresses the jacket,” Jack replies.
You lifted your phone, laughing too hard to hold it completely steady. “Okay,” you said. “Smile.”
Robby grinned immediately. June remained deeply serious behind the aviators. Otis looked directly at the camera. Jack stood in the edge of the frame, arms crossed, coffee in one hand, face set in the expression of a man who had lost control of his household and was pretending it was new information.
“Jack,” you said.
Jack replies instantly, “No.”
“You’re in the picture.” You say.
“I am supervising.” He responds.
“You are sulking.” You correct him.
Jack looks over at you. “I am supervising with concerns.”
Robby leaned slightly toward June. “He gets like this.”
“Robby,” Jack warns.
June babbled. It sounded suspiciously like agreement. You took the photo right as Jack looked personally betrayed by his own daughter.
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
The picture caught all of it.
Robby is smug and soft-eyed. June solemn in her tiny aviators. Otis is on guard by the tire. Jack half in frame, exhausted and offended, and already moving closer because even when he protested, he could not keep himself away from the life.
You looked at the screen and immediately started laughing again.
Jack stepped beside you. “Let me see.”
You tilted the phone toward him. He looked. For one second, his expression stayed flat. Then it softened. Slowly. Helplessly. The way it always did when June was involved. The way it did when he thought no one was watching, the life got under his skin. In the photo, June’s tiny hand was curled around Robby’s jacket. Otis’s ears were perked. Robby looked like he had never been prouder of anything in his life. And Jack, half-caught at the edge of the frame, was looking at them like he was two seconds away from saying no and one second away from smiling.
You looked up at him. He was still staring at the picture. The morning held around you. Cinnamon rolls are cooling inside. Coffee was going cold in his hand. The adoption decree was framed on the bookshelf. The baby monitor is glowing on the kitchen counter. Robby was in the driveway, making himself at home in the middle of the family he had helped hold together.
Otis was guarding the motorcycle as if it were now part of his jurisdiction. June Michaela Abbot, wearing a baby biker jacket, tiny bows, and aviators, unimpressed by the entire world except for the people she had decided were hers.
Jack waited. You could see it. Not because he wanted to. Because some part of him always expected the old feeling to show up. The one that told him lives like this belonged to other people. That happiness was borrowed. That home was temporary. That love stayed only until it understood what it had gotten itself into.
He waited.
And nothing came. No warning. No catch. No voice telling him he had misunderstood. Only the morning. Only his wife beside him. Only his daughter in Robby’s arms. Only their dog at their feet. Only the warm smell of cinnamon and coffee drifting through the open front door. Jack looked from the photo to the driveway. Robby was carefully trying to convince June to wave. June was not convinced. Otis sneezed at the front tire. You leaned into Jack’s side. His arm came around you automatically.
“You okay?” you asked softly.
Jack looked down at you.
Then at June.
Then at the house.
His house.
His wife.
His daughter.
His ridiculous dog.
His best friend teaching his baby how to remain emotionally unimpressed while riding a parked motorcycle.
The life crowded, warm, and loud, and impossible around him.
This time, when he answered, he did not hesitate.
“Yeah,” he said.
His mouth curved as June grabbed for Robby’s zipper again and Robby declared it “advanced mechanical interest.”
Jack’s arm tightened around you. “I am.”
You smiled and rested your head against his shoulder. Inside, the cinnamon rolls waited. By the door, the porch light slept in the morning sun, no longer needed but still there, ready for nightfall. And Jack stood in the middle of the life he had once thought belonged to other people, holding you close while his daughter babbled in the driveway. Not borrowed. Not temporary. Not almost.
Summary: The morning after does not end with Jack simply staying. It keeps going — into good coffee, stolen shirts, cinnamon roll dough, frosting-covered fingers, and a group chat that has absolutely no sense of boundaries. What starts as one dozen cinnamon rolls becomes three dozen, a shift-change delivery, and a soft public reminder that some parts of love can be shared while others still get to stay yours.
Neither of you moved. His arm was still around your waist, your leg tangled with his beneath the sheets, morning light spilling pale and soft across the room like it had no idea what had happened there hours earlier.
Jack’s mouth brushed your shoulder. “You made a promise.”
You hum, “So did you.”
“Mine requires less effort.” He mumbles, lips still against your shoulder.
“Mine requires caffeine.” You reply, tipping your head back, enjoying the sensation of his lips on you.
His mouth curved against your skin. “That’s convenient.”
You shake your head. “That’s science.”
“Is it?” he asks.
“Yes. I can’t be expected to make cinnamon rolls without coffee.” You answer.
“That sounds like an excuse,” he mumbles, planting another kiss on your shoulder.
You shrug, “That sounds like you don’t want cinnamon rolls.”
His hand slid lazily over your waist beneath the blanket. Eyes trailing your bare skin.
“I want several things.” He murmurs, low.
Your breath caught despite yourself. “Coffee first.”
“Cinnamon rolls after?” He asks.
You pretend to consider it. “If you behave.”
He smirks. “Unlikely.”
You turned your head enough to look at him. His mouth curved against your shoulder again, smug and sleep-warm.
You sigh, “At least you’re honest.”
“You asked for that.” He points out.
You scoff, “I regret it constantly.”
“No, you don’t.” He replies.
Unfortunately, he was right. You climbed out of bed before his face could make you do something irresponsible. The black shirt he had worn last night was on the floor near the foot of the bed, wrinkled from where you had pushed it off him hours earlier.
You picked it up.
Jack watched you. “That’s mine.”
You pulled it over your head. “Not anymore.”
The fabric fell loose around you, soft and warm and smelling like him, the hem brushing high on your thighs.
Jack went quiet.
You did not have to look to know.
You looked anyway.
He was watching you with an expression that made the room feel warmer.
“No,” you said immediately.
“I didn’t say anything.” He grins.
You point a finger towards him, “Your face did.”
He sweeps his eyes down your body, “My face is allowed to have opinions.”
“Your face is going to delay cinnamon rolls.” You remind him.
“It’s my shirt,” he reminds you.
“You’ll survive.” You say, pulling on a pair of clean underwear.
His gaze traveled over you again, slow enough to make your pulse kick. “It looks better on you.”
“That’s why I’m keeping it.” You say, almost smuggly.
“Good.” He replies.
You paused with your hand on the bedroom door. “Good?”
His mouth curved faintly. “I like knowing what’s mine.”
Heat climbed your neck. “That was dangerously close to possessive.”
He exhales a small laugh, “Close?”
“Jack.” You warn.
He pushed the blanket aside and sat up. That was your first mistake, watching.
Your second was not leaving immediately.
He moved more slowly than he needed to, which meant he knew exactly what he was doing. Bare chest. Messed hair. That sleep-warm, thoroughly pleased expression that made him look less like the controlled man from the ER and more like the man who had ruined you in your own bed and was not remotely sorry for it.
“Coffee,” you said, but it came out weak.
“Mm.” He stood.
You should have opened the door. You did not. Jack crossed the room with the kind of unhurried focus that made your entire nervous system reconsider breakfast. When he reached you, his hand found the hem of the shirt.
His shirt.
On you.
His fingers skimmed the fabric where it rested against your thigh.
“This,” he said, voice low, “is going to be a problem.”
Your breath caught. “For who?”
His eyes lifted to yours. “Both of us.”
Then his hand slid beneath the hem, palm warm against the outside of your thigh.
Your hand caught his wrist. Not to stop him. Not exactly.
Mostly to remind yourself that stopping was still an option.
Jack’s gaze sharpened immediately. “Still okay?”
You swallowed. “Yes.”
His thumb moved once against your skin. “Then why are you holding my wrist?”
You glared at him, which was difficult when your pulse had moved into your throat. “Because you are trying to start something.”
“I am.” He agreed.
You raise your brows, “You admit that?”
“You’re wearing my shirt,” he states.
“That is not a legal argument.” You counter.
“It’s compelling.” His hand moved higher by a fraction.
Your grip on his wrist tightened.
His mouth curved. “Very compelling.”
You catch his gaze, “What about cinnamon rolls?”
Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth. “Fuck cinnamon rolls.”
The words hit low and hot. Your mouth parted before you could stop it.
For one terrible, perfect second, you almost agreed.
Then your stomach growled.
Loudly.
Completely without dignity.
Jack froze.
You froze.
Then his eyes lifted to yours.
You pressed your lips together.
“I’m hungry,” you said.
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Clearly.”
“And I need coffee.” You say.
“Clearly.” He repeats.
“Do not make fun of me.” You groan.
He smirks, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“You definitely would.” You narrow your eyes at him.
His hand eased away from your thigh, but he stayed close enough that your pulse did not get the message.
“Coffee,” he said.
“Coffee.” You agree.
He smirks, “Then cinnamon rolls.”
“Then cinnamon rolls.” You nod in agreement.
His mouth brushed your cheek. “Then we revisit the shirt.”
Your breath caught. “You are evil.”
“I’m making coffee.” He says before trailing his lips across your jaw and down your neck.
“You are making trouble.” You groan, but tilt your head, giving him better access.
“Both can be true.” He murmurs against your neck.
You pointed toward the hallway. “Kitchen.”
Jack pulled back and lifted both hands, still smiling. “Kitchen.”
Jack followed you into the kitchen wearing nothing but black boxer briefs, his prosthetic back on, and the kind of sleep-warmed confidence that made you reconsider every choice that had led you out of bed.
It was deeply unfair.
Broad shoulders. Bare chest. The faint silvering of old scars across skin you now knew by touch. His hair was still a mess from your hands, his mouth still a little swollen from the night before, and your eyes trailed down his bare chest and stomach, following the lines as they dipped under the waistband of his briefs. You looked away suddenly, like that would help.
It did not.
Still, once he started making coffee, the morning softened around him. He moved through your kitchen carefully at first, asking where you kept the filters, the brown sugar, the oat milk. Not how you took it. Never that. Only where the pieces were.
That difference landed somewhere warm.
You started the dough while he worked beside you. Flour. Yeast. Warm milk. Butter. Sugar. Things with order. Things with timing. Things that became something good if you stayed with them long enough. Jack watched without interrupting for several minutes.
Then he nodded toward the bowl. “Why warm milk?”
You glanced at him, smiling despite yourself. “For the yeast.”
His eyes narrowed slightly at the packet on the counter. “It’s alive, right?”
“Technically.” You reply.
He makes a face, “That feels like something that should require consent before breakfast.”
You laughed. It came out easily. No sharp edge. No deflection. Just a laugh.
Jack looked pleased by it.
You explained proofing to him while you measured flour, and he listened like the fate of the department depended on understanding cinnamon rolls.
“So if it’s too hot, it kills the yeast,” you said.
“And if it’s too cold?” He asks.
“It won’t activate.” You say, pouring the flour into a bowl.
He raises a brow, “Dramatic.”
You chuckle, “You work in emergency medicine.”
He shrugs, “Yeast seems needier.”
You laughed again, and Jack’s mouth curved into the coffee mug he had just lifted. The coffee, unfortunately, was perfect. Brown sugar warmth. Oat milk smoothness. Strong coffee underneath. Exactly right. He had made it without asking, because of course he had. You took another sip and tried not to look too touched. Jack saw anyway. He always did.
“Good?” he asked.
You lowered the mug. “Annoyingly.”
His mouth tilted. “High praise.”
You glare, pointing your whisk at him, “Don’t get comfortable.”
He grins. “Too late.”
The morning kept moving like that. Coffee cooling. Dough coming together. Jack asking questions, then actually listening to the answers. You correcting him when he got too close to the filling with too much confidence. His hand finding the small of your back when he moved behind you. Your hip bumping his when you reached for the cinnamon. Neither of you apologizing for it. The natural rhythm was back. That should have scared you. Maybe later it would. But standing there with flour on your hands and Jack in your kitchen, it did not feel fragile.
It felt steady.
Like something that had been waiting for the two of you to stop treating it like it might break. When you covered the bowl with a towel and set it near the patch of sunlight on the counter, Jack was quiet for a moment.
“This is the part you like,” he said.
You glanced over. “The waiting?”
“The staying with it.” He nods towards the bowl.
Your fingers rested on the edge of the counter. Of course, he remembered. You were not surprised. Not anymore. That was almost stranger, the way his remembering had stopped feeling like something to defend against.
“Yeah,” you said. “This part.”
Jack’s gaze moved from the covered bowl to you. “Still helps?”
You looked down at the towel, at the dough hidden underneath, becoming something slowly because you had given it the right conditions and enough time.
“Yeah,” you said again, softer. “It does.”
He nodded once. Not making it sentimental. Not making you explain it. Just accepting the answer like it belonged here. Like he did.
The old version of you might have made it smaller.
A joke. A shrug. A quick turn away.
This time, you let the quiet stay.
It did not feel like exposure. It felt like being understood.
The dough needed an hour to rise. Jack took this as a personal attack.
“An hour?” he asked.
You roll your eyes, “You can survive an hour.”
“That’s a bold assumption.” He grumbles.
“You survived war and emergency medicine.” You say, almost laughing.
He clicks his tongue and shakes his head, “I was younger then.”
You laughed and handed him his coffee.
He took it, leaning back against the counter, still half-dressed, still entirely too pleased with himself.
“What now?” he asked.
You take a sip from your mug, “Now we wait.”
His eyes moved over you in his shirt.
You lifted a hand immediately. “No.”
He puts his hands up, “I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it.” You accuse.
“I think a lot of things,” he says, eyes once again traveling the length of your body.
You grin, “I know.”
His mouth curved. You leaned against the opposite counter, coffee warm between your hands, and looked at him. For once, you did not rush to fill the quiet. Neither did he. That felt new, too. Or maybe not new. Maybe just finally safe.
It took longer than an hour.
Mostly because Jack was distracting. Also, because he was surprisingly invested in the rolling process.
“You’re making that too thick,” you said.
He looked at the dough. “It’s even.”
You shake your head, “It is not.”
“It is.” He replies, continuing to roll the dough.
“You are overconfident.” You point at him.
He looks over at you smuggly, “You like that.”
You looked at him. He looked back. You looked at the rolling pin in his hands. “Sometimes.”
His expression shifted. The kitchen got warmer.
You took the rolling pin from him. “I’ll do it.”
“Because I’m bad at it?” He asks.
You sigh, “Because I’m better at it.”
“That I believe,” he says, backing away from the counter.
“Good answer.”
You rolled the dough, spread softened butter, and scattered the cinnamon sugar mixture in an even layer. Jack stood close enough to watch, not close enough to interfere.
“More cinnamon,” he said.
You paused. Slowly turned your head.
He held up one hand. “Observation.”
“You are critiquing my cinnamon rolls before they exist?” You ask.
He smiles. “I’m offering feedback.”
“Bold.” You reply as you continue sprinkling the mixture over the layer of butter.
“You like cinnamon.” He says.
“I like cinnamon. I do not like sabotage.” You correct.
He narrows his eyes at you, “More cinnamon is not sabotage.”
You huff in mock annoyance, “It is if it throws off the balance.”
His mouth curved.
You added more cinnamon.
Not because he told you to.
Obviously.
Because you had decided it was correct.
Jack wisely said nothing.
You rolled the dough into a log and carefully sliced it. The pieces spiraled beautifully, each one soft and full of dark cinnamon sugar.
Jack leaned closer. “Those look better than the others.”
You glanced at him. “The bakery ones?”
He nods. “All of them.”
Your chest warmed. You placed the rolls into the pan. “You haven’t tasted them yet.”
“I remember.”
That did something to you. You looked up. He was not teasing now. The original cinnamon roll sat between you for a moment, the one you had baked for him, the one he had called dangerously good, the one that had apparently sent him on a ridiculous bakery investigation because Jack Abbot had never known what to do with tenderness except turn it into a project.
“You said they were dangerously good,” you said.
“They were.” He replies.
“You said it like it’s a crime.” You say.
He shrugs, “It felt like one.”
Your chest warmed despite yourself. “You’re lucky I love you.”
“I know.” He said it quietly.
So quietly it almost stopped the room. I know. Not smug. Not casual. Grateful.
Your throat tightened, so you looked back down at the pan. The rolls needed another rise, then the oven, then cooling, then frosting. By the time they were finally baked, your apartment smelled like butter and cinnamon and coffee and something that felt dangerously close to home.
Later, while you made the frosting, Jack sat at the small kitchen table with his coffee, watching with the kind of attention that no longer made you feel like you had to explain yourself.
“Cream cheese,” he said.
“Sharp observation.” You say, opening the foil package and dumping it into a bowl.
He sips his coffee. “I’m learning.”
“It makes the frosting less sweet.” You explain, adding some powdered sugar into the bowl.
“Balance,” he says.
You looked over at him. “Exactly.”
He looked annoyingly pleased to have gotten it right. You dipped your finger into the frosting without thinking, testing the texture before reaching for the spoon.
Jack’s gaze dropped.
You froze. “What?”
His eyes lifted to yours. “Nothing.”
“That was not a ‘nothing’ look.”
“No?” He asks, rising from his chair and crossing the space to the counter.
You looked down at the frosting on your finger. “Jack.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Quality control.”
“That is not what quality control means.”
“It is now.” He reached across the counter, slow enough that you could have pulled back.
You did not.
His hand circled your wrist gently, thumb resting over your pulse.
It was not as much heat as the night before.
It did not need to be.
It was a spark in the middle of the morning.
Familiar.
Allowed.
He brought your hand closer and licked the frosting from your finger.
Slow enough to be deliberate.
Quick enough not to turn the whole kitchen into a battlefield.
Your breath still caught.
Jack let your hand go, but not before pressing one brief kiss to your knuckle.
“Good frosting,” he said.
You stared at him. “You’re not allowed in my kitchen anymore.”
His mouth tilted. “You invited me.”
“I regret it.” You point your spoon at him.
He backs away, returning to his seat, “No, you don’t.”
You hated that he was right.
You frosted the rolls while they were still warm enough for the icing to melt into the spirals. Jack watched with the kind of attention that made ordinary things feel intimate. Then you set one in front of him. He looked down at it. Then at you. For a second, neither of you joked. The whole ridiculous arc of it moved between you. The first cinnamon roll. The benchmark. The bakeries. The research. The excuse. The way he had found a way to see you when neither of you knew how to ask for more. And now here he was in your kitchen, shirtless, sleep-warm, drinking coffee he had made exactly how you liked it, waiting to taste the thing that had started as a pastry and somehow become a love language.
You pointed at him with your fork. “If you say acceptable, I’m taking the whole tray.”
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. “I wasn’t going to.”
The softness in his voice made your hand still. He cut into the roll and took a bite. You watched despite yourself.
His expression did not change immediately.
Which was rude.
Then his eyes closed.
Just for a second.
Your chest warmed before he even spoke.
When he opened them, his gaze found yours. “Still the benchmark.”
The words settled over you. Warm. Full-circle. Dangerous in their simplicity.
“Yeah?” You ask.
“Yeah.” He confirms.
You quirk a brow. “You sure?”
“I’ve done extensive research.”
You laughed. “Unfortunately true.”
He took another bite. Then another. You sat across from him, coffee between both hands, watching him eat the cinnamon roll like he had waited months for it.
Maybe he had.
Maybe you both had.
“Good coffee,” you said.
His mouth curved around the edge of his mug. “Good cinnamon rolls,” he takes a sip, then says, “Mind-blowing sex.”
You froze.
Jack takes another calm sip of coffee.
You slowly lowered your fork. “You are never letting that go, are you?”
His eyes lifted to yours. “No.”
You groan, “I was trying to be honest!”
“You were descriptive.” He grins.
You bury your face in your hands and mumble through your fingers, “I regret everything.”
“No, you don’t.” He says.
You glared at him across the table. But the expression fell apart almost immediately. Because the word slipped between you and softened everything it touched.
You looked at him. Jack looked back. No deflection. No taking it back.
“I’m happy,” he said, quieter.
Your throat tightened. You reached across the small table and touched his hand.
Flour still dusted your knuckles. Cinnamon sugar clung to your thumb. His fingers turned beneath yours immediately.
“I am too,” you said.
The old fear did not disappear. But it had nowhere to grow here. Not with coffee cooling beside you. Not with cinnamon sugar on your fingers. Not with Jack looking at you across your kitchen like he had not just stayed the night, but intended to stay through the morning too. One dozen cinnamon rolls. Two cups of coffee. His knee against yours under the table.
A beginning, warm and real, and no longer hiding.
Your phone buzzed halfway through Jack’s second cinnamon roll.
You ignored it. It buzzed again. Then again.
Jack looked from the plate to your phone. “You planning to answer that?”
“No.” You respond. Your phone buzzes again.
Jack raises a brow, “Popular.”
“Nosy.”
The phone buzzed again, skittering slightly against the table. You reached for it with the kind of dread usually reserved for lab results and administrative emails. The screen lit up with the group chat.
Mel: Good morning!!
Santos: do not good morning us like this is casual
Javadi: Wait, are we talking about last night?
Santos: obviously, Crash. keep up
Javadi: I am keeping up! I just thought maybe we were being respectful.
Whitaker: Should we be texting her?
Santos: yes
Whitaker: Are you sure?
Santos: no but i’m doing it anyway
Mel: I mostly just want to know if she got home okay.
Santos: and i want confirmation with context… and details
Javadi: Details feel invasive.
Santos: then close your eyes
You stared at the screen. Jack leaned slightly closer.
You turned the phone away. “No.”
He puts his hands up, “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were reading.” You tilt your phone closer to your body.
“I was observing.” He corrects.
“You observe too much.” You say, moving to lay your phone back on the table.
His mouth curved. “I’ve been told.”
The phone buzzed again.
Mel: No pressure!! just a heart emoji or something if alive
Whitaker: A heart emoji seems reasonable.
Santos: do not send a heart emoji. have dignity.
Javadi: I think heart emojis are nice.
Santos: Crash, you are too pure for this chat.
Mel: Can we not make this weird?
Santos: too late
Whitaker: It does feel a little weird.
Santos: thank you for your service, Huckleberry
You groaned and set the phone face down. “They’re insane.”
Jack took another sip of coffee. “They love you.”
“They’re insane.” You repeat.
“Both can be true.” Jack says.
You pointed your fork at him. “Do not take their side.”
He grins, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Your phone buzzed again, aggressively enough to reclaim the room.
You picked it up.
Santos: if you don’t answer in the next two minutes i’m assuming you are dead or naked
Javadi: Santos!
Whitaker: That seems like a big assumption.
Santos: Huckleberry, there was a public hand-hold and a swift bar exit. keep up.
Mel: Can we not speculate in the group chat, please?
Santos: for the record, i prefer women, but abbot looks like he knows things
Javadi: What does that mean?
Santos: it means he has attending energy in and out of the hospital
Whitaker: I don’t think “sex attending” is a recognized category.
Santos: it is now, huckleberry
Mel: I’m begging everyone to stop.
You lowered the phone slowly. “Santos is no longer allowed to communicate electronically.”
Jack looked over his coffee. “Do I want to know?”
“Absolutely not.” You answer.
He raises a brow, “That bad?”
You exhale a laugh, “She called you a sex attending.”
Jack went still. Then his mouth curved. Very slowly. “Did she?”
You tilt your head, “Do not look pleased.”
“I’m not.” he smirks.
“You are violently pleased.” You say in disbelief.
He scoffs, “Violently?”
“Jack.” You warn, or whine. Maybe both.
He took a calm sip of coffee. “Attending is accurate.”
You stared at him. “That is what you’re focusing on?”
“I’m choosing professionalism.” he states, setting down his coffee.
“You are choosing smugness.” You correct him.
“Both can be true.”
You picked up your phone before he could become any more unbearable.
You: Alive. Eating breakfast. Please lower the volume.
The responses came instantly.
Mel: yay!!
Javadi: Glad you’re okay!
Whitaker: Good. Sorry.
Santos: breakfast is suspiciously vague
Mel: Santos.
Santos: what? it is
Whitaker: I think we should let her eat breakfast.
Santos: fine. breakfast privacy. apparently that’s a thing now.
You laughed and set your phone down.
Jack’s mouth curved. “Eating breakfast?”
“You have a better phrase?” You ask.
“Not one I’d put in writing.” He responds.
Your pulse jumped. “Jack.”
He took a calm sip of coffee. “What?”
You shake your head. “You are enjoying this.”
“A little.” He admits.
“Just a little?” You raise a brow.
His eyes warmed over the rim of his mug. “Don’t get greedy.”
You groaned. “You’re stealing my lines now?”
He shrugs, “They’re good lines.”
“They were private lines.” You correct. Once again, shaking your head in disbelief.
His expression softened. “They still are.”
That settled you.
The group chat could buzz. Santos could invent deeply inappropriate medical titles. Mel could be sweet, Javadi could combust from secondhand embarrassment, and Whitaker could try to restore dignity to a chat that had never had any.
But this part?
This kitchen.
This coffee.
This cinnamon roll morning.
This was still yours.
Then Jack’s phone buzzed. Once. His expression changed before he opened it.
You knew.
“Robby?” you asked.
Jack glanced at you, then picked up the phone. “Yeah.”
He opened the message.
It felt different from the group chat. Quieter. Private in a way that deserved space. Jack’s eyes moved over the screen. His face did not change much. But you had learned him well enough now to see what almost no one else would. The slight stillness. The way his thumb stopped moving. The way his jaw softened by a fraction before he tucked it away.
You touched your mug with both hands. “What did he say?”
Jack was quiet for a second. Then he turned the phone enough for you to see.
Robby:
I meant what I said last night. I’m happy for you. For both of you. You look lighter, man. Don’t argue with me. I’m right.
Your chest tightened. “Oh,” you said softly.
Jack looked back down at the message. A long moment passed. Then another message appeared.
Robby:
Also, if you hurt her, Dana gets first swing, and I get second. Not a joke. Logistics.
You laughed before you could stop yourself. Jack’s mouth curved faintly.
“There he is,” you said.
“Yeah.” But his voice was rougher than usual.
You looked at him. The group chat buzzed again beside your hand, but for once, you did not reach for it.
“He loves you,” you said.
Jack’s gaze stayed on the phone. “I know.”
This time, the words were quiet. Not evasive. Not reluctant. Just true. You reached across the table and touched his wrist.
“He’s really happy for you.” You murmur, looking at him.
Jack looked up then.
For a second, something unguarded moved across his face. It was brief, but it was enough, the weight of being known by someone who had seen him at his worst and still wanted him happy.
“Yeah,” he said. One word. Enough, this time. His phone buzzed again.
Robby:
I’m not going to make this weird.
Robby:
Publicly.
Robby:
Probably.
Jack exhaled, almost a laugh.
You smiled. “That sounds like a threat.”
Jack nods. “It is.”
“Are you worried?” You ask, a little afraid to know the answer.
“No.” he says.
“No?”
Jack set the phone down, face up this time. “No.”
The certainty of it warmed your chest.
Your own phone buzzed again, but you left it where it was.
“They’re going to be impossible,” you said.
“Yes.” He nods in agreement.
“And you’re not worried?” You ask again.
“No.” He says again.
You raise your brows, “Not even a little?”
“No,” he said again. “I meant what I said.”
“What?”
“They can know.” His gaze held yours. “I’m not hiding you.”
Your chest went soft and unsteady.
You looked down at your joined hands because looking at his face felt like too much.
“Good,” you said.
Jack’s thumb moved over your knuckles. “Some things are still private, though.”
You looked back up. There was a look on his face. A dangerous one.
“The mind-blowing parts, for example.” He grins.
Heat shot up your neck. “Oh, my God.” You groan.
He looked entirely too pleased with himself. “Your words.”
You looked at him across the table, the man who had followed you home, stayed through the night, made your coffee, ate your cinnamon rolls, and sat there looking entirely too pleased to be loved by you.
“I’m going to throw you out.” Your roll your eyes, but still keep your hand in his.
He smiles, a genuine smile, “No, you’re not.”
No. You weren’t.
Jack squeezed your hand once.
Outside, the rest of the world waited. Work. Schedules. Robby. Dana. Mel. Santos. The nightcrawlers. The whole chaotic, nosy, well-meaning hive.
But for now, there was coffee.
Cinnamon rolls.
Jack’s hand around yours.
And the private parts of a love you no longer had to hide, but still got to keep.
By the time the rolls had cooled enough to pack, Jack had noticed the problem. He stood beside your counter, coffee in hand, looking down at the trays with narrowed eyes. “You said one dozen.”
You slid a spatula under a cinnamon roll and transferred it into a container. “I did.”
He lifts his coffee mug towards the cooling racks lined up on the counter, “That is not one dozen.”
“No.” You continue to pack away the pastries.
Jack’s eyes scan over the trays, “That is three dozen.”
You nod. “Roughly.”
“Roughly?” He asks.
“Baking is an art.” You shrug, sealing the lid on the container.
“Baking is math.”He corrects.
“Sometimes art needs math.” You smile slyly.
Jack looked at you. You avoided his eyes and reached for another container.
“You tripled the recipe,” he says it a statement, not a question.
“Maybe.” You shoot him a mischevious look over your shoulder.
He scoffs in disbelief, “You lied to me about cinnamon rolls.”
“I surprised you with cinnamon rolls.” You point your spatula at him.
He narrows his eyes, “That is not the same thing.”
“It is if you’re grateful.”
His mouth curved despite himself. “You made these for them.”
You look at him. “I made them for us.”
He looked at the trays. “And apparently half of the ER.”
“They’re nosy and emotionally invasive.” You say, scooping the last cinnamon roll into a container.
“So you’re rewarding them?” He asks.
You paused, one hand on the lid of the container. Then looked up at him.
“I’m feeding the hive.”
The words slipped out easily. Too easily. Jack went quiet. Not the heavy kind.
The kind where something had landed, and he was letting it.
You watched his face change by almost nothing.
But you knew him now.
You saw it.
His throat moved once. “The hive,” he repeated.
You shrugged, suddenly feeling shy and ridiculous and too soft around the edges.
“They showed up for us,” you said. “In their own deeply inappropriate ways.”
“They did.” He agrees.
“And shift change is the only time everyone overlaps.” You explain.
Jack’s mouth tilted faintly. “So this was strategic.”
You smile, “You’re not the only one who can conduct research.”
His eyes warmed.
You reached for another lid, then paused. “Speaking of strategic.”
Jack’s expression shifted.
You narrowed your eyes. “How exactly did our days off line up?”
He took a sip of coffee. “Luck.”
You tsk, “Try again.”
“Scheduling.” He replies.
You glare at him. “That is not an answer.”
“It is technically an answer.” He shrugs.
You turn and face him fully. “Jack.”
He looked up.
You pointed at him with the spatula. “This was you and Robby.”
“I don’t control your schedule.” He says, taking another sip of coffee.
“No,” you said slowly. “Robby does.”
Jack said nothing.
“Oh my God.” You day in disbelief.
“You wanted honesty.” he reminds you.
“I wanted honesty, not schedule fraud!” You exclaim, waving the spatula around.
Jack raises a brow, “Not fraud.”
“Emotional racketeering.”
His mouth curved. “That one might hold up.”
You shake your head and sigh, “You two are unbelievable.”
Jack stepped closer, taking the lid from your hand and snapping it into place over the container.
“You mad?”
You looked at him. At the softened corners of his mouth. At the coffee he had made you cooling beside the tray. At the three dozen cinnamon rolls filling your kitchen because some part of you had known, even before he followed you home, that you wanted to share a little of this with the people who had watched you learn how to stop hiding.
“No,” you admitted.
Jack’s expression softened. “Good.”
“But,” you say, turning to him. “I reserve the right to be dramatic about it later.”
He nods, “Expected.”
“Appreciated.” You smile.
You loaded the containers into two tote bags while Jack finished his coffee and tried to steal a fourth cinnamon roll, which you intercepted with the spatula.
“You have had three.”
He frowns, “They’re small.”
You look at the cinnamon rolls, then to Jack. “They are not.”
“I’m fifty. Let me have joy.” He grumbles.
You scoff, “You had joy. Repeatedly.”
Jack looked up slowly. You realized your mistake one second too late.
His mouth curved. “Repeatedly?”
Your tone is a warning. “Do not.”
“Your words.” He raises both hands in surrender.
“I’m revoking your cinnamon roll privileges.”
“No, you’re not.”
You glared at him. He looked entirely too pleased. You were going to have to live with this man now.
Worse.
You wanted to.
The hospital looked different when neither of you were wearing scrubs. Maybe it was the time of day. Maybe it was the fact that you were walking in on purpose, on a day off, carrying cinnamon rolls instead of exhaustion. Maybe it was Jack beside you in dark jeans and a black T-shirt, one tote bag in hand, looking so quietly comfortable next to you that your chest still had not fully adjusted.
Shift change had already started by the time you reached the emergency department. The familiar chaos met you immediately. Phones ringing. Monitors beeping. Day shift trying to leave. Night shift trying to pretend they were ready.
Dana spotted the containers first.
Of course she did.
“What is that?” she asked.
“Peace offering,” you said.
Santos turned from the board so fast her ponytail swung. “Are those the cinnamon rolls?”
Whitaker looked up. “There are cinnamon rolls?”
“Move, Huckleberry,” Santos said, already crossing the desk.
Mel appeared from behind a workstation, eyes bright. “Oh my gosh, you brought enough for everyone?”
You smile, “That was the idea.”
Javadi hovered near the desk, visibly trying not to look too eager. “Is it okay if I take one?”
Santos stared at her, about to say something sarcastic, you cut her off.
“Please do. They’re for everyone.” You say.
Jack set his tote on the counter beside yours.
Dana pointed to the far counter. “Put them there before someone drops frosting onto a chart.”
“Yes, ma’am,” you said.
“I’m not playing,” Dana said.
“I know.”
Jack’s hand brushed the small of your back as he moved behind you to set down the second container. Small. Automatic. Visible. You did not move away. The department noticed. Not loudly this time. No one gasped. No one made a show of it. But Mel smiled into the lid of the container. Santos pretended to be focused on choosing the best roll. Javadi immediately looked at the floor, embarrassed by her own awareness. Whitaker cleared his throat. Dana saw everything and said nothing. Which somehow meant more.
Robby came out of room three with a chart in hand and stopped dead. His eyes moved from the containers to you. Then to Jack. Then back to the containers. Robby approached the counter slowly, like the containers might vanish if he moved too fast.
“Are those…”
“Yes,” you said.
“The cinnamon rolls.” He says, almost in awe.
“Yes.” You reply.
He almost whispers, “The ones.”
You smiled despite yourself. “The ones.”
Robby looked at Jack. Jack looked back. Something unspoken passed between them. Then Robby set the chart down, picked up a cinnamon roll, and took a bite. The department, somehow, seemed to hold its breath. Robby chewed. His expression did not change.
Then he looked at you. “Dangerously good.”
Your chest warmed so fast it almost hurt. Jack went still beside you. Only slightly. But enough. Robby looked at him then. Really looked. His voice softened.
“Yeah,” he said. “I get it now.”
No one made a joke. Not even Santos. Not right away.
Jack’s mouth shifted by almost nothing.
But Robby saw it.
You did too.
“Careful,” Jack said finally, voice dry. “You’ll ruin your reputation.”
Robby nodded, taking another bite. “Worth it.”
Mel pressed a hand to her chest. “That was really sweet.”
Santos immediately pointed at Robby. “You heard her. Reputation ruined.”
“Worth it,” Robby repeated.
Dana took one from the container and inspected it. “These better not start a stampede.”
“Too late,” Princess said around a bite.
Perlah nodded. “Worth the trauma.”
Javadi took a careful bite and immediately looked startled. “Oh. Wow.”
Whitaker nodded seriously. “These are very good.”
Jack leaned closer to you, voice low enough for only you. “Still the benchmark.”
You looked up at him. The chaos moved around you. Mel handing napkins to Javadi. Santos stealing a corner off Whitaker’s roll and ignoring his offended look. Dana pretending she does not have time to enjoy hers. Robby eating his cinnamon roll with a quiet satisfaction that looked dangerously close to peace.
Jack stood beside you. Off-duty. Not hiding. Not leaving space where he did not want it.
You smiled. “Still?”
His eyes held yours. “Still.” Jack’s mouth curved.
Dana looked up then, catching both of you standing too close to the counter like you might actually be allowed to enjoy your day off.
“You two are off,” she said. “Leave before someone hands you a chart.”
Robby pointed his cinnamon roll at her. “That was going to be my line.”
Dana shrugs, “You were taking too long.”
“I was savoring.” Robby says around a mouthful.
Dana peers over the rim of her glasses, “You were loitering.”
Jack picked up the empty tote bag. “We’ll go.”
Mel smiled at you. “Thank you for bringing them.”
“Yeah,” Whitaker added. “Thank you.”
Princess lifted her roll. “Come back with more.”
Perlah looked at her. “Let them leave.”
Princess sighed. “Fine. But with more later.”
You laughed. It felt easy.
Robby followed you and Jack toward the entrance, stopping just before the ambulance bay doors.
“Abbot.”
Jack turned. You paused beside him.
For once, Robby’s face had no joke waiting at the surface. “Don’t screw this up,” he said.
The words were gruff. Simple. Not sharp. A blessing disguised as a warning.
Jack looked at him for a long second. “Wasn’t planning to.”
Robby nodded. “Good.”
Then his eyes flicked to you. “You either.”
You smiled softly. “No pressure.”
“Plenty of pressure,” Robby said. “But lovingly.”
Jack shook his head. You laughed.
Robby’s expression warmed. Then he jerked his chin toward the doors. “Go. Have a day off before this place remembers you exist.”
You stepped through the ambulance bay doors with Jack beside you.
Outside, evening air moved cool against your face.
For a few steps, neither of you spoke.
Then Jack’s hand found yours.
Easy.
Like it belonged there.
You looked down at your joined hands.
Then back toward the hospital behind you, where three dozen cinnamon rolls were probably already down to two dozen, where your friends and coworkers and chosen little hive were eating something you had made in the soft morning after Jack stayed.
Summary: When you and Jack arrive for the night shift, the ER has gone soft around the edges. A newborn baby girl has been safely surrendered at a fire station and brought to PTMC for medical evaluation. On the chart, she is Baby Jane Doe. To the staff, after Mel quietly names what everyone is feeling, she becomes June Bug. She is stable. Tiny. Solemn. Dark-haired. Blue-gray-eyed. Not yours. Not legally. Not finally. Not in any way that paperwork would recognize. Throughout the shift, you and Jack keep checking on her. Jack holds her. You overhear him telling her that you would love her right.
And then Jack says the thing first:
If there is a way to keep her safe, he wants to try.
Jack's Song: I Will Follow You into the Dark — Death Cab for Cutie
Bonus Track: Carry You — Novo Amor
Chapter 47: Baby Jane Doe
Six months after you selected your venue, you and Jack were walking through the ambulance bay doors when the atmosphere struck you. The first thing you noticed when you walked into the ER was the quiet.
Not silence.
The ER never gave you that.
Phones still rang. A monitor chimed somewhere near the nurses’ station. Someone behind curtain four coughed hard enough to make a tech glance over. The printer by the desk made its usual grinding sound, the one Santos called “a cry for help,” and Dana called “functional enough.”
But the department had gone soft around the edges.
Voices were lower.
Movements gentler.
Even the fluorescent lights felt too bright for whatever had happened.
Jack slowed beside you.
You felt it more than saw it.
One second, he was walking with you toward the board, coffee in hand, dark scrubs still smelling faintly like the cold air outside. Next, his steps shortened. His gaze moved over the room, taking in the lowered voices, the cluster near trauma two, the warmer pulled from storage and standing beneath soft hospital light.
Your hand tightened around the strap of your bag.
“What happened?” Jack asked.
No one answered fast enough. That was how you knew it was not a trauma. Trauma made people loud. This had made them gentle. Dana stood near the board, one hand on her hip, coffee untouched beside her. Santos was beside her, hair pulled back, mouth set in a line that did not look like irritation even though it lived near the same part of her face. Mel stood near the warmer with both hands folded in front of her scrub top, still in the way she got when something had her full attention. Lena was already there too, night shift charge taking over from day shift, her eyes moving between the board, the warmer, and the doorway where you and Jack had stopped.
Robby stood near the desk with a chart in one hand. That, more than anything, made your stomach drop. Robby at shift change was not unusual. Robby was not usually quiet at shift change.
Dana looked up. “Safe Haven surrender,” she said.
Your whole body stilled.
Jack’s face changed. Not much. Enough.
“Where?” he asked.
“Station 14,” Dana said. “Fire brought her in for evaluation. Newborn female. Stable so far. Social work’s been called. County’s being notified.”
Her.
The word moved through you before you were ready for it.
Her.
You looked past Dana toward the warmer.
You could not see much from where you stood. A small bundle. A white hospital blanket. A dark softness near the top that might have been hair.
You took one step forward without realizing.
Jack did not move. His eyes stayed on the warmer.
“How old?” you asked.
Dana’s voice was quieter when she answered. “Estimated less than a day.”
Santos exhaled through her nose. “A few hours, maybe. Tiny little thing.”
Dana glanced at her.
Santos looked back. “What? She is.”
No one corrected her.
That told you something, too.
Lena stepped toward Jack, clipboard in hand. “Initial vitals stable. Temp borderline low on arrival, improving under warmer conditions. Glucose pending. Fire says she was surrendered at the station about thirty minutes before transport.”
“Any respiratory distress?” Jack asked.
“No,” Lena said. “Good color. She cried strongly when she was unwrapped. Cord clamped before surrender.”
Jack nodded once. His attending face was in place now. Calm. Focused. The kind of calm that made rooms organize themselves around him.
But you stood close enough to see the tendon in his jaw shift.
“Let’s take the handoff,” he said.
The firefighter was standing near trauma two, one hand resting on the back of a chair he had not sat in. He looked broad and tired and deeply unsure of what to do with his own body now that the baby was not in his arms.
His jacket still smelled faintly like cold air and engine bay.
Dana gave him a small nod. “Tell them what you told me.”
The firefighter looked at Jack first, then at you. “Parent came to Station 14,” he said. “Handed her over. Didn’t provide a name. Didn’t stay.”
His throat moved. You saw him swallow. “She was wrapped in a blanket. The cord was clamped. No obvious bleeding. She was breathing. Cried when we checked her. We kept her warm and transported.”
Jack’s voice stayed even. “Any Apgars?”
The firefighter shook his head. “Unknown. She was already delivered when she was surrendered—good cry when we unwrapped her. Color was good. Tone was good.”
Jack nodded once. “Okay. Unknown Apgars. We’ll document that and do a full newborn assessment here.”
You reached for gloves, grateful for the clinical steps. Heart rate. Respiratory effort. Muscle tone. Reflex response. Color. The same things Apgar measured in the first minutes of life, only now you were looking at them without the comfort of knowing who had counted them first. Temperature. Glucose. Weight. Cord. Skin. Feeding.
One thing at a time.
One thing at a time was how the ER survived the impossible.
The firefighter’s hand tightened on the chair.
“They asked if she’d be okay,” he said quietly.
The room went still in a different way. No one asked who. No one asked why. That was the point.
Lena’s expression softened. “She’s safe,” Lena said.
The firefighter nodded once, eyes fixed on the warmer. “Good.”
His voice broke around the word.
No one commented.
Jack glanced toward Robby. “Social work?”
“On the way,” Robby said. His voice was soft, but professional. “County intake has been contacted. We’ll need documentation, a full newborn assessment, tox as indicated, feeding, and observation. Peds is aware.”
Jack nodded. “Good.”
You stepped closer to the warmer.
And then you saw her.
She was impossibly small.
Not sick-small.
Not fragile in the way the ER feared most.
Just new.
New in a way that made the room around her feel too old, too loud, too hard-edged.
A full head of dark brown hair lay soft against her scalp, slightly damp-looking where it curled near her temples. Her blue-gray eyes were barely open beneath long dark lashes, unfocused and solemn. Her cheeks were rosy from the warmer. Her nose was tiny and button-soft. Her mouth, shaped like a little bow, pressed into a serious line as if she had arrived deeply unimpressed by the entire system.
You forgot, for one dangerous second, how to breathe.
Then she moved one hand.
Just a flex.
Five tiny fingers opening and closing against the blanket.
Your chest hurt.
You told yourself she was a patient.
Because she was.
Newborn female.
Safe Haven surrender.
Stable.
Baby Jane Doe.
You knew all the right words.
None of them protected you from her.
“She’s Baby Jane Doe,” Dana said.
The words landed hard.
Santos’s mouth twisted. “I hate that.”
“It’s accurate,” Dana said.
“I didn’t say inaccurate,” Santos said. “I said I hate it.”
Dana looked at her for a long second.
Santos did not back down.
Mel stepped a little closer to the warmer, quiet and careful, her eyes fixed on the baby’s serious little face.
“She looks like a little June bug,” Mel said softly.
The room paused.
Santos pointed immediately. “That.”
Dana closed her eyes for half a second. “No.”
“We’re calling her that,” Santos said.
“We are not charting that,” Dana says, looking at the baby.
“I didn’t say chart. I said call.”
Lena looked from Santos to Dana, then down at the warmer. “Chart stays Baby Jane Doe,” Lena said.
Her voice was calm. Final. Then her face softened by a fraction. “But June Bug works while she’s here.”
Mel smiled faintly. Santos looked satisfied in an almost tender way.
Jack said nothing.
You looked at him.
His eyes were on the baby.
On June Bug.
He was very still.
You put on gloves. “Hi,” you said softly.
Your voice came out quieter than you meant it to. No one teased you. Not even Santos. You warmed your stethoscope between your palms before slipping it beneath the edge of the blanket.
“Hi, Baby Jane,” you whispered.
The name hurt in your mouth.
You tried again, softer. “Hi, June Bug.”
Her tiny mouth opened. Not quite a cry. More of a complaint. You almost smiled.
“Yeah,” you murmured. “Fair.”
Jack stood on the other side of the warmer, one hand resting lightly on the rail, eyes on your hands. Not because he did not trust you. Because watching you be careful with something that small had changed the air around him.
“Heart rate?” he asked.
“Strong,” you said, listening. “Regular.”
“Respiratory?” He murmurs.
You nod once, “Clear. No increased work. Color’s good.”
Lena noted it.
Crus appeared beside the warmer with a fresh temp probe and newborn supplies. He said nothing, just placed them where you could reach.
“Thanks,” you said.
Crus nodded once. His eyes flicked to the baby.
For a man who could make chaos feel bored with itself, his face softened in a way you had not seen before.
“Small,” he said.
Santos, quieter now, replied, “That’s what I said.”
No one corrected her this time either.
You checked her tone, reflexes, cord, and skin. You looked for bruising, lacerations, signs of distress, anything that would shift the room back into emergency. She protested the temperature check with a thin little cry that cut straight through you.
“I know,” you said softly. “I know. Rude first day.”
Jack’s mouth moved faintly. Not a smile. Close.
You checked her glucose when the nurse brought the strip over.
“Glucose is okay,” Lena said, glancing down.
Something in the room loosened.
Not fully.
Enough.
You slid one gloved finger near her palm.
Her fingers closed around yours.
Palmar grasp reflex, you told yourself immediately.
Primitive.
Neurologic.
Normal.
You knew that.
Your chest did not care.
Jack saw. Of course he did. His eyes dropped to her tiny hand around your finger, then lifted to your face. You did not look at him.
You could not.
If you looked at him, something in you was going to show too plainly, and she was a patient, a child in transition, a newborn whose future belonged to paperwork and court systems and people who had not yet entered the room. Want did not belong here. Not yet. Not like that.
So you looked down at Baby Jane Doe and finished your assessment. “She’s stable,” you said.
The word moved through the room like everyone had been waiting to breathe.
Stable.
Small.
Here.
Jack’s voice was quiet when he answered. “Good.”
One word.
Too low for anyone else.
You heard it anyway.
The ER did not stop because a baby had arrived. That was the cruel and merciful thing about the department. It never stopped. Patients still needed discharge instructions. A chest pain workup still needed a second troponin test. Room nine still wanted nausea medication. A man in triage still believed he was dying because his left eyelid had twitched twice, and Shen was handling that with the kind of relaxed detachment that only made the man more anxious. But everything moved around the warmer now. Not toward it. Around it. As if the whole department had agreed without speaking that there was a small, warm center of gravity in the room and no one wanted to jostle it. The day shift began to peel away slowly. Dana stayed longer than she needed to, pretending to review the board.
Santos stopped beside the warmer before leaving, arms crossed over her chest.
“Be good, June Bug,” she said.
The baby slept through it.
Santos looked at Mel. “She heard me.”
Mel nodded seriously. “I think she did.”
Dana pointed her pen toward both of them. “Go home.”
Santos did not move for another second. Then she did. Mel lingered last. She looked down at June Bug, eyes soft and shining.
“She has a serious face,” Mel said.
“She does,” you replied.
Mel’s mouth curved. “Like she’s thinking very hard.”
Jack, from the computer nearby, said quietly, “She’s had a big day.”
Mel looked over at him. Something passed across her face. She nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “She has.”
Then the day shift was gone. And the night shift took over.
Lena stationed the warmer in a quieter bay where the team could monitor her without turning her into a spectacle. The chart stayed formal: ‘Baby Jane Doe’. The staff did not.
By 8:42 p.m., you had checked June Bug’s temperature twice.
Both times were clinically appropriate.
Mostly.
The third time, Lena looked at you over the chart. “Her temp is stable.”
“I know.” You reply.
Lena raises a brow, “You’re checking again.”
“I’m verifying stability.” You say, looking down at the baby.
Lena’s mouth softened.“Mm-hm.”
You looked at her. She did not tease you. That made it worse.
You adjusted the edge of June Bug’s blanket with one careful finger and stood there a second longer than necessary. She slept through it, one tiny hand near her cheek, her mouth softened now that she was warm and fed and no longer protesting the indignities of assessment.
At 9:13 p.m., Ellis came in to review a patient with you, stopped near the warmer, and looked down. For a moment, she said nothing. Then she adjusted the swaddle with one precise hand, tucking the blanket securely at the shoulder. You watched her.
Ellis glanced up. “It was loose.”
You catch her gaze, “I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did,” Ellis says, gently, almost kindly.
You smiled faintly.
She looked back down at the baby. “Good tone,” Ellis said.
It was clinical. It was also not.
At 10:17 p.m., Jack stopped by after a chest pain workup. You were at the computer just outside the bay, pretending to chart while actually rereading the same social work note three times. Jack paused beside the warmer. Not long. Long enough. Shen, sitting at the next computer with his iced Dunkin’ watered down to something pale and morally questionable, glanced over.
“You need something from there?” Shen asked.
Jack did not look away from the baby. “Update.”
Shen looked at the warmer. Then back at Jack. His voice softened despite himself. “She’s still stable.”
Jack nodded once. “Good.”
Shen took a sip of his drink and made a face. “Terrible coffee,” he said quietly.
No one answered. He did not seem to need one.
At 11:58 p.m., Crus came by with clean linens and a pack of newborn diapers someone had found in peds overflow. “She’s got the whole department trained already,” he said.
Lena took the diapers from him. “Newborns do that.”
Crus looked down at June Bug. His expression stayed calm, but his voice lowered. “Efficient.”
You nearly smiled. That was, for Crus, almost a declaration.
By 12:34 a.m., the ER had gotten busy again. A fall on anticoagulants. A migraine. A teenager with alcohol poisoning. A feverish toddler who screamed whenever anyone in scrubs entered the room and then immediately stopped when Jack walked in, which Shen called “deeply unfair.” Through all of it, Baby Jane Doe remained in the quieter bay beneath the warmer light, steady and observed and still somehow the smallest planet in the department’s orbit.
You found yourself checking her chart between patients. Not because anything had changed. Because nothing had. Stable. Feeding tolerated. Glucose stable. Temperature stable. Social work is involved. County contacted.
Baby Jane Doe.
Baby Jane Doe.
Baby Jane Doe.
The name kept hurting.
At 1:18 a.m., June Bug fussed. Not a sharp cry. Not distress. Just a small, exhausted newborn sound that turned your body toward it before your mind caught up. Lena was tied up with an incoming EMS call. The nurse had just stepped out for formula. Jack was in room six. Shen was at triage. Ellis was placing orders.
You stepped into the bay. “Hey,” you whispered.
June Bug’s face scrunched, solemn expression crumpling into offense.
“Yeah,” you said. “I know. This place is a lot.” You checked her diaper. Dry. Temperature still good. Fed recently. No distress. Just new. Just alone in a room that had too many lights and not enough heartbeat. You washed your hands again, then carefully lifted her. She was lighter than you expected. Even knowing newborn weights and having held babies before. She was still lighter. A warm bundle against your chest, dark hair brushing your wrist, one tiny fist tucked beneath her chin. She fussed once, then again. You shifted her carefully, supporting her head, and started to rock on your feet. You did not mean to sing. It slipped out under your breath, barely more than a hum. Something old. A lullaby from childhood. A melody remembered more in your bones than your mouth. Your parents had sung it in dark rooms when you were little enough to believe voices could keep everything bad outside the door. You hummed it now without words. June Bug’s tiny body softened by degrees. Her cheek rested against your scrub top. Her breath warmed the inside of your elbow. Your eyes stung so quickly you had to blink hard.
“Okay,” you whispered. “Okay, little bug. I’ve got you for a minute.”
You did not hear Jack until you looked up. He stood in the doorway. One hand in his scrub pocket. Face unreadable to anyone else. Not to you. You knew what stillness meant on him now. It meant something had reached him.
“You okay?” he asked. His voice was low.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
He looked at the baby in your arms. Then at your face. “Answer?”
Your throat tightened. You looked down at June Bug.
“At the moment,” you said softly.
Jack’s gaze stayed on you for a long second. Then he nodded. “At the moment counts.”
He was gone again before you could say anything else.
At 2:03 a.m., Lena caught him hovering. You were finishing a note near the desk when you heard her voice from the baby’s bay.
“Abbot.”
Jack looked up from beside the warmer. “What?”
“You’re hovering,” Lena says.
Jack looks down, “I’m not.”
Lena stared at him. Jack stared back. The baby made one tiny sound.
Lena’s expression did not change. “Hold her or stop blocking the warmer.”
You froze at the computer.
Jack’s face did something almost imperceptible. “Lena.”
“She’s stable,” Lena said. “You have clean hands. Sit.”
Jack did not move. Lena waited. She had the patience of a woman who had worked night charge too long to be impressed by attending-level hesitation.
Finally, Jack sat.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like the chair might become something else beneath him if he acknowledged what was happening. Lena lifted June Bug with ease and placed her into his arms. The room seemed to narrow. Jack held trauma with his hands. Airways. Bleeding. Broken bodies. The terrible weight of people not ready to die. He knew how to keep people alive in the worst moments of their lives.
But this was different.
This was six or seven pounds of newborn warmth tucked against his chest, dark hair brushing his wrist, one tiny fist curled against his scrub top like she had found a place to rest by accident.
Jack did not breathe for a second. Then he did. Slowly. His hand shifted beneath the blanket, adjusting her with such care that your chest nearly cracked open.
June Bug’s face turned toward him. Her mouth made that solemn little line again.
Jack looked down. “Hey,” he said.
One word. Low. Careful. She blinked.
Jack’s thumb moved once along the edge of the blanket.
Lena looked over at you, caught you watching, and said nothing. She only stepped out of the bay and let him hold her.
At 3:46 a.m., you heard him talking. You had been looking for him. That was not the excuse you would have used if anyone asked. You would have said you were checking the chart. Or the feeding plan. Or whether social work had updated the county note. But really, you were looking for Jack. You found him in the quiet bay, sitting in the chair beside the warmer, June Bug tucked against his chest. The room was dimmer now, the overhead light off, warmer glow low and golden against the blanket. The ER sounds outside the curtain were muffled: a phone ringing, Shen’s voice somewhere near triage, a cart rolling past. Jack did not know you were there.
His voice was low. Rough from the shift. Soft in a way you rarely hear inside the hospital.
“She’s the good one,” Jack murmured.
You stopped outside the curtain. Your hand froze against the fabric.
He looked down at June Bug. “You figured that out already, didn’t you?”
June Bug made one tiny sound. Jack huffed a breath.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “She does that. Makes people feel safe.”
Your throat tightened.
His hand moved slowly along the blanket at her back. “She’ll tell you you matter before she remembers to eat. She’ll hold a whole room together and act like it doesn’t cost her anything.”
A pause.
The ER moved beyond the curtain.
You did not.
“Don’t let her fool you,” Jack whispered.
His voice softened even further. “She’s worth taking care of, too.”
Your eyes burned.
You pressed one hand to your mouth.
June Bug shifted against him, and Jack lowered his chin slightly, watching her like she was something impossible and very real.
“She’d love you right,” he said.
Your whole body went still. There it was. Not said to you and not meant for you. Maybe that was why it broke something open so cleanly. You stepped back before he could see you. Not because you wanted to hide from him. Because the moment did not belong to you yet.
Because he had said it to a baby who was not yours, in a room where everything was temporary, and you needed one second to survive what that had done to your heart.
You made it to the staff lounge before the tears came.
Not dramatic.
Not sobbing.
Just silent, exhausted tears that slipped down your face while you stood in front of the vending machine pretending to consider peanut butter crackers.
Robby was there. Of course he was.
He stopped in the doorway.
You can’t bring yourself to look at him. “What are you still doing here?”
He shrugs a shoulder, “I had a meeting upstairs, and I wanted to keep an eye on June Bug.”
You nod, still not looking at him.
For once, he did not say anything immediately. Then, carefully, “You okay?”
You wiped under one eye with the heel of your hand. “No.”
Robby nodded once. “Yeah.”
You laughed once, wet and embarrassed. “That’s it?”
He shrugs a shoulder, “I’m trying a new thing where I don’t make it worse.”
You exhale a laugh, “You’re doing great.”
“Thank you.” He stepped into the room and leaned against the counter beside you.
Neither of you looked at the other. It helped.
After a minute, Robby said, “She’s stable.”
“I know.” You nod.
He continued, “She’s safe tonight.”
“I know that too.”
He nodded. “And that doesn’t make this easier.”
You closed your eyes. “No.”
Robby’s voice softened. “Yeah.”
A beat.
Then he handed you a napkin from the counter.
You took it. “Don’t be nice to me,” you said.
He smiles softly, “Too late.”
You pressed the napkin beneath your eyes and tried to breathe.
By 5:22 a.m., you had become a person made of caffeine, adrenaline, and feeling. The department had started its early-morning shift. That strange hour where everything frayed. Patients who had been sleeping began to wake. Families called for updates. Lab results came back. The sky outside remained dark but not dark enough. June Bug slept through it. You checked her again after a discharge. Jack passed the bay twice. On the second pass, he stopped outside the curtain. You were standing beside the warmer, chart in hand, not reading it.
Jack’s hands were in his pockets.
Which usually meant he was holding himself still on purpose.
“I need to say something,” he said.
You looked up. “Okay.”
His eyes stayed on yours. “It might be too much.”
Your breath caught.
You already knew.
Somehow, you already knew.
“Say it anyway.”
Jack stepped into the bay and stopped beside the warmer.
June Bug slept between you. Small. Warm. Temporary.
He looked down at her for a long second.
Then back at you. “What happens to her next?”
Your fingers tightened around the chart. “Social work. County. Emergency foster placement, probably. Then whatever the state decides is appropriate.”
He nodded once. “Could we be considered?”
Everything in you stopped.
Not because you had not thought it.
Because he said it first.
“For placement?” you asked.
“Foster,” Jack said. “Emergency placement. Foster-to-adopt if that ever becomes possible.”
His throat moved. “I know we don’t get to want her and call that enough.”
Your eyes burned immediately.
Jack stepped closer, voice lower. “But if there’s a way to be safe for her, I want to try.”
You stared at him.
At the man who had once built a house quiet enough to survive in.
At the man who had let you move in one basket, one drawer, one coffee order at a time.
At the man Otis had chosen by leaning against his leg.
At the man who had proposed where the life was.
At the man who had just looked at a newborn he had no claim to and said, "Not mine, not yet, not maybe ever, but safe."
“You’ve been thinking about this,” you whispered.
His mouth tightened. “I haven’t stopped.”
Your own breath came unsteadily. “Me too.”
Jack’s face changed. Just a little. Enough.
You looked down at June Bug. “I was afraid to say it.”
“Me too,” Jack said.
“Then why did you?”
His eyes held yours. “Because she needs someone to say it for the right reasons.”
You covered your mouth with one hand.
Jack reached for the other. His fingers closed around yours. Steady. Warm. Not promising an ending and just standing at the beginning.
“We need to talk to the social worker,” he said.
You nodded. “Yeah.” Then, softer, “Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m scared.” You murmur.
His hand tightened. “Good.”
A broken laugh left you. “You keep saying that at terrible times.”
“Means you understand how serious this is.”
You looked at June Bug. Sleeping. Tiny. Completely unaware that two exhausted doctors had just offered themselves to whatever came next, knowing perfectly well it might hurt.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “ I do.”
The social worker’s office was smaller than you expected. Too bright. Too beige. A framed print of a watercolor tree hung on one wall. A stack of file folders sat on the edge of the desk. There was a tissue box in the corner with a pattern of blue flowers on it, and you hated it immediately because it suggested too much confidence in how often people cried in that chair.
You sat beside Jack and tried to keep your knee still. It would not listen. Bounce. Stop. Bounce. You pressed your hands together. Your ring caught the office light. Bounce. Jack sat beside you, still enough for both of you. Not relaxed. Never that. But steady. Present. His hands rested loosely over his knees. His shoulders were squared. His face was calm in the way it became calm when he had decided fear was not allowed to drive.
After a moment, his hand came down lightly over your knee. Not to stop you. Just to ground you. The bouncing slowed anyway. The social worker, Ms. Alvarez, sat across from you with an open folder and kind eyes that did not soften the seriousness of what she was about to say.
“I want to be very clear,” she said. “Asking to be considered does not guarantee placement.”
“We understand,” Jack said. His hand stayed on your knee.
Ms. Alvarez nodded. “And because both of you were involved in her medical care, there are additional considerations. The county will review everything.”
“We understand that, too,” Jack said.
You swallowed.
Ms. Alvarez looked at you. “This process may move quickly in the immediate sense and slowly in every other sense. Emergency foster placement can happen on an expedited timeline, but permanency is different. Adoption, if it ever becomes an option, would come much later. There may be legal steps, notices, hearings, searches, and waiting periods. Placement can change.”
Temporary, you thought. Possibly. Maybe. Not yours. Not yet. Maybe never.
Your knee started bouncing again beneath Jack’s hand.
He did not press down.
He only moved his thumb once, back and forth.
Ms. Alvarez continued, “If you are serious, we can submit you for consideration for emergency foster placement. There would be background checks, home verification, emergency licensing procedures, follow-up visits, training requirements to complete, and ongoing contact with county services.”
You found your voice. “We know love doesn’t make us entitled to her.”
The social worker looked at you carefully. Something in her face softened, but she did not make the mistake of reassuring too quickly. “No,” Ms. Alvarez said. “It doesn’t.”
Your throat tightened.
Jack’s hand found yours now, fingers threading through.
Ms. Alvarez turned toward him. “Then what are you asking?”
Jack did not look at you. He did not need to. His thumb moved once over your ring.
“We’re not asking for promises,” he said. “We’re asking where to start.”
The office went quiet. The kind of quiet that was not empty. The kind that held paperwork and fear and a baby sleeping somewhere down the hall under a name no one wanted to use.
Ms. Alvarez nodded slowly. “All right,” she said. “Then we start with the truth.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on hers. “We can do that.”
She asked questions. Many of them. About your schedules. Your home. Who lived there. Any pets. Otis, you explained, was a calm, recently adopted adult rescue dog, gentle, with no history of aggression, and comfortable with routine. Jack answered questions about firearms in the home. Medication storage. Emergency contacts. Transportation. Support system. Sleep arrangements. Infant care experience. Work coverage. Who could leave the hospital if the baby became ill. Who would help if both of you were exhausted. You answered, too. Sometimes too fast. Sometimes after a pause. Sometimes, with Jack’s hand grounding yours beneath the desk.
At one point, Ms. Alvarez asked, “Why her?”
The question hit harder than you expected.
Your mouth opened. Closed. Because the truthful answer was not simple. Not because she was tiny. Not because she had dark hair and blue-gray eyes and a solemn little mouth. Not because your chest ached when you thought of her in her warmer. Not because Jack had held her like she weighed more than the whole hospital. Not because you had already started hearing the shape of June Bug in your head when someone said Baby Jane Doe. Those were feelings. Feelings mattered. They did not answer the question.
Jack spoke first. “Because she needs somewhere safe tonight,” he said.
Ms. Alvarez looked at him.
Jack’s voice stayed steady. “And because if we’re allowed to be that, we want to be.”
Your eyes burned. You looked down at your hands. Your ring caught the light again.
Ms. Alvarez made a note. “All right,” she said softly.
The waiting stretched the day thin.
You were technically off shift.
Technically.
In practice, neither you nor Jack left the hospital. You showered in the staff locker room and changed into clean clothes Robby brought from the house because neither of you had thought far enough ahead to go home. Jack changed into jeans and a black sweater. You changed into leggings and a soft shirt and felt absurdly underdressed for the possibility that your life might change. But before the clean clothes, before the shopping bags, before Robby came back looking like he had survived a battle in the baby aisle, he found both of you near the staff lounge just after 8:00 a.m. You were sitting with your elbows on your knees, staring at the floor. Jack stood beside the vending machine with one hand on the back of his neck, phone in the other, reading the same message from Ms. Alvarez for the third time.
Robby looked between you. Then he held out one hand. “House key.”
Jack looked up. “What?”
“House key,” Robby repeated. “I’m going over.”
You blinked. “Why?”
“Because I’m off today. Because neither of you is leaving this building unless someone physically removes you,” Robby said. “And Otis still needs to be walked.”
Your eyes burned so fast it almost embarrassed you.
Jack’s jaw shifted. “I can—”
“No,” Robby said.
Jack went still.
Robby’s voice softened, but only barely. “You can stay here. Both of you.”
For once, Jack did not argue. He pulled his keys from his pocket and worked the house key off the ring. He handed it to Robby.
Robby took it, then looked at you. “Do you need clothes?”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. You had not thought about clothes. Or showers. Or the fact that you had been in the same scrubs for far too long and were still running on hospital coffee and adrenaline.
Robby nodded like your silence had answered enough. “Clean clothes. Walk Otis. Check the house. Anything else?”
You shook your head, then immediately nodded. “I don’t know.”
“Great,” Robby said. “I’ll improvise badly and with confidence.”
That should have made you laugh. Instead, your face crumpled.
Robby’s expression changed. “Oh,” he said quietly.
You stood before you could think better of it and stepped into him. He froze for half a second. Then his arms came around you. Not awkwardly. Not halfway. Fully. You pressed your face into his shoulder, and all the fear you had been keeping tidy for Jack, for the social worker, for the baby in the warmer, for the process that could still say no, slipped out in one shaky breath.
“Thank you,” you whispered.
Robby’s hand settled carefully between your shoulder blades.
“Yeah,” he said, voice rougher than usual. “Of course.”
Jack stood beside you, silent. When you pulled back, Robby looked at the ceiling for one second like he was trying to keep himself emotionally operational.
Then he pointed at Jack. “Do not make that face.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “What face?”
“The one where you’re grateful and furious about it,” Robby answered.
Jack looked away.
Robby nodded once. “Exactly. Horrible face.”
You laughed then, wet and small. Robby looked relieved.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m going. If Otis judges me, I’m texting both of you.”
“He will,” Jack said.
“I know,” Robby replied. “He has standards.”
Robby texted forty minutes later.
Robby:
Otis has been walked. He was very brave about a squirrel. I was also brave.
You laughed for the first time in hours. Jack read over your shoulder, then pulled out his phone.
Jack:
Did he eat?
Robby:
Yes, I fed him the amount on the chart because apparently, you have a chart. Of course, you have a chart.
Jack:
Good.
Robby:
I also packed clothes. Jack, I grabbed you a black shirt because apparently that is your entire wardrobe and personality.
You pressed a hand to your mouth.
Robby:
House is fine. Otis is fine. I’m going to the store now. Make a list.
Jack rubbed a hand over his face. “We don’t know what we need,” he said.
You stared at the phone.
Robby sent another message before either of you could answer.
Robby:
Never mind, I’m buying everything. Be mad at me later.
At 10:09 a.m., you held her again while a nurse changed the linens in the bassinet. Her head fit in the curve of your elbow like the world had made that space for her. You hated thinking that.
You thought it anyway.
At 11:24 a.m., Jack stood with her near the window in the quiet bay, rocking gently on his feet.
Not much. Just enough.
“You’re doing the dad sway,” Langdon said from the doorway.
Jack looked over. Frank’s face was softer than his voice.
“Don’t,” Jack said.
He lifted both hands. “I was making an observation.”
Jack rolls his eyes, “You always are.”
“True.” Frank looked down at the baby, then back at Jack. “County call yet?”
“No,” Jack answers.
Langdon nodded once. No joke came. He only said, “Okay.” Then he left.
At 12:46 p.m., Santos brought you coffee.
You looked at the cup. Then at her. “What is this?”
“Coffee,” She said.
“I know what coffee is.” You reply.
“You looked like you needed it.” That was, from Santos, the emotional equivalent of a sonnet.
“Thank you,” you said.
She nodded. Then she looked toward the baby. “You’re doing the right thing.”
Your throat tightened. “You think so?”
“I know so.” Before you could respond, she turned away. “Also, drink that before you become useless.”
At 1:32 p.m., Mel and Langdon assembled a bassinet in the corner of the staff lounge because Robby had somehow acquired one and dropped it off in a box the size of a small refrigerator.
Robby appeared fifteen minutes later, carrying four shopping bags, a duffel bag, and the expression of a man who had seen combat in aisle seven.
“I panicked responsibly,” he said. The duffel bag landed gently at your feet.
“Clean clothes,” Robby added. “For both of you. Otis is walked, fed, and emotionally superior. Your house is fine. I locked the back door. I also turned off the lamp in the living room because it was bothering me.”
You stared at him. For a second, you could not speak.
Robby looked uncomfortable. “Please don’t make this weird.”
That did it. You stepped forward and hugged him again.
This time, he was ready.
His arms came around you immediately, solid and careful, and you felt him exhale like he had been holding his own breath all day, too.
“Thank you,” you whispered.
Robby’s voice was quiet near your ear. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“Yes,” you said, pulling back just enough to look at him. “I do.”
His expression shifted. Softened. Then he nodded once, because anything more would have been too much, and you both knew it.
Jack stood a few feet away, watching.
Robby looked at him. “Don’t.”
Jack’s jaw worked once. “I didn’t say anything.”
Robby gives him a look, “You were about to.”
Jack’s voice was rougher than usual. “Thank you.”
Robby went still. Then he looked down at the bags. “Yeah,” he said. “Well. Somebody had to buy the terrifying number of wipes.”
You laughed, wiping under one eye.
Robby lifted one of the shopping bags. “I got diapers. Wipes. Formula. Bottles. Pacifiers. Tiny hats. Why are the hats so small? Don’t answer. I’m not ready. Also socks.”
Jack looked at the bags. “Socks?”
Robby pulled out a pack. “Do newborns need socks or is that decorative propaganda?”
Jack’s mouth moved despite everything. “Socks.”
At 3:18 p.m., Ms. Alvarez returned. You and Jack were in the quiet bay with June Bug. You were standing near the bassinet, one hand resting lightly on the edge. Jack was beside you, shoulders squared, face calm. Too calm. You knew because his hand was tucked into his pocket. Holding himself still. Ms. Alvarez stopped just inside the doorway.
Your heart went into your throat.
“If you’re still willing,” she said, “we can move forward with emergency foster placement tonight.”
For a moment, the whole hospital disappeared. No monitors. No phones. No footsteps. Only tonight. Placement. Willing.
You could not speak.
Jack answered first. “We’re willing.”
Then he looked at you. Not assuming. Always asking and asking now.
“Answer?” he said quietly.
Your eyes filled. “Answer.”
His hand came out of his pocket and found yours.
Ms. Alvarez nodded. “It is temporary,” she said gently.
“We understand,” Jack said.
She continues, “It may change.”
Jack nods once, “We understand.”
“You’ll have county follow-up, paperwork, an emergency home visit, and ongoing reviews. This is the beginning of a process, not an ending.” She says firmly.
Your hand tightened in Jack’s. “We know,” you said.
Ms. Alvarez’s gaze softened. “Then let’s go over what happens next.”
The next few hours moved strangely. Too fast. Too slow. Paperwork. Signatures. Instructions. Temporary placement documents. Medical discharge information. Feeding notes. Follow-up appointments. County contact numbers. Safe sleep guidelines. Formula preparation. Car seat check. A packet so thick it felt like it had its own pulse.
Baby Jane Doe slept through most of it.
June Bug did not know that an entire system was moving around her.
She did not know Robby was in your kitchen at home, sending increasingly panicked updates about bottle sterilizers.
Robby:
There is a drying rack shaped like grass. I bought it because it seemed cheerful.
Robby:
I may have also bought blankets.
Robby:
And a stuffed giraffe.
Robby:
Do newborns like giraffes?
Jack:
Thank you, brother.
June Bug did not know Otis was about to have his life reorganized by something smaller than his head. She did not know you were reading safe sleep instructions with tears in your eyes because suddenly every sentence felt like both a privilege and a warning. She did not know Jack had not let go of your hand for more than ten seconds at a time.
At 6:30 p.m., they brought the car seat in. It looked impossibly large. Or she looked impossibly small. Maybe both. The nurse helped you secure her properly, tiny body bundled, dark hair barely visible beneath a soft hat Robby had purchased in what he later called “a moment of aisle-based emotional distress.”
You crouched beside the car seat and looked at her. Her blue-gray eyes opened for half a second.
Unfocused. New. Still somehow solemn. Like she was taking attendance.
“Hi, June Bug,” you whispered.
Jack stood behind you. You felt him there. Steady. Terrified. Trying.
“She’s ready,” the nurse said softly.
No one moved. Because ready was too big a word.
Jack finally bent and lifted the car seat. Carefully. So carefully. Like the whole world had narrowed to the handle in his grip, you walked beside him through the hospital hallway while Ms. Alvarez followed with paperwork, and a nurse carried an extra blanket. It was shift change by then, and the ER had shifted again, and evening had moved in. Another day, another shift, another set of patients. You and Jack would not be working tonight. Not for the next few nights.
But people noticed.
Of course, they noticed.
Lena stood at the desk, eyes soft.
Crus gave one small nod.
Ellis watched from the computer, expression composed but not cold.
Shen lifted his iced coffee, then lowered it, like even he understood this was not the moment for commentary. Dana had come back for something administrative and stopped by the board.
Santos stood beside her, no jokes left in her mouth.
Mel covered her lips with one hand.
Robby was not there.
Robby was at your house, dropping off everything he picked up.
Somehow, that felt right.
Santos stepped forward just enough to look down at the car seat. “Be good, June Bug,” she said.
Her voice cracked on the nickname.
Dana looked at her. Then, quietly, “She will.”
Mel’s eyes were shining. “She looks like she knows where she’s going,” Mel said.
You looked down. June Bug slept, unimpressed and tiny and completely unaware that she had just walked the entire hive into silence. Jack’s hand brushed your back. A guide. A comfort. A promise without permanence.
Not yet.
At the ambulance bay doors, Ms. Alvarez stopped you. “You have my number,” she said.
You nodded.
“And the county number.” She continues.
“Yes.” You say.
“And you understand this is temporary.” She says, gentle yet firm.
Jack answered. “We understand.”
Her eyes moved between you. “I know this is emotional,” she said. “But you did this carefully, you did this right.”
Your throat tightened. “Thank you.”
She looked down at the baby. “They got her somewhere safe,” Ms. Alvarez said. “Tonight, that continues.”
Jack’s jaw moved once. “Yes,” he said.
Outside, the evening air hit your face coolly. It felt impossible that the world was still doing normal things. Cars passing. Someone is laughing near the parking garage.
A helicopter thudding faintly overhead.
Jack secured the car seat base as if he were preparing for inspection by three federal agencies and God.
You watched him tug the seat twice. Then a third time. “Jack.”
He looked at you. “What?”
You nod at the car seat, “You did it.”
He looked back down. Then tugged once more. “Now I did.”
You laughed—a little. Your face was wet.
He pretended not to notice until he stepped closer and brushed one tear away with his thumb.
“You okay?” he asked.
You looked at the car seat. At Baby Jane Doe, who was not yours.
Not legally.
Not finally.
Not in any way that paperwork would recognize beyond tonight, and an emergency placement and a careful, fragile process.
“No,” you said.
Jack nodded.
You nodded.
Jack opened the back door for you. You climbed in beside the car seat. He paused before shutting it. You looked up. He looked at you. At the baby. At the small space inside the car that had become something enormous. Then he closed the door gently and went around to drive.
Jack drove like he was transporting glass. You sat in the back seat with one hand resting lightly on the edge of the carrier because, apparently, distance from her had become impossible.
June Bug slept through the first red light. And the second. At the third, she made a tiny sound, a squeak of protest so small it barely existed.
You leaned closer. “I know,” you whispered. “We’re almost there.”
Jack’s eyes met yours in the rearview mirror. Almost there. Home waited ahead. Not ready. Not really. Full of panic-bought supplies and a dog who had no idea what was coming.
But waiting.
When you pulled into the driveway, the porch light was on.
Of course it was.
The sight of it nearly undid you.
Jack turned off the engine but did not move immediately. Neither did you. For a moment, the three of you sat there in the car, parked outside the house that had kept making room.
First for you. Then Otis. Now this. Not forever. Not promised.
But tonight.
Jack got out first. He opened your door, then lifted the car seat with that same careful focus. You walked up the path beside him. You both looked through the window on the front door—so many bags. A pack of diapers is leaning against the doorframe. An empty box with a bassinet pictured on the side. A grocery bag overflowing with wipes, bottles, and something that appeared to be a stuffed giraffe wearing a bow tie.
On top of the diaper box was a folded receipt with a note in Robby’s handwriting.
‘I panicked responsibly.’
You laughed so suddenly you had to cover your mouth.
Jack stared at the bags. Then the note. Then the giraffe. “He bought a giraffe.”
You shrugged helplessly.
From inside the house, Otis barked once. Not frantic. Alert.
Jack shifted the car seat slightly. “Ready?”
“No.”
His mouth moved faintly. “Me neither.”
He unlocked the door. Otis met you in the entryway, tail sweeping low and careful like even he understood this was not a normal homecoming.
Jack set the car seat down on the entryway rug and kept one hand on Otis’s collar.
“Gentle,” he said quietly.
Otis looked at him. Then at the car seat. Then at you.
You crouched beside the carrier and folded back the blanket just enough for him to smell. Otis stepped closer slowly. One sniff. Then another. His tail moved once. Low. Soft. Then he sat. Immediately. Like he had been given a job and understood it mattered.
Your chest caved in. “Good boy,” you whispered.
Jack’s hand stayed on Otis’s collar, steady and gentle. “Yeah,” he said, voice rougher. “Good boy.”
Otis looked up at him. Then back at the baby. June Bug slept through the whole thing. Of course she did. The house around you looked like a supply aisle had exploded. Bags in the hall. Instructions on the counter. An assembled bassinet in the living room. A stuffed giraffe upright on the couch, dignified and unnecessary. Your coffee mug from that morning is still in the sink. Jack’s jacket is on the chair. Otis’s leash is by the door. Life everywhere. Loud. Alive. Terrifying.
Jack lifted the car seat and carried it into the living room. You followed, Otis at your heel.
He set the carrier near the couch and stood there like he did not know what his hands were allowed to do now that he had put her down.
You knew the feeling. You sat slowly on the couch. “Jack.”
He looked at you.
“Come sit.”
He did. Carefully. Like sitting made it real. Otis settled at your feet, chin on his paws, eyes fixed on the carrier. The house went quiet. Not empty. Never empty now. Just quiet enough to hear her breathe. You leaned toward the car seat and looked down. Baby Jane Doe slept with one tiny fist near her face, dark lashes resting against rosy cheeks, mouth soft now instead of solemn.
You felt Jack beside you. Warm. Still. You reached for his hand. He took it immediately.
Neither of you spoke for a long time.
There were no vows here.
No ring.
No audience.
No guarantee.
There was paperwork on the kitchen counter. A county number in your phone. Follow-up appointments. A process ahead that could still break your hearts in ways neither of you was ready to name.
She was not yours.
Not legally.
Not finally.
Not in any way that paperwork would recognize yet.
But for tonight, she was safe.
In your house.
Under your roof.
With Otis at your feet and Robby’s panic-bought diapers stacked in the hallway.
Summary: Nothing is said directly, but everything is seen. What once felt contained begins to surface, as coworkers, friends, and even strangers recognize something neither of them has fully named yet.
The shift starts like any other. Too many patients. Not enough time. You settle into it easily. That part hasn’t changed. Room five needs labs redrawn. Room nine is asking for pain meds again. A chart half-finished waits at the station while you move through everything else that can’t.
It’s busy. It’s loud. It’s familiar.
Which helps.
Because you don’t have to think.
You’re at the central station updating a chart when a cup appears beside your keyboard.
You freeze.
Medium cup. Iced. Exactly how you take it.
“Wow,” Shen says, flat. “So that’s it?”
You keep your eyes on the screen. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He leans back in his chair like he’s just been personally betrayed.
“I bring you coffee for a year,” he says, gesturing toward the cup, “and you replace me with him?”
You finally look at him. “I didn’t replace you.”
“Then explain that,” Cruz cuts in, nodding toward the cup. “Because that looks intentional.”
You grab the coffee before you can stop yourself. “I could have ordered this.”
Ellis doesn’t even look up from her chart. “True, but you didn’t.”
You stare at her. She flips a page calmly.
“He knows how you take it,” she adds. “That’s not new.”
Your chest tightens slightly. You look back at your screen.
“Maybe he’s just being nice,” you say.
“Jack’s nice to everyone,” Cruz says easily. “But not like that.”
You don’t answer. Because you know exactly what he means.
Shen gestures vaguely between you and the hallway.
“He pays attention to you,” he says. “Like—specifically.”
Ellis glances up now. “It’s the timing,” she adds. “The way you move together.”
“You don’t have to talk about it,” she continues, already looking back down. “It’s just… noticeable.”
That word again. You hate it.
Cruz leans against the counter beside you. “It’s not a bad thing,” he says.
You finally look at him. “I didn’t say it was.”
“I’m saying,” he continues, “it’s different.”
Too calm. Too certain. Your fingers still on the keyboard. Because you don’t have a response ready. Because you don’t know if he’s wrong.
Shen exhales slowly.
“Look, no one’s judging,” he says, softer now.
You glance at him.
“Not really,” he adds. “You’re both good at your jobs.”
“But people are definitely paying attention.”
There it is. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just truthful.
Ellis closes her chart. “Just don’t be surprised when it stops being background noise,” she says.
You hold her gaze for a second. Then look away first.
Across the department, you catch a glimpse of Jack moving between rooms.
Focused. Controlled. Exactly where he should be. Exactly how he’s supposed to look.
For a second, you wonder what everyone else sees when they look at the two of you.
Then you close the chart. Because there’s no version of that question that ends well.
You don’t think about the conversation again immediately. There isn’t time. There never is. A patient in room eight needs a reassessment. Labs are delayed. A family member is asking questions you’ve already answered twice. Someone calls your name from across the department. You move through it. Efficient. Focused. Normal. But something lingers.
You’re restocking a cart when Rowan steps into the supply alcove beside you.
“Hey,” he says.
You glance up briefly. “Hey.”
He leans one shoulder against the wall, watching you for a second longer than necessary.
“You look busy.”
“That’s usually how it goes around here.”
A faint smile. “Fair.”
You grab a pack of gauze. Then another. He doesn’t leave. You notice that.
“What?” you ask.
“Nothing.” He replies.
You pause. Because you’ve heard that before. Too recently.
“You’re different today.”
There it is. You don’t react right away. “Am I?”
“Yes.” Too simple. Too certain.
“Everyone’s noticed.”
You adjust something that doesn’t need adjusting. “I don’t think I’ve done anything differently.”
“That’s kind of the point.”
You straighten slightly. “What does that mean?”
“You’re not trying,” he says. “Which is… noticeable.”
“That doesn’t sound like a problem.” You respond.
“It’s not,” he says. “Not in a bad way.”
That lands. You study him. “Is that supposed to be reassuring?”
“Depends on what you’re worried about.” He shrugs.
You don’t answer.
“He’s not subtle about it either,” he adds with a small smile.
Your chest tightens. You don’t ask. He doesn’t push.
“I don’t think it’s a bad thing,” he adds. “I just think you should know how it looks from the outside.”
You nod once. “Okay.”
“I’m not asking you to explain it.” He says.
“I wasn’t going to.” You reply.
“I figured.” He steps away, then pauses.
“I like this version of you,” he says.
A beat.
“You just might want to decide how much of it you’re willing to let the rest of the world have.”
Then he’s gone.
He doesn’t mean to hear it. Jack is halfway past the break room when your name carries through the open door.
“…I’m just saying, it’s obvious.”
He slows. Not enough to be noticed. Just enough to listen.
“It’s not like it’s subtle,” someone adds.
A pause. “They’re good together,” another voice says.
“That’s not the point.”
A beat.
“The point is it’s him, an attending.”
That lands. Quiet. Precise.
“Yeah,” someone else says. “And she’s a resident. It’s not a great look.”
Something shifts in his chest.
“They’re both smart,” a voice offers. “I’m sure they know what they’re doing.”
A pause.
“That’s what I’m worried about.” Silence follows.
He doesn’t stay long enough to hear more. Doesn’t need to. He keeps walking. Same pace. Same expression. Same control. But something has already shifted.
Because now—
It’s not just between you.
You know something is different before you see him. Not because anything has changed. Because nothing has. The automatic doors slide open to the same cold air, the same layered scent of coffee and disinfectant, the same steady churn of voices, wheels, overhead pages. The department moves around you exactly as it always does—fast, efficient, indifferent.
You fall into it without thinking. Which makes it easier to notice. You don’t go looking for him. You don’t have to. Room six pulls you in before anything else can. Fever. Tachycardic. Young enough that the numbers don’t quite line up yet. You step to the bedside, already reaching for the chart.
“Hey,” you say, voice steady. “Tell me what’s going on.” You’re halfway through the assessment when he walks in. You don’t turn. You feel it. The shift in the room—subtle, but unmistakable.
“Vitals?” he asks.
“Temp 102. 56. Heart rate one-thirty,” you answer, already reaching for the blood pressure cuff.
“Any travel?”
“Not recently,” you say, glancing at the monitor. “Started last night.”
He steps in beside you. Not close enough to touch. Close enough to work.
“Let’s get labs. Blood cultures,” he says.
“Already ordered.”
A beat.
“Of course they are.” He says.
You don’t look at him. You don’t need to. You’re already moving. Gloves on. Tourniquet. Vein found on the first try. He hands you the tubes before you ask. You don’t thank him. You don’t have to. The rhythm is still there. Perfect. Untouched.
You move through it together like you always have—no hesitation, no overlap, no wasted words. He listens while you speak. You anticipate before he asks. It’s seamless. Automatic. Familiar enough to feel like muscle memory. You could do this with your eyes closed. The patient stabilizes. Fever addressed. Fluids running. Labs sent. The room settles. And for a second, it almost feels the same.
Then he steps back. “Page me when labs are back.” Professional. Even.
You nod once. “Got it.”
And he leaves. No pause. No extra word. No glance. Just gone.
You stand there for a second longer than you should. Because that’s new. Because it shouldn’t be. Because he always stayed half a beat longer. Not for the patient.
For you.
You strip off your gloves and move to the sink, turning the water on and letting it run for a second before you bring your hands under it. The rhythm is still there. That’s the problem. Because everything else isn’t.
You don’t miss what he’s doing. You just didn’t expect him to start doing it.
You dry your hands slowly. Then turn back toward the hall.
You see him again at the central station. Different patient. Different chart. Same posture. Same distance. He’s explaining something to a resident when you step up beside him. Close enough to be included. Not close enough to be noticed.
You wait. Your pulse is steady. You make sure of it. He finishes the explanation without rushing it, answers a follow-up question, and signs off on something. Then he turns slightly. Sees you. There’s a brief flicker of recognition. There. Still there. Something in your chest loosens—just enough to feel it.
“Everything okay?” he asks. Professional. Even. The tone lands wrong. Not cold. Worse. Familiar. Like nothing has changed.
You nod once. “Yeah.”
A beat. You don’t leave.
He notices that. “What do you need?”
That one lands. Quiet. Immediate. A tightening low in your chest—sharp enough to register. Because that’s new. Because that shouldn’t be how he talks to you.
“I don’t need anything,” you say. A pause.
Something shifts in his expression. “Okay.” He waits.
You let the silence stretch. You could soften it. Make it easier. You don’t.
“Are you free after shift?” you ask. Clear. Deliberate.
His gaze drops. And there it is. Your stomach tightens.
“I’ve got a few things after.” Flat. Final.
Something in your chest pulls tight. Not confusion. Recognition.
You nod once. “Okay.” You don’t add anything. You don’t soften it. You don’t give him something to fix.
“Yqou could—” he starts.
Stops.
You don’t help him.
“I’m good,” you say. Simple. Final. You step back.
“Thanks,” you add, nodding toward the chart.
Then you walk away. You don’t look back. Because you already know.
The shift ends the way it always does. Slowly. Charts finished. Reports handed off.
You sign your last note. And you don’t look for him. You don’t wait. You just leave. But don’t want to go home yet. Not after whatever the hell that was. You make it as far as the locker room. Take your badge off. Pull your hair down. Sit for a second longer than you need to.
Then—
“Hey,” you say, glancing toward Ellis as she closes her locker.
She looks up. “What?”
You hesitate. Just for a second. “Do you want to grab breakfast?”
A pause.
Her brow lifts slightly. “Now?”
You shrug. “I’m not ready to go home yet.”
That’s honest enough.
She studies you for a beat. “Yeah,” she says. “Give me five.”
The place is close. One of those diner-style cafés that never really closes. The kind of place that smells like coffee before you even open the door.
Inside, it’s warm. Too bright. A little too loud in a way that feels grounding instead of overwhelming. A server nods you toward a booth without asking.
You slide in across from Ellis. Vinyl seat still faintly warm from whoever was there before you.
Coffee lands in front of you before you even open the menu. You wrap your hands around the mug immediately. Heat sinks into your fingers. Your palms. Your wrists.
It helps.
Ellis watches you over the rim of her own cup.
“You look like you’ve either had a really good shift or a really bad one.”
You stare into the coffee for a second. “Can’t it be neutral?”
“No.”
You huff out a small breath. “That’s fair.”
A server appears. You order without thinking. Eggs. Toast. Something simple.
Ellis does the same.
Silence settles for a moment. Not awkward, she’s just waiting. Waiting for you to speak.
“You’re quieter,” she says finally, prompting.
You glance up. “Long shift.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Of course it isn’t. You drag your thumb once along the edge of the mug.
“It’s Jack.”
The words come out clean. No hesitation.
Ellis nods once. “Okay.”
No surprise. No follow-up. Just understanding.
You exhale slowly. “He’s just…” You start, then stop.
Ellis doesn’t rush you. “Different?” she offers.
You nod. “Yeah.”
A beat.
You don’t ease into it. You don’t soften it.
“We slept together.”
Ellis’s expression doesn’t change, but there's a flicker of amusement in her eyes as she takes a slow sip of her coffee.
“Okay,” she says again.
You look down at your cup. “It wasn’t—” you stop, shake your head slightly. “It wasn’t a mistake.” That matters. You need it to be clear.
“It was good,” you add, quieter. “Really good.”
Ellis nods once, a small grin. “I figured.”
You let out a breath that almost turns into a laugh.
“We spent the last few days together,” you continue. “Not just that—everything.” You gesture vaguely.
“His place. Mine. Work. Outside of work. It just—” you search for it, then land on the only word that fits, “worked.”
Ellis watches you carefully now. “And now?” she asks.
You shake your head slightly. “That’s the problem.”
A pause.
“He didn’t do anything,” you say. “Not really.” Your fingers tighten slightly around the mug.
“He’s still there. Still paying attention. Still…” you trail off.
“Still him,” Ellis fills in.
“Yeah.” You swallow once. “But it feels like he’s already pulling back.”
Ellis doesn’t interrupt.
“Not in a way I can point to,” you add. “It’s just—different.”
A beat.
“Like he’s thinking about something I’m not part of yet.”
That lands.
“And you can feel it,” she says.
You nod. “Even when nothing’s wrong.”
Another quiet pause. Ellis sets her cup down.
“That’s not nothing,” she says.
You huff out a breath. “I know.”
Your food arrives. Plates are set down between you. Neither of you has reached for them yet.
“I’m not chasing it,” you say after a second. The words come out steady. More certain than you feel.
Ellis nods once. “Good.”
You glance up. “Good?”
“Yes.” A beat. “If he’s already creating space, even a little, you don’t fill it for him.”
That lands immediately.
You sit back slightly. “That feels like a risk.”
“It is.” Another pause. “But so is doing all the work,” she says.
There it is. You look down at your plate. Because she’s right. Because you already knew she’d be right. You pick up your fork. Finally, take a bite. Warm. Simple. Real.
“I trust him,” you say after a second.
Ellis nods. “I can tell.”
You glance up. “But I don’t trust what this turns into,” you add.
Quieter now. More honest. She doesn’t soften it.
“Then don’t rush to find out,” she says. A beat. “Let him show you.”
You hold her gaze. Because that’s the part that feels hardest. Waiting. Not controlling it. Not fixing it.
“…okay,” you say. Not confident. Just willing.
Ellis studies you for a second. Then, lighter—“I’m assuming it was worth it.”
You let out a quiet breath through your nose. “Yeah.” A pause. “It was.”
She nods once. “Good,” she says. “At least we’re not dealing with regret.”
That pulls a small, real smile out of you. For a second, neither of you says anything.
“Hey,” you say.
She looks up. “Yeah?” You hesitate. Just briefly.
“Thank you.” The words land more softly than everything else. Not dramatic. Just… real. Ellis doesn’t brush it off. Doesn’t make a joke. She reaches across the table instead. Brief. Easy. Her hand covers yours for just a second.
“I’ve got you,” she says. Simple. No conditions. No follow-up.
Something in your chest loosens. More than it has all morning.
You nod once. “I know.”
He notices when you’re gone. Not immediately. Then—the absence.
“Looking for someone?” Shen asks.
“No,” Jack responds. Too quick.
“She already left,” Shen adds. “Didn’t wait.”
That lands. He looks toward the doors. Doesn’t move.
Because now—
He feels it.
The space. The difference. The fact that you didn’t fill it. He looks down at his phone.
