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about me! ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡. ⋆.˚✮ Grace, she/her ࣪ ִֶָ☾. 22 .ᯓ➤ pedro pascal ♡ ✧˖°. libra ⋆ hufflepuff ⋆ marvel ⋆ enneagram 2w1 ⋆ INFP ⋆ chaotic good ✦•┈๑⋅⋯⚚ ok love you, bye!
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DEAR READER
Peter Solarz
cherry valley forever

tannertan36
todays bird
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shark vs the universe
NASA
YOU ARE THE REASON

titsay
styofa doing anything

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Alisa U Zemlji Chuda

blake kathryn
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PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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art blog(derogatory)

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@theetherealbloom
MAIN MASTERLIST
about me! ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡. ⋆.˚✮ Grace, she/her ࣪ ִֶָ☾. 22 .ᯓ➤ pedro pascal ♡ ✧˖°. libra ⋆ hufflepuff ⋆ marvel ⋆ enneagram 2w1 ⋆ INFP ⋆ chaotic good ✦•┈๑⋅⋯⚚ ok love you, bye!
all dividers by @saradika-graphics
PEDRO PASCAL MAIN MASTERLIST
THE PITT MASTERLIST
MARVEL CINEMATIC UNIVERSE MASTERLIST
HUGH JACKMAN MAIN MASTERLIST (coming soon!)
OTHERS!
DOCTOR WHO
SERIES:
WHERE DO WE GO NOW? - (ONGOING)
An old face returns, a spaceship falls from the skies, and you thought you had moved on with that part of your life.
TIM ROCKFORD
ONE SHOT:
NO BODY, NO CRIME
You investigate a series of murders and the disappearance of your friend, Este. Suspecting Este's husband, Adam, you take matters into your own hands, orchestrating a scheme to frame him for the crimes as you hide the truth from your boyfriend-Detective Tim Rockford.
Before We Knew Better | Andrew 'Pope' Cody Masterlist
Rating: 18+ MDNI
Summary: When Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody was taken into care Smurf pulled some strings and got him put in a place close to Oceanside. That place was with you and your parents. Something Smurf would later regret when she realised that the bond you and Andrew forged in the month he was there was never going away. The years went by and the older boy became your best friend. Your protector. Your person. Fast forward and when Andrew gets out of prison he finds out Smurf’s hatred for you has gone to a whole other level.
Pairing: Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody x reader
Overall Warnings: Smut, violence, overprotective Pope, sub!Pope if you squint, angry pope, piv sex, oral sex, established relationship.
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight
Part Nine... In Progress
Mating Rituals
Titus Danforth X Le Domas Bride!Reader
Follow Up To: The Loophole: A Dark Wedding A Solstice Sacrifice The Debut Little Bite One: Spend. His. Money. Followed By: Little Bite Two: The Nightmare A Danforth Wedding Tradition
Summary: Maybe you're rushing into it. Maybe the man you are destined to be with being a leader of a cult of the literal devil who rules the entire world means conventionality has no place in your world. You love Titus Danforth, you want to give him an heir.
Tags: ummmm yeah we're doing a sexy blood ritual to make a baby, dom/sub-bdsm elements, pretty light restraints/shibari, rough sex, blood rituals, dirty talk, choking, slapping, biting all that, sex on the alter table (you're all so welcome), unprotected sex but that is like the whole point, oral sex (male receiving), one instance of spitting into reader's mouth didn't think i was into that but here we are, slightly OOC RoN2 characters yah duh
A/N: there is some extremely inaccurate latin phrases because i was trying to use actual chants from the film but there is not transcript so i just made shit up using handy old google translate. enjoy, sickos and weirdos ;)
AO3 Link if that's your preference
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
If any normal person was told about your relationship with Titus, they would say you were crazy. They wouldn’t even be talking about the murder and sacrifice and weird kinky shit in your sex life.
No, they’d say you’re crazy for moving so fast, with a man you’ve only just met.
But. Even though it’s only been a few months, you know exactly what kind of life you want with Titus Danforth. You tied your blood and soul to him and promised to be his for eternity. In every life. In the fires of hell.
So, wanting to have a baby with him isn’t all that crazy. Not really. Not for you and Titus.
He hadn’t mentioned anything, but there was something inside you that said it might be expected that the head branch of the Danforth family, the family in the High Seat of Mr. Le Bail, would have an heir. Or two.
And you want it so bad. Ever since the first time Titus came inside you, and you felt him drip from you when you’d walked away, you’d become an addict. All forms of contraception went in the garbage, and for weeks you had him every which way, in every room, on every possible surface.
You hadn’t really talked to Titus about your plan, but he has his suspicions.
+
“Oh, fuck, just like that Ti, god that feels so fucking good,” you moan into the sheet, knuckles white where they tangle with the black silk fabric.
You’re on your hands and knees, Titus fucking you from behind with one hand tangled in your hair and the other pressing down on the small of your back. His hips slap against your ass with every thrust, hitting deep inside, making your legs feel like Jello.
“Yeah, Baby? Like when I fuck you hard?” Titus moans brokenly. “So deep inside yah, Little Lamb, squeezin’ me so tight, oh fuck, gonna come.”
“Yes,” you moan, long and high, panting out your following breaths. “Please Ti, come inside me, wanna feel it, wanna be full of you—ah!”
You’re cut off by the rough landing of Titus’s hand coming down on your ass, and you scream out your pleasure.
It’s one of those nights where the love between you two is shown through the angry, violent marks left on each other’s skin. You’ve already scratched up his back to the point of blood stains on the sheets, he’s bitten your neck like a vampire feasting on a meal, and you are littered with finger sized imprints on your hips and thighs. There’s probably already a tub filled with warm lavender infused water waiting to soothe all your aches when you’re done.
On the night you’d met, Titus told you he wasn’t a gentle man, and he’s kept that promise for the most part.
A spike of pleasure shoots up your spine when his cock hits your cervix, and you gasp when his fingers start to rub circles on your clit. You know he’s close too from the way his hips start to lose their rhythm, and you clench around him as the strength in your arms finally gives out.
You fall face first onto the bed, screaming into the pillows as your body shakes through your orgasm, the sounds muffled.
Titus won’t stand for that, and he wraps a hand into your hair and yanks your neck back, his other plants on the bed next to yours, the veins in his bicep flex from holding his weight. He leans down to grunt in your ear, “Nuh uh Baby, don’t hide those sounds from me. Tell me what you want, beg me for it.”
The color in your eyes is almost completely blown black, and precious little tears prick the corners as you look up at him. He loves when you cry, the release of tension from your body brought out by the pleasure he gives you. He owns those tears. As one falls down your cheek, his tongue darts out to lick it up.
“Please,” you mewl, looking up into his eyes. He looks like he’s searching in your eyes for something, some answer to a question he’s had on his mind for a while. “Please,” you repeat, as though to answer it. “Come inside me, Ti, need it. Want you to—fuck—want you—”
The words are lost beyond the sound of Titus groaning, hips snapping deep into you as he comes. He whimpers as he fucks into your trembling body a few more times, until he empties into you.
You swallow each stuttered sound he makes in a kiss, bringing a hand to his cheek to steady him. Your nails scratch lightly at his skin, pads of your fingers tingle over the silver stubble on his cheek. You hum into the kiss, pussy giving one last pulse at the feeling of his come starting to seep out of you.
A wet sound pops between you two as Titus breaks the kiss, and he nudges your nose with his before slowly slipping his dick out. Your body slumps down on the bed, and you pull him down onto you as you roll onto your back, lightly tracing your fingers up and down his spine. After shakes and twitches tremble up and down your body as Titus silently takes in the sight of you.
He nudges your legs open with his knee, creating a better space for him to rest in for just a few moments before he knows he’ll have to get you in that bath.
It’s quiet between you two, which is not a usual thing after sex. Titus is usually so talkative. His lips are usually spilling with sweet nothings, compliments, sick descriptions of just how much he loves you, but tonight...tonight he just stares at you. His hand is running up and down your cheek, eyes still searching into yours, lip bitten between his teeth, and that muscle in his cheek twitches in a way you know means he is carefully forming his words.
It makes you squirm, eyes looking anywhere but his.
“Lamb,” Titus finally says, tone expectant, but patient.
“Yes?” You respond, voice high and cracking on just the one word, attempting to act casual.
“Is there...” Titus’s jaw clicks, and he lets out a soft sigh. “Is there anything you need to tell me? Or ask me?”
You shrug, biting the inside of your cheek, hand moving over his shoulder and down his chest, fingers tapping on a few of his freckles. “What do you mean?”
“I think you know...”
Finally, mercifully, you look up at him again. “Well...” you cut yourself off. You feel ridiculous. Why can’t you just tell Titus what you want? Why is it so hard to tell him...
Is it because a part of you feels absolutely silly at the thought of having a baby with a man you met only months ago? But Titus is a special case, right? Your whole world was turned upside down, and he changed everything, showed you proof of a dark magic that is still beyond your understanding. You are not a conventional couple.
“I just...” you say. You press onto his chest, shaking your head, and you wince as you try to sit up, all the aches he caused finally hitting your nerves endings. “C-can we go to the bath? Please? We can talk in there.”
An array of emotions stemming from petulantly annoyed to genuine pity takes over Titus’s face, until he makes the correct choice in not arguing with you.
Slipping off the bed, Titus takes you into his arms, cradling you to his bare body as he walks the two of you into the baths. One of the servants is still putting the finishing touches, lighting the last candle in a circle of about a hundred that line the room, and his eyes go wide with terror when the two of you enter. Titus shoots him a threatening glare, and the man runs out of the room, leaving the two of you alone.
Slowly, you’re lowered into the warmth of the bath, and you let out a relieved hum as Titus steps in with you. It stays quiet for a few minutes while he washes the sweat and grime and blood from your body, leaving a trail of kisses over each angry mark. You feel the tip of his nose follow on your skin as he sniffs the lavender oil.
Finally, once he’s sure he’s left a soothing touch to every inch of you, Titus lays back against the tub, and he pulls you into him, wrapping his strong arms around your body to hold you close.
With one more kiss to your shoulder, Titus decides it’s time to question you again. “Little Lamb, what do you want to ask me?”
You suck in a deep breath. “Well I...I guess I was just wondering if, like, god I don’t know how to say this,” you groan, running your hands down your face. You shake yourself out of your nerves, spitting out, “I want to have a baby.”
The reaction from Titus is immediate, his arms tighten their hold around you, and you feel the breath he’s been holding in quickly release like a spike into the back of your neck. “Really?”
“Well, yeah, I...” you turn in his arms, water swishing around you. “Are you really going to tell me there’s no, like, expectation of us creating a Danforth heir?”
Titus laughs, eyes crinkling and sharp teeth showing between his lips. “An heir? Who gave you that idea?”
“Nobody I...” your face falls. “I thought you’d want to. And we’re the head of the family, in the High Seat. Shouldn’t we?”
“Guess I never really thought about that. I’ve just been enjoying our time together, and Ursula hasn’t said anything. It's not in the rules that we have to have an heir.”
“Oh,” your voice is almost silent, eyes twinged with a disappointed sadness as you turn back around. You stare into the water, slowly waving your fingers over the surface to make more ripples, shapes to distract yourself from the painful sickness in your chest. “Okay.”
And Titus knows immediately that wasn’t the way to answer you. “Hey?” He nudges his cheek into yours. “I didn’t say I didn’t want a baby, I’m just saying it’s not a requirement. Ursula and I...our time to take the High Seat came a little unexpected, and you know we had been trying to avoid a lot of the familial rituals before...well you. I never thought I would marry, especially not for love.”
You perk up at that, a small smile for mostly just yourself forming on your face. Many might think the two of you didn’t in fact marry for love. Most of the gossip going around to various families is that you just married for the convenience of him winning and you getting to live. They don’t know about the deep connection between you two. They don’t know about the magnet pull that brought your souls together.
“I always thought if a Danforth heir was going to be made, it wouldn’t be through traditional means. We’d just...pick someone with good genes and pay them off once the baby was here. But you...you’ve changed everything for me. Any gray area I saw in my future, you’ve filled with definitive color. If you want to make a baby, I’m happy to do so.”
You turn back to him with a bright smile. “Yeah?”
“Absolutely,” he says, pushing you in by the back of the neck for a soft kiss. “You think I didn’t notice that you’ve been very irresponsible lately? Don’t get me wrong, I love fucking you raw, but you could have let me in on this plan. We’d be having even more sex.”
“I don’t know how that’s possible,” you giggle. You lift his hand and bring it to your lower stomach, and nip at his neck as you mumble, “Maybe it already took, you know?”
“Maybe,” Titus says, voice full of awe. “But, you know if you want to make sure, there is a ritual we could perform.”
You still, quickly sitting up, water splashing out of the tub from the speed of your movements. “You’re joking. Le Bail has a ritual for fucking everything?”
Titus shrugs, and amused smirk on his face. “Well, yeah, that’s sort of how it goes in a devil cult.”
You roll your eyes. “Are you telling me that all of you second and third generation Le Bail organization people were conceived during some kind of freaky mating ritual?”
Titus chuckles again. “No, not everyone. Ursula and I were. I’m sure most of your former in-laws were. But it’s not a requirement. It’s just a way to ensure you’ll make an heir, and that they’ll be strong. Each eldest child of the Danforth High family has been conceived during the ritual since our ancestors first signed their name away. My parents got pretty lucky with making twins.”
“Well...then I want to do it,” you insist, adorable frown furrowing on your brow. “I want to give you a worthy heir.”
“Us, my sweet lamb,” Titus corrects, bringing your hands up to his lips so he can kiss each knuckle. “We will make us a worthy heir.”
+
It surprises you how deeply Titus dives into research for this ritual. He calls the Lawyer, has him bring stacks of books and records, the history of almost every heir to High Families in the Le Bail organization. There is no guarantee that it will work, or that the heir truly would be all powerful, but more that the ritual is asking for a blessing from Le Bail. If he approves, he will give the couple what they want.
Normally that kind of gamble isn’t something Titus would agree to, despite all his family does and every other piece of their contract with Le Bail, but he will do anything to give the two of you an edge.
You ask him a million questions while he does his research, but he constantly tells you not to worry. He’ll take care of everything. All you have to do for him is take care of your body, rest up, and let him take care of you.
He doesn’t even tell you when he plans on doing the ritual.
“Are you just going to like, stage a kidnapping in the middle of the night, tie me up, and take me in the Black Temple, or?” You ask, impatiently tapping your fork against your breakfast plate.
Titus snorts, shaking his head as he sorts through the stack of morning mail. “Do you want me to do that?”
“Tie me up? Well...” your lips turn up in a smirk. “I’ve been asking for a demonstration of those rope skills for months.”
Finally, Titus’s eyes flick up to you. “Baby.”
“What?”
“Let me handle it,” Titus hums, giving you a stern look.
“You know I’m not into surprises, Ti.”
“This will be a good surprise, like all the surprises you get from me.”
He looks and sounds offended at your apprehension, and you understand. There will always be a small piece of you stuck in that moment when you watched Alex’s sister shoot one of the maids in the face, when you realized the world you lived in wasn’t what you thought it was, that stays on high alert. But Titus...any time he’s sprung something on you it’s been good and fun. He doesn’t hide anything important, not really.
Still, you’re way too eager for this.
You let out a long sigh instead of an argument, which Titus ignores, picking up an ornate envelope from the pile. “Hm, we got a save the date from...oh god, Felicity Danforth,” he says, somewhere halfway between a chuckle and an eye roll. “She’s one of our cousins, Ursula will have to tell you that story. Guess I have to prep for a Danforth Wedding too now.”
“Titus,” you groan. “Can’t I at least know when this is happening?”
You can see the hint of playfulness hiding behind his eyes. He really gets a kick out of annoying you. Titus drops the envelope on the table and pushes his chair back, sitting back to open up space on his lap. He gives you a nod, beckoning you over. “Come here.”
With pursed lips, you push yourself out of your seat and walk around to perch in his lap instead, throwing one arm around his shoulders while the other trails up and down the buttons on his shirt.
Titus noses along your cheek, leaving small kisses that make your skin tingle. “Full moon is next week.”
“It has to be on the full moon?”
“No,” Titus shrugs. “But it’s romantic.”
“Who knew Titus Danforth was such a romantic?” You tease, pulling him in for a kiss.
Of course, you know very well how romantic he can be. Titus Chester Danforth, the psychopath, world ruling son of Chester Danforth, who enjoyed inflicting pain and killing people in the name of Satan, is probably the most romantic man you’ve ever met. Sometimes you wonder if he was secretly always like this, or if this softness opened in his heart just for you. Just for someone as sick as him.
You hum into his lips, reluctantly pulling away. “You know, when I’m pregnant, we can’t have any rough sex for a while.”
A painful sadness flashes in his eyes for a moment, almost like he wants to argue with reality. His jaw clicks into place, and his cheek twitches, and he says through nearly gritted teeth. “Then we better enjoy ourselves while we still can.”
You wonder if he could handle gentle, and an amused thrill runs up your spine at the thought of seeing him try.
+
It’s storming at the Lodge.
The pounding rain and thunder, with occasional bolts of lightning in the sky, only adds to the ambiance of the evening.
Titus had a portion of the resort cut off, off limits from the other guests so you two could take all the time you needed in the basement of the Lodge. When you arrived, he escorted you to private quarters, handed you a garment box, placed a kiss on your forehead, and left you to prepare on your own. He told you to take as much time as you needed while he went to the alter room to set everything up.
You could tell he was just as giddy as your wedding night, when he’d led you to this very room, and left you with a team of servants to clean the blood and grime from your skin. Tonight it’s all you.
After a hot bath, you rubbed your whole body with lavender scented lotion and left most of your makeup off except for dark mascara on your lashes. You’ve given him just over an hour to prepare, which you decide is plenty of time, so you sit at the vanity and tap your hands over the garment box.
You open it to find a long black velvet robe, similar to what the guests had worn to your wedding. It’s so soft to the touch as you wrap it around your naked body, almost too soft for how you imagine this night is going to go. You secure the ties to keep it together, the fabric completely covering you.
You think about what a waste it is that the robe isn’t red, as you throw on the hood, because you’d look like some version of Little Red Riding hood, on her way to the claws of the awaiting big bad wolf.
What is waiting for you in the Black Temple is so much better, something you’ll willingly let devour you.
Your phone buzzes on the vanity, a message from Titus to tell you that he’s ready.
One of the butlers leads you down the stairs to the entrance of the alter room, and he silently opens the door for you, bowing like a servant to his queen. He watches as you step inside, and shuts the door behind you, the sound of the decades old stone door echoing powerfully through the room.
The view you have is lit by the orange light of the pyres that line the walls, with a line of white and black candles leading your path on the ground. The musky scent of incents fills your senses, and as your eyes adjust, you can see the smoke dancing through the air. Your mind flashes back to your wedding as your eyes settle on Titus, waiting for you at the Alter table, sporting a black robe just like yours.
He’s looking at you the same way he did that night, the same way he does every night, with an almost boyish wonder in his smile. As you descend the stairs to make your way to him, the room feels even bigger than you remember, the sound of your footsteps echoing into the emptiness. Maybe it’s the lack of people watching the two of you, no doubt starting their phases of envy and intrigue over the girl who could win two of Le Bail’s games in two nights.
When you reach him, Titus takes one of your hands in his and uses the other to push your hood back down, sucking in a deep breath. You’re both equally as giddy, and it shows in the blush on his cheeks, the electricity in your eyes.
Beside him, the alter table is set up in a way similar to your wedding, with black candles of varying sizes lit in a circle around a pentagram he drew with white chalk. In the center of the pentagram is the Danforth ceremonial dagger, surrounded on each point of the star by some crystals, a bundle of herbs, an unlit heart-shaped red candle, what you assume is the horn of a goat, and a small empty gold goblet. Propped open on a gold stand is the Danforth copy of Le Bail’s book.
The table itself is rather large. A slab of black onyx about 6 feet by 6 feet, and with the positioning of the ritual set up, it leaves plenty of room for Titus to lay your body out, take you however he pleases. The thought already has heat filling you and your thighs clenching.
You’ve actually dreamed of a version of your wedding where he’d made everyone watch as you two consummated the marriage, with Le Bail’s pleased eyes watching you from the fireplace.
“Are you ready, Little Lamb?” Titus’s voice breaks you from your fantasies. You bite your lip and nod in response, and Titus’s tone drops to a deep rasp, as he beckons, “Come here.”
You let yourself be pulled into him, let his arms wrap around your waist, hands feeling everywhere over the velvet, as your eyes close and you take him in. His body is so hard, all muscle and strength, like he could break you in half without really trying. You brush your hands up his chest, not pushing away, just feeling him all over, like it’s the first time all over again.
“Once we start...” Titus whispers, lips ghosting along the skin of your neck, leaving goosebumps in their path. “We cannot stop until that candle is melted entirely,” he gestures to the heart candle. “You’ll have to do what I say, follow my every lead...submit to me fully.”
A small part of you wants to laugh. It’s a little ridiculous for Le Bail to ask that of you, when it was your lack of submission that definitely gained his favor to win his games in the first place.
But you want to make a worthy heir, and if this is what the ritual calls for, then you’ll give every piece of yourself to Titus.
Besides, you know it’ll be fun anyway.
“I doubt we’ll even notice time passing,” you giggle, tugging on Titus’ ear with your teeth. “You’ll probably keep me here well past that little candle.”
You can feel the smirk that forms on his face against your neck. “I’m gonna have you all tied up and at my mercy, Baby. I may never let you leave this room again.”
He kisses you then, grabbing you by the throat to pull you into him, to hold you in place. You whimper and return the kiss, suck his tongue into your mouth, as you allow him to take control of your body. His hand moves to the ties on your robe, dexterous fingers easily pulling them all loose, and he brushes the robe off your shoulders, revealing your bare skin to the warm air.
A hungry, needy sound comes from somewhere deep in Titus’s throat as he takes in the sight of your naked body, littered with fading marks he’s left over the months you’ve been his. He runs his hands smoothly around your body, settling them on your hips as you moan and press yourself into him. The soft velvet of his robe tickles your skin, which blooms with goosebumps from both the feeling and the anticipation of what he has planned.
“Titus,” you whisper, soft and as patient as you can be in this moment. “Ple—"
He cuts you off suddenly, turning your body around so your back is flush against his front, one hand flying to your throat again to keep you in place, while the other dips between your thighs. He lets out a pleased hum at the wet heat he finds, dipping two fingers between your folds. “Hate leaving you like this, you know?”
You whimper and arch your back into him, one hand flying up to his hair as your other guides the movement of his hand between your legs. “Then don’t, my love. Fuck me.”
He lets you move his hand, lets you press his fingers in slow circles around your clit, while you moan and grind into his touch, just for a long minute. The last moment of the night where you’ll have any actual physical control.
Almost reluctantly, Titus rips his hands away from you, quickly stepping around your shaking body, cornering you into the edge of the alter table. He places his left hand on your cheek, rubs his thumb over your red lips until they part, and then he slowly dips it inside, pressing down hard on your tongue.
Titus steps into your space, into the crackling forcefield of energy that pulls him to you like a magnet. His voice is low and firm as he mumbles sweetly, “Get on your knees.”
You blink up at him with wide eyes, delight filling them as you slowly lower to the ground. You keep sucking on his thumb, tongue wrapping around the digit, as you let out the softest moan around it.
Titus’s lips twitch up in a smirk, and he slowly removes his thumb, rubbing the line of saliva that follows over your bottom lip. Before you can speak, he quickly dips his middle and ring finger into your mouth instead, pressing them all the way in until the metal of his wedding band passes your lips, and you gag just slightly at the pressure he puts on the back of your tongue.
Your body contracts, and you suck in a breath through your nose, as you blink away the deliciously sick feeling. Instinctively, your hands clasp behind your back, as Titus starts to fuck your mouth with his fingers, while his free hand goes up to start undoing the ties of his own robe.
“Look at you, Little Lamb,” Titus groans, pushing his fingers in until they hit your throat, causing you to gag again, your spit wetting his digits. “Being such a good, obedient girl. Gonna fuck your mouth first, okay? Wanna just turn that brain of yours off a little for me.”
You feel your pussy clench at his words, and you give him a slight nod of approval. He shouldn’t need it, not when he’s the one taking charge, but it thrills him to know you’re just as aroused as he is at whatever he wants to do.
Titus slides his fingers from your mouth, raking them over your bottom lip so your spit catches on your chin, glistening under the low light of the fires. He rips open his robe, lets it fall to the ground to reveal his body to you, the light catches the lines of his muscles in a way that makes them look even more defined. His cock, long and thick and already hard, already an angry red and leaking at the tip, kicks up in front of your face.
You suck in a deep breath through your teeth bitten lips, and without him even needing to ask, your mouth drops open, tongue curling out to him.
Your eyes following longingly the movement of Titus’s hand as it wraps around his dick, stroking himself a few times with the remnants of your saliva. He taps the head of his cock onto your tongue a couple times, teasing you.
“Gonna take what I give you, Little Lamb?” He asks, voice low, but soft.
You give him a small nod, and that’s all he needs to wrap his hand in your hair, and shove his cock into your mouth. Your eyes go wide and you gag around him, not entirely ready for the size of him in you. Each time you’ve sucked his dick, it’s still quite the shock how big he is. It’s even more the shock you can take all of him.
He pulls out while you choke, lets you cough out a few times, before watching pleased as you suck in a deep breath and open wide for him again. “That’s it, my baby, you can take it,” he grunts as he shoves his cock into your mouth again, moaning at the feeling of your tongue licking the thick vein.
He starts out slowly, lets you suck him and get used to the size as he pushes in and out of your mouth, fingers scratching at your scalp to encourage you.
He lets out soft moans, chest heaving with each breath he takes as he holds himself back from roughly fucking into you. It’s not until his cock reaches the back of your throat, when your eyes roll back in your head, and your nose is pressed into the neatly trimmed, silver hairs at the base of his cock, that Titus knows you’re ready for more.
“Fuck, Baby, there you go,” he moans, keeping you pressed down all the way until he hears that familiar gagging sound again.
He pulls his cock out all the way, lets you take a deep breath, before finally mercilessly fucking into your mouth again.
Your lids start to shut, eyes hooded but determined, as you let him use your mouth, your brain already going fuzzy. His grunts are music to your ears, and your thighs squeeze together as you try to get any sort of friction between your legs.
“Shit, feel so good, Little Lamb,” Titus moans, voice cracking. “All fucking mine, that’s my fucking mouth, yeah? Bet you’re fucking soaked right now. Fuck, I’m right, aren’t I?” Titus says, grunting low and gravelly between words. “My fucking pussy’s all wet from swallowing my cock? You sweet, sick little thing.”
He sees it in the glint in your eyes, the way you’re too trapped to nod or speak, but you wordlessly tell him he’s right. You love being used by him.
Titus fucks your mouth for a few more strokes, until he feels heat start to rise in his belly, and he almost can’t keep it together. But it can’t end here, he has to do the ritual, has to fuck you until he puts his heir in your womb, give you the ultimate gift.
Titus roughly pulls you off his cock, a combination of your saliva and his precum connecting in a wet string from your tongue to his dick. You let out a rough moan, throat already sore, but you still try to chase his cock with your tongue.
He kneels down with you, though somehow still towering over, and pulls at your cheek with his thumb so your mouth is open wide. “Stick your tongue out, that’s a good girl,” Titus says, voice airy as he heaves out his breaths. As soon as you do as you’re told, he leans right over you, spitting onto your tongue with a wild smile. “Swallow it, Mrs. Danforth.”
You hum as you follow his direction, licking your lips and moaning, a delighted, feral smile in your eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Danforth.”
A spike of aroused heat shoots up Titus’s spine, and he roughly grabs you by the hair to yank you into a biting kiss. He uses his strength to pull the both of you from the ground without breaking the kiss, grabbing your ass, giving it a loud smack, as your body ruts against his, hands still kept behind your back.
He presses you down onto the table, grinding his cock against your leaking cunt, whining into your kiss when the head catches on your slick folds. His moans are cut short when he suddenly removes himself from your body, shaking his head and turning away, grunting as he catches his breath.
“Fuck, hold on, Baby, we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” he says with a breathless laugh.
You sit up on the table, feet dangling off the edge as you blink innocently up at him. You give him a dizzy smile, voice floaty in your response, “I’m just doing what you tell me, Titus.”
Titus lets out a short laugh, kicking your legs open with his. “And what a good job you’re doing, letting me use your mouth.”
His body looms over yours, the shadows in the room accentuate the darkness you know lives in every corner of his heart. Anyone else might be scared if they found Titus Danforth looking down at them like this, like a starved beast about to have its hunger sated. You lean back on your hands, opening your body up to him, to whatever he needs to do to start the ritual.
Titus leaves you momentarily, walking to the other end of the alter to light the heart candle, and comes back with the ceremonial knife and goblet in his hand. He places the goblet on the table next to you, and then picks up your left hand. He kisses the marriage scar on your palm, then brings the knife to your finger, pricking it the tip of the knife.
You hiss through the pain, and he winces just slightly as he guides your finger over the goblet, squeezing it so a few ounces of blood trickle out. Once he’s gotten what he needs, Titus turns your finger back over, kissing it while the bleeding stops, licking a few drops into his mouth.
He repeats the step with his own finger, mixing both of your blood in the glass, before placing the knife to the side. For a moment you think you’re going to have to drink the mixture, but then you watch as he dips two of his thick fingers into the goblet, swirling them to cover them in both of your blood.
“Lie back, Baby,” Titus instructs, standing up straighter, rolling his shoulders back.
You lick your lips as you do what he says, leaning back on your elbows. Titus sighs as his eyes rake down your body, the light making you glow. Carefully, he brings his fingers to your lower stomach, right over your womb, and he begins to recite a prayer in Latin as he draws an upside-down star, surrounding it with a circle.
“With thy assistance, may the seed grow in your wisdom and your strength. Shemhamforash.” Titus finishes his prayer, then guides you to dip your own fingers into the blood mixture.
He helps you draw the same shape on his chest, over his heart, and instructs you to repeat the same end of the prayer. You feel your mind start to even out again as you repeat his words, and as you finish you try to lean into kiss him, but he steps away again.
Titus walks around you, as your eyes follow this time, looking at you like a predator stalking his prey, and it’s only then that you notice the set of black silk scarves hanging on the wall behind the table.
“You told me you want to see my rope skills, Little Lamb,” Titus says, fingers sliding through the soft fabric of the scarves.
You feel like you can hardly breathe as Titus grabs each one. You stare up at him in awe as he carefully wraps a scarf around your thigh, knotting it several times in place, so it makes the shape of a ladder climbing up your leg. Then he slides a longer scarf around the bottom knot and stretches it out, securing it to a little spike at the end of the alter table.
All the while, you watch him carefully, follow the movements of his aged hands, watch the furrow of his brow. He’s focused so intensely on getting each shape of the scarves perfect, makes sure they’re spaced enough not to cut off your circulation. He kisses each space between, each sliver of your skin, smooths his fingers up and down your legs in a way that makes you shiver.
He repeats this same action with the other thigh, keeping your legs spread out for him. It’s like its own ritual, the way he wraps the sleek fabric around, like an artform. How many times has he done this? You know of at least one partner, who you’d rather not think about right now, but how many others? Did he take as much care with them? Did he kiss them as softly? Did he even care?
He directs you to place your hands in front of your chest, wrapping another scarf around your wrists in multiple circles. Then, almost too gently, Titus guides you onto your back and brings your hands up over your head, securing the final scarf behind you.
He steps back to admire his work, your beautiful body splayed out for him, the flames from the fireplace dance in shadows on your body. For a moment he thinks about how you looked in the security footage of your game of Hide and Seek, when the Le Domas’s had you tied up as their sacrifice. When you had so cleverly fought your way out. Now you lay here willingly, not as a sacrifice but as a vessel. As the love of Titus’s life, praying to your demonic god to create a worthy heir to his family’s pseudo throne.
“How do you feel?” He asks, voice tight, lust barely contained as he stares down at you like a feast. Your eyes are still floaty, smile still distant.
You’d done such a good job following his orders so far, said everything you needed to say, sat so obediently while he tied you up. He was honestly a little surprised how little fight you put up with him, and a small part of him sickly loved it. You. His ferocious survivor, his lamb who’d saved herself from her own slaughter, you trust yourself in his hands to give you the gift of a new life.
“Ready,” you whine, legs twitching, not from fighting to escape, but rather from the excitement of waiting. Your eyes dart over to where the heart candle burns, carefully following the drips of the wax.
Titus laughs, stepping between your legs. You’re completely on display for him, pussy glistening from where it leaks, and he can see the way you clench around nothing, silently begging for him to fill you in every way. He licks his lips. If there was time, he’d be on his knees for you now too, he’d take his favorite feast until you were crying, sobbing even, trapped body twitching as you begged him to fuck you.
But he glances over at the heart candle, and he knows there’s not time. As much as you love when he’s got his tongue in you, that’s not what you need tonight.
Titus picks up the goblet, and he begins to chant again as he holds his left hand palm-up above your stomach.
“Deo nostro obscuro oramus,” Titus’s gruff, low voice begins to chant again, as your breathing picks up, chest rising and falling, eyes wide as they watch him raise the goblet over his waiting hand.
“Duae fideles animae hoc donum petunt,” Titus begins to pour the last droplets of blood onto his palm, and your eyes follow the few that slip past his hand, and land in little red circles on your chest. “Crea intra hoc vas novam vitam...”
The goblet is dropped to the ground, and you jump slightly at the echoing clangs that revolve through the Temple. As Titus squeezes his hand covered in blood into a fist raised over your body, and grips onto the base of his cock with the other, voice cracking as he finishes the chant once again.
“De tua virtute et sapientia...” His breaths are coming out in audible huffs, eyes blinking down at you rapidly, wildly, as he watches your face, wants to sear the memory of your eyes rolling back and mouth dropping open into his brain forever, as he pushes his cock inside you. “Shemhamforash!”
“Shemhamforash,” you whimper brokenly, body tightening as you’re pushed back by the sheer force of Titus fucking into you. Your head is thrown back and you let out a small cry, gasping when you feel Titus’s bloody hand land on your chest, right over your heart.
“Hail Satan,” Titus grunts, grabbing you tightly by the hip as he pulls out, pushing in hard. He keeps this steady pace, slow in rhythm but hard enough that the sound of his hips meeting yours makes an audible slap. “Fuck, can’t believe I've got you like this, completely at my mercy.”
Any response you could have gets stuck in your throat in the form of choked moans. Your fingers wrap around the scarf that holds your wrists together, clutching on to anything that can keep you grounded. You pull on it, not to escape, but because you need to counteract the force that Titus pushes into your body.
“Nowhere to run, Little Lamb,” Titus moans, sliding his bloody hand down from your chest, over your breast, your stomach, until it lands firmly on your other hip. There’s a trail of deep red lines from his fingers to show their path. “No need to hide, fuck,” he moans again, grunting when he feels your cunt clench around him. “Trapped.”
The pace of his hips speed up, and without anyone around to disturb, you let yourself get loud. No filter stops the volume of your whimpers, your pants, your stuttered yells when you feel Titus’s cock slam against your cervix. Titus’s words reach your ears, the meaning behind them, the way his voice grows in excitement. It’s all another game to him.
Maybe you should have had him chase you around first. Maybe you should have pretended to fight back, play the part of a true sacrifice and let him force you into the restraints. A sick thrill shoots up your spine as you tighten around him again, tugging at the scarf.
“Titus,” you whine, looking up at him with eyes sparkling from the beginnings of tears welling at the corners. “Harder.”
Titus scoffs, not stopping for a second, but smiling down at you nonetheless. “Harder? Oh, I’m sorry, am I not being rough enough for you, sweet girl? Want me to make it hurt while I breed you?”
Heat curls in your tummy, flooding through your veins and pinging in your heart as you cry out a pitiful sound. “Yes, Titus, make me fucking take it.”
The biggest toothy smile cracks over your husband’s face. “You’re fucking perfect. Tell me what you want from me, Baby. Tell me how you want me to defile you.”
Your hips jerk into him, chest rising as your back arches. You can’t make him doing anything physically, completely bound by the scarves. Normally, you’d just push him to the limit with slaps or bites, work him up into fucking you until you’re sobbing. Having to use only your words to beg is new.
“Slap me, bite me, oh fuck,” you start to whimper, voice already broken. “Wish I could scratch you up, wanna draw blood, wanna leave my marks on you.”
“Yeah,” Titus whines, eyes rolling closed as he fucks you harder, brutal. The images of his back in the mirror covered in your red scratches, his chest and arms covered in your bites, purple welts from where you sucked love marks onto him, flood into his mind, sending surges of pleasure through his bones from the thoughts alone.
“Titus,” your cries bring him back to reality, back in the moment here with you. Your teeth bite into your puffy bottom lip, tear tracks stain down your cheeks. Deliciously ruined already, and he’s barely done a thing to you yet. “Mark me up while you fucking use me.”
He lets out a low growl, fucking into you harder, panting as he plants his hands on the alter table by your sides, leaning over your body to bite at your neck. You let out a scream at the sharp pain from his teeth piercing your skin, one of your favorite feelings in the world. You feel his tongue dart, licking wetly at the skin as he sucks on it, surely leaving an angry red mark, just the way you wanted.
Your eyes glance to the side as you turn to give him more access to your neck, and you see that the heart candle is halfway melted.
Titus moans into you, keening high in his throat as he bites and sucks down your neck, leaving blotchy dark circles from where he stakes his claim on you. You groan from each touch of his lips, hands flexing, wishing more than anything you could tangle them in his soft, silver hair.
“Oh fuck, my lamb, feel so fucking good, gripping me so tight,” Titus whines, right hand reaching up to grab at your tit, rolling your pert nipple between his calloused fingers, earning at loud, choking squeal from your lips. His mouth finally reaches his favorite place, tongue wrapping around your other nipple, licking it before sucking it into his mouth as he whimpers around it. “Body fucking made for me, made to be owned by me, made to bare my children.”
“Yes, oh god,” you moan, body arching up into him, cunt pulsing around his cock, the wet slaps of where his body meets yours echoes through the rooms. You feel like your body is floating, the only thing anchoring you to earth is the feeling of Titus, his hands and mouth you, his cock brutally filling you over and over and over again. You twitch and shake, teetering on the edge, and you start to babble, giving all your control to him. “Come inside me, Ti, please, knock me up, make me take it, fuck me till it takes.”
Time loses all meaning, the all consuming, raging heat of Titus fucking you, biting you, gripping you so tight he leaves bruises, making love to you in the only way you two know how, are the only things that hold any weight.
You’re sobbing now, the torturous need to come, but inability until he touches you proper, drives you mad. The scarves bite at your skin, you can’t wait to see the patterns they’ll leave on you, and for how long they’ll be there. Titus is moaning and grunting, keeping his rough pace, cock leaking inside you while his expert self-control stops him from finishing before he’s ready.
The heart candle is down to the wire, red wax seeps over the table, as the flame eats down to the final inch of wick.
The energy in the room starts to shift. In his trance, Titus doesn’t seem to notice, but you do.
Your eyes go wide when you realize that light, grey smoke flows around you like a cloud, and the fires on every single candle and sconce rises to unnatural heights.
“Titus,” you moan, canting your pelvis into him, voice airy and distant. You’re begging, “Come in me, lemme feel it.”
Behind you, the heat from Le Bail’s fireplace grows to something sweltering, but not uncomfortable. A welcoming warmth that cages around you both.
A different sort of chills runs through you, skin pebbling from the feeling of someone...watching you. Eyes you will not find in the room are boring down on you from all around.
Titus rises above you, pleasure pooling in his belly and he knows he doesn’t have much longer in him. He grunts angrily, snarling as he fucks you, staring down with darkness in his eyes, but he finds your mind drifted elsewhere.
You’re whimpering, sobbing from the pleasure, and that’s when you feel it...another set of hands wraps around your throat. They travel down your body, groping your breasts, trailing over the bloodstains made by your husband, wrapping around your trapped thighs. For a moment, a small voice awakens in your mind, telling you it’s him...he’s here for you.
Quickly as they came, the feeling of the hands disappears, and you look up at your husband’s eyes. The way the shadows from the fireplace hit his face flashes in something...different. For just a split second, you watch as deep, orange and yellow fire fills Titus’s eyes and his face is replaced with someone else smiling down at you.
You gasp, eyes widening. “He-he’s...” your voice breaks into a moan, head thrown back.
Titus grabs you by the legs and lifts as much as he can, enough to get his knee up on the alter table and change the angle of his cock inside you. His left hand leaves your thigh, reaching up to slap you on the cheek, light the first time just to wake you. “Here, my lamb, stay with me here,” Titus says, voice low, demanding. He slaps you again and you smile into the feeling, before he shoves his middle and pointer fingers into your mouth. “Look at me, Little Lamb, keep your eyes on me.”
“Yes, Titus,” you whimper, blinking away any thoughts of others. Titus slides his fingers out to wrap his hand around your throat, and your mouth drops open. Your throat feels raw again at the sheer volume of your screams, your cries of absolute pleasure. “Fill me, please. Please.”
“Who owns you,” Titus snarls, tightening his hold on your throat. “Who owns your body, your soul, your pleasure? Hmm?” Titus hums, and his voice cracks as he shouts, “Tell me!”
He releases your throat and you cough as you yell back, “You! Titus, I’m yours! E-Every part of me! Please, please Ti, come in me, please!”
Your begging draws a feral, wild smile from his face, and her mercifully reaches between your bodies, wet fingers rubbing rough circles on your clit. You scream out his name, ah!ah!ah!’s releasing high and loud, echo throughout the Temple. “That’s it, come with me, fuck, come with me, Baby.”
The heart candle’s flame is at the very last speck of wick.
Electricity surges through your body, as Titus lets out an animalistic sound, somewhere between a growl and snarl, guttural from deep in his throat.
“Baby, look at me,” Titus urges, pressing his face in close to yours, intensity in his eyes. “Hail Satan.”
“H-hail,” your words almost cut off in another scream but you find the strength to moan out, “H-Hail Satan.”
The flames around you reach their greatest heights, and the last thing you hear for a moment is the sound of Titus shouting your name, fucking into you hard one last time, whimpering as he comes. You scream and your eyes rolls back, body shaking as white heat envelopes you, pulsing through every inch of your body as you come, pussy clamping down on his cock as he fills you.
In a single second, your cries catch in your throat, and the flames all go out, leaving you in almost complete darkness, while Titus grunts and fucks the last of his release into you. Your body twitches and you cry as he empties inside you.
The heart candle fizzles out.
The only light that comes into your vision is a dim glow from the fireplace embers that have nearly gone out as well.
You suck in deep breaths and Titus collapses on you, whispering sweet phrases as he kisses you all over, catching his own breath. He repeats what he always does after you tear each other apart in your show of love; he’s proud of you, he loves you, he worships you, he’s yours, he’s yours, he’s yours.
You don’t know how long the two of you lay there, feeling the energy pass between your breaths, your heartbeats. It’s only when you start to feel the adrenaline wear off that you feel pain in your arms and legs, and your body starts to fight the restrains for real. You uncomfortably twitch and move around, trying to fight it off, but Titus is quick to act for you.
He lets out a groan when he pulls out, licking his lips at the sight of him leaking from your spent pussy, and he fights the urge to push his fingers in to keep you stuffed. Instead, Titus moves to release your arms, which quickly fall to your chest as you are overwhelmed with overstimulation.
Titus reaches to the side, feeling around until his hand finds the Danforth knife, and he quickly brings it to your hands, slicing through the scarf that ties your wrists together with ease.
“There you go, Little Lamb, come here,” he whispers, pulling your arms around his neck. He pulls you into him, sighing as you finally get the chance to feel his body.
Red circles wrap around your wrists, creases formed in the skin from the folds of the scarf. You wonder how long they’ll stay, and you make a mental note to have Titus take some pictures for you. He kisses the inside of both wrists.
Then a cramp shoots up through one of your legs, and you let out a small hiss of pain. “T-Titus, c-can you—"
“I’ve got you, Baby, hold on,” Titus shushes, quickly moving back to cut off the scarves wrapped around your thighs. You let out small whimpers of relief each time the pressure of a circle was released, and you stretched them out once you were free. “Better?”
You nod, humming, “Much, thank you my love.”
Titus steps back, dropping the knife on the ground as his eyes survey over your body. The indents from the scarves, the pink from where he’d slapped your cheek, the marks he’d bitten and sucked into your skin, all a display of the pain you can handle, the love he has for you. He licks his lips, painting the image to memory.
His body is only covered in a gleam of sweat, pink underneath his freckles, but no scratches or marks tonight. It’s weird to be so clean when you’re so defiled. Usually it’s both of you showing the rough nature of your bedroom. He makes a mental note to let you return the favor later.
You still feel weak, muscles sore and body aching in the best way, but you find the strength to lift your arms, beckoning to your husband. “Titus, come back to me.”
Like a moth to a flame, stuck in a trance, Titus goes back into the warmth of your space, between your legs. He stays standing while he pulls you into his chest, and you wrap your arms around him, breathing in the scent of sweat and natural musk, the hint of woods that never leaves him.
“Do you think it took?” You ask, voice soft, scratchy from screaming.
Titus smiles down at you, pushing your damp hair from your face as he leans down to give you an overly gentle kiss. “If it didn’t, I’m happy to try again every week until it does.”
You blush, humming as you tuck your cheek on the skin of his chest, right over his heart, you can hear the still rapid beating of it.
In a little while, Titus will wrap you in your silk robe again, and he’ll carry you upstairs to your bath. He’ll wash the sweat and the grime from your body, he’ll kiss every single inch of you. He’ll wash your hair, hold you close in the hot water, and he’ll tell you over and over how much he loves you. He’ll tell you how you’ve completed him, how no matter what, you were meant for him.
For now he holds you, silently praying to Mr. Le Bail to give you what you want, to give you an heir made of your strength, your beauty, and your power.
FIN.
Hi grace!!!!! I've been loving firefly x jack abbot story and my girl firefly I just love her so much, I wanna hug her and protect her from all the bad in the world and I just relate to her so much and I wonder what would be firefly's favorite flower????
HIYA ANON!!!
Thank you so much! I'm so glad you're enjoying the story so far :D
It's gonna get even sadder very soon! YIPPEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
Hrm... her favorite flower would be Hyacinths. In Greek mythology and flower language, the hyacinth often represents deep sorrow and mourning. However, due to its sweet fragrance and spring rebirth, it simultaneously serves as a symbol of quiet prayer, peace, and hope for better days.
Thanks for reading!!
𝐃𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬: 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝? 𝐗𝐗 ⚕ 𝐉.𝐀.
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, angst, 18+ smut, fluff
word count: 7.6k
a/n: thank you for waiting so patiently!! i hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist The Pitt | Masterlist Main | Masterlist
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The drive from Pittsburgh to Cleveland takes just over two hours. Two hours trapped in a car with Jack in awkward silence. The radio had murmured softly in the background, but the tension between you was almost palpable, thick enough to cut.
Neither of you talked. Neither of you hummed along when a good song came on. You both just stayed silent—your body angled toward the passenger window, where you were still able to catch glimpses of Jack's fingers tightening periodically around the steering wheel.
The only words he managed to squeeze out during the entire ride were when you bent back to grab your bag from the backseat.
"Don't."
You'd frozen mid-motion.
"Sit up straight—you're gonna hurt yourself." His eyes had flickered to yours in the rearview mirror briefly, and you'd been so flustered that you hadn't even argued that your ribs barely hurt anymore. And when he'd stopped at the next red light and reached back for it himself, you'd only muttered a soft "thanks".
That marked the extent of your exchanges—practical concerns that felt so distant they barely registered.
But you're fine now—mostly. Enough to have moved back to your own room after Robby dropped this on you. Enough that you’ve decided it’s time to set Jack free. After this conference wraps up, you plan to present him with the divorce papers sitting neatly on your desk, just waiting for his signature.
One pen stroke and then he'd be free. Free to stop pretending. Free from this cage you've trapped him in.
The parking lot is already bustling with people when you pull in. Jack is out of the car before you can get your seatbelt off, popping open the trunk and grabbing both of your bags with ease.
"I can carry—" you start to say.
"I've got it," he cuts in, already walking toward the entrance.
You press your lips together, then follow him.
The conference is held at a hotel, the kind with huge glass doors, marble floors and chandeliers swinging above. Just another reminder of how the administration pours money into superficial perks rather than addressing the hospitals' actual needs.
Jack jerks his head toward a cosy seating area near the entrance, where plush couches surround coffee tables stacked with books. "Sit."
You don’t get the chance to protest or even offer to take the bags before he strides off to reception, both bags shifted comfortably into one hand. You can’t help but admire the flex of his forearm before shaking yourself back to reality.
With a quiet sigh, you sink into one of the cushions. You'd expected this weekend to hurt, but seeing just how annoyed he is that he has to be here with you hurts worse than you thought. Flicking through one of the coffee table books, you try to distract yourself while Olivia’s words echo in your mind: You’re reading this all wrong. I promise, just tell him how you feel.
Promises feel meaningless when faced with cold, hard facts.
"Let's go." Jack stops in front of you, watchful as you rise. You try to hide the slight wince when you do, but judging by the way his brows furrow, he notices. His hand reaches out, but he draws it back immediately.
He trails behind you to the elevators, and you step in with a few other people. He pushes the button for your floor, and then the silence continues. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of his tensed shoulders and the rigidity in his jaw.
It's the longest elevator ride of your life.
Jack sets off the second the doors open, leading you to a door where he swipes the key card hard. He steps inside, placing it in the power slot and the light flickers on.
You linger hesitantly by the door, confused as to why he hasn’t handed you your bag or the key card. "Is this mine or yours?" you ask.
Jack sighs, his back turned to you. "It's...ours."
"Oh." You're glad he isn't looking at you, or he would have seen your face fall. Yet another way you've made this weekend hell for him.
Robby had said to just show up to the reception and tell them your names—that the hospital had taken care of it—but something must have gone wrong. You know better than anyone how their systems can't be trusted.
Jack exhales sharply, dropping your bags onto the desk before turning to face you. "We're still married in the system, so they must've auto-booked us together," he explains, his voice tight.
"Oh." That’s all you manage to say again as you step fully into the room, closing the door behind you and taking in the surroundings: a desk, a closet, a bathroom, and a single bed. Great.
"I tried changing it," he says quickly, "but they're fully booked."
You nod, trying not to show him just how much that hurts to hear. Of course, he tried to change it. Of course, he doesn’t want to share a room with you.
Two more days and he's free.
Your gaze drifts helplessly back to the bed.
"I can sleep on the floor," he offers, clearing his throat.
"What?"
He shrugs stiffly.
"You don’t have to sleep on the floor." You frown. Were another few nights really that horrible that he'd prefer sleeping there? You bite your lip, stepping into the bathroom pretending to inspect it, but mostly to not see his face as you say, "It's fine. What's two more nights?"
Jack's silent for a moment, and you almost don't hear his "okay" over the sound of your heart cracking.
The first day at the conference passes by faster than Jack expects. A good thing, even if it does feel slightly bittersweet. Time alone with you is all he's wanted for months, but now that he has it, he doesn't know what to do with it.
Not when you've made it clear this past week that you want nothing to do with him. You've moved back to your own bed, and the hospital had forced you right back into sharing again—just like it had forced you into this whole thing in the first place.
Jack knows the end is near, and he's trying to give you space. But he can't help being pulled in by you—watching as you listen carefully to demonstrations, his hands hovering near you to keep the crowd from jostling your ribs.
Normally, he’s not a fan of this part of the conferences: the chaos, the noise, the sales reps tripping over each other to pitch their latest gadgets.
Today, he leans into it. He lets himself get trapped in twenty-minute demonstrations he doesn't care about. He asks unnecessary questions, picks up brochures he knows he won’t read, and lingers at displays his hospital would never consider—anything to keep his mind occupied and avoid fixating on you. Your sweet perfume still wraps around him, your accidental brushes against him still make his skin flush, and his heart still races whenever you glance his way.
And despite this distance between you, you're still looking out for him. You still notice how he subtly shifts to put more weight on his good leg, and even when he'd told you he was fine, intending to soldier on, it had only taken a stern glare from you for him to relent.
The foolish part of his heart can't help but hope that it means something more—that the way you look at him means more than it probably does. He's probably just seeing the reflection of his own hurt in your eyes because he knows you've been searching for a way out—bringing up getting a divorce, looking at apartments and distancing yourself again.
The way you'd reacted when he told you that you had to share a bed again only solidified it. So, even if it's the last thing he wants to do, he does his best to keep his distance like you want him to.
By dinner, though, the distance is harder to maintain when walking into the stupid hotel restaurant feels dangerously close to a date. The lighting is low and warm, reflections dancing off polished glasses as the waiter leads you to a four-person table.
He's trying not to stare at you or the lipstick you'd put on before leaving, but he's failing. His gaze keeps drifting to the soft curve of your cupid's bow and the way you nibble on your lower lip. When he forces himself to look away, it's only to trace the marks you left on your glass.
You both attempt awkward small talk about the conference, which feels like the safest topic, and his heart lifts a little when you laugh at his reminder of the sales rep who actually fell over in his eagerness to speak with you.
You twirl the stem of your glass, and he traces condensation around the rim of his glass when silence falls over the table again. Now and then, your eyes meet before darting away again.
It hurts that this is what it's come to. Jack still remembers the first time you went to dinner, back when this whole thing had just begun, and how gorgeous you had looked that night. The way you had smiled when he'd brought your flowers, how you had teased him all night—how much fun the two of you had had.
This couldn't be farther from that.
Just as he’s about to say something—anything—to reach out to you again, a shadow falls over the table.
"Excuse me, sir? Ma’am?" The waiter stands there looking at you both apologetically. "I'm sorry to ask, but would you mind sharing your table? We're fully booked, and I was told you know each other—"
Jack is prepared to say no, doesn't want people he supposedly knows to witness this, or to ruin his attempt at salvaging it, but before he can speak, a bright and jarring voice cuts in.
"Jack!"
His stomach drops as he recognises the voice, and he has to stop himself from grimacing. "Dr. Warren," he responds with a forced smile.
"Oh, Jack won’t mind," she chimes in cheerfully to the waiter before he can protest. Then her tone turns sugary sweet as she looks at him again. "Right?"
She's set him up perfectly, making it impossible to refuse her without causing a scene. He glances over at you, noticing how you're staring down at your plate, and with a resigned shake of his head, he replies, "Of course not."
Warren breezes past the waiter and pulls out the chair next to Jack. "Sit down, Turner."
Jack hadn’t even noticed the man until now. He’s tall with dark hair, young, and looking vaguely uncomfortable as he flashes Jack an apologetic smile before taking a seat next to you.
"Sorry to intrude on your dinner. I'm Jeremy," Turner says. Jack watches as you look up to greet him and sees both of your faces shift from confusion to recognition. "Wait—"
"Jeremy?"
"Is that you, Sleepy?" His face breaks into a stupid grin. Jack hates him instantly—mostly for the nickname but also for the way he manages to make you smile.
"Oh my god, don't call me that!" you groan, covering your face briefly.
Warren leans back into her chair, watching the exchange with curious eyes. Meanwhile, Jack feels a wave of nausea wash over him.
Turner leans in, bumping his shoulder against yours, and Jack has to grip his glass tighter to prevent himself from commenting on it. Why is he sitting that close? Why are you letting him?
"Wow, you look exactly the same! How long has it been—five, six years?"
"Something like that," you nod, then huff softly. "But I think my eye bags have definitely worsened since then."
"Ah," Turner chuckles. "Still living up to your nickname then, I see."
You glare at him, and he only smiles wider. And Jack—
He wants this man dead. Not literally—or well, not mostly. But when was the last time you'd laughed like that with him? When was the last time you looked at him like that? He'd thought Warren was going to be the worst part of this dinner, but Turner is quickly taking first place.
"So, how have you been—" Warren starts, turning her body toward Jack, attempting to start a conversation between just the two of them.
But Jack doesn't care. He cuts her off, "You two know each other?" He tries to sound casual as he looks at you, but he can feel his jaw tense up.
Warren frowns as Jack speaks over her, but all he sees is Turner, glowing at you.
"Yeah, we met in med school."
"Oh, how fun!" Warren chimes in. She turns to Jack again. "Jeremy just started at Presby—he's our newest attending."
Jack still isn't looking at her, only seeing the way you smile warmly at Turner as you congratulate him.
"Did you manage to keep that attending offer at PTMC?" Warren asks you with a pointed smile, and Jack notices your brow furrow slightly before you answer.
"I did."
"She's doing amazing," Jack offers, finally looking at Warren. "Still the best-performing doctor we have."
"Oh wow!" Turner says, and Jack can see you flush, tucking a hair behind your ear.
You deftly steer the conversation into general hospital topics, easily falling back into a rhythm with Turner. You share stories from med school and let inside jokes slip, leaving Jack to simmer quietly.
And while that's going on, Warren keeps shifting her chair closer to him. Her knee brushes against his, her hands keep squeezing his arm as she tries to sequester him into a separate conversation. He's pushed his chair as far away as he can to try and avoid her touch.
"I never thought I'd see you at one of these things again," she says lightly, taking a bite of her salad.
"No," he replies, taking a sip of his wine.
Warren's silent for a second, watching him. She's definitely clocked the weirdness between you. "You're more than welcome to come to Presby anytime you want," she says, then adds, "I’d love to show you around." The implication is clear as daylight, and Jack is stunned by her audacity.
Even if she feels the weirdness, the fact that she feels it appropriate to come onto him in front of you—his wife—is astonishing. He notices your shoulders tense slightly, but he convinces himself he’s imagining it because you’re still laughing with Turner.
"Oh, I've already been there."
Warren just shrugs, spearing another piece of salad with her fork, smiling at him with a knowing look. "Things might have changed."
Evidently satisfied with that, she turns to Turner and you. "So, how close were you two back in med school?"
Jack stills, his attention honing in on you and the way your eyes widen slightly.
"Uh—"
"We dated," Turner says.
Jack's vision blurs and the noise of the restaurant dulls as blood rushes in his ears.
"Briefly," you add immediately, glancing over at Jack before dropping your gaze again. "For like two weeks."
"Still broke my heart," Turner says dramatically.
You roll your eyes. "You dated Tiffany literally less than a week after."
Turner shrugs with a grin, and Jack can't decide which is worse—knowing he once dated you, that he didn’t value you enough to keep you, or that he so easily replaced you.
You laugh, and it doesn't look like you care that much about it, but Jack can't help the ugly feeling that curls in his stomach.
"You still out there breaking hearts?" Turner asks.
"She's my wife." Jack doesn't hesitate, wanting to lay his claim even if he doesn't have the right to.
Turner's expression shifts to one of surprise, followed by a wide smile. "Oh wow. Congrats!"
He sounds genuine, which somehow only makes Jack hate him even more.
"You must be real special if Sleepy decided to settle down."
You offer a tight smile, taking a long sip of your drink as Jack follows suit. Unable to stop himself, he asks, "So, what's up with the nickname?"
Turner bursts into laughter, while you groan and point a finger at him, "Don't."
"She fell asleep in a lecture once," he says, clearly enjoying the moment.
Warren laughs loudly and mutters with a smile, "That's not very professional."
Your expression tightens, but Turner either didn't hear or just chose to ignore it, as he continues, "Our professor actually stopped class to call her out."
"I was exhausted," you defend yourself.
"You also used to fall asleep during study sessions."
"It's not my fault that you guys insisted on studying until like three in the morning," you retort.
"Good thing that's over then," Jack comments.
You look over at him, surprised. "...Yeah," you say softly.
For the first time all night, it feels like it's just the two of you again.
Until Warren smiles cloyingly at you. "A good doctor never stops studying."
"Of course," you smile, letting your gaze drop down to your plate again.
Later, after awkward goodbyes and forced smiles, you and Jack retreat back to your hotel room. There's a sharp bitterness settling in your mouth, your stomach churning after having to watch Warren flirt—blatantly, in your eyes—with Jack, and him not doing anything about it.
He could at least have some decency to wait until you're not there. You're not even going to comment on her and how disrespectful she was. All you can focus on is the anger that simmers under your skin as you brush your teeth. The rush of frustration drowns out everything else as you wash your face, your breath uneven as you change into your pyjamas.
The only thing that had gotten you through that dinner was seeing Jeremy again—he'd been the perfect distraction, keeping your attention on him with tales from med school. But you'd still noticed how Warren kept touching Jack and how pointed her comments were when she did speak to you.
When you step out of the bathroom again, after taking a few deep breaths, you find Jack sitting on the edge of the bed in sweats and a t-shirt, glasses low on his nose as he scrolls through his phone.
You look away before it can stir something in your chest. "I'm done," you tell him as you slip under the covers, turning your back on him.
By the time he comes back, you've dimmed the lights except for the lamp on his side. You listen as he removes his prosthetic, the soft sound of cream squishing as he gently massages his leg. Part of you wants to help him, but you hesitate, unsure if he would welcome it.
You stay still as he slides under the covers and turns off the lamp. You wonder what he's thinking of—if he's relieved the first day is over or if he wishes he were here with Lily instead.
A minute passes, then another, only the sounds of your breathing filling the room. Out in the hallway, you can hear muted footsteps, quiet laughter and then—
A loud sound tears through the wall. A moan, to be more specific. Long, dramatic and almost definitely fake.
Your eyes widen as another sound permeates the wall, somehow even louder the second time. It continues in a flurry of noises.
"Oh my god," you whisper.
Jack lets out a short laugh through his nose. A smile tugs at your lips at that sound. You haven't heard him laugh in forever when it was just the two of you. Without thinking, you ask, "Do you think he knows?"
Another moan echoes, and Jack snorts. "No."
You laugh quietly into your pillow. "Poor man."
Jack huffs another soft laugh. "Poor woman, more like."
You glance at him, turning around without really meaning to. "What?"
He shifts, too, his body turning toward you. "If she feels the need to fake it like that," he nods toward the wall, "then she clearly hasn't been with men who know how to make a woman feel good."
"Oh, and you do?" Your voice is light, teasing him like these past weeks haven't happened. You freeze the second you register it.
Jack stills next to you.
Heat floods your face immediately. "Oh my god, forget I said that." You turn around quickly, pulling the blanket up to your chin as if it can cool the flush that's travelling upwards. It sounded like you were challenging him, like you were asking him to—
You squeeze your eyes shut.
The mattress shifts slightly behind you as Jack exhales softly. "You know," he says after a moment, "I'd like to think I'd figure it out."
"You do not have to answer that," you squeak. "I shouldn't have—I'm sorry."
He chuckles quietly, and after a moment of silence, he replies, "Goodnight, Trouble."
He doesn't like you crossed a line or like you've annoyed him—he sounds...gentle. You pretend not to notice the way he puts pressure on your nickname.
"...Goodnight, Jack."
Nothing from the second day really sticks in your memory. You sit through lectures, take notes, nod at the appropriate moments, but your brain keeps snagging on the same thing—over and over again.
How you woke up wrapped in Jack's arms. How warm he was, the weight of his arms, the steady rise and fall of his breathing against your neck, and—
God.
The feel of his cock against your ass. How, when you'd shifted, still half asleep, it had twitched against you.
You'd tried to ignore it all day. It wasn't on purpose—just biology—but your mind keeps trying to spin it. The cold shower you took was not enough to keep the flush away throughout the day.
Jack's acting like it didn't happen. Like he hadn't nearly jumped off the bed when he woke up and noticed it. That still hurts to think about.
The warm feeling immediately turns sour when you remember that—a feeling that only worsens when Warren and Jeremy run into you after the celebratory dinner is over and the room has been turned into a dance floor.
Warren barely even acknowledges you as she sidles up to Jack. You hate how she speaks to him, hate how you can't help noticing how she stands close to him, how she laughs when he jokes, how she keeps touching him.
Jack doesn't seem to mind, and it makes you wonder briefly if you've been wrong about Lily—that it wasn't necessarily her, it was just anyone but you.
Jeremy tries to keep a conversation going with you, but even he sees it. His eyes keep glancing from the way you glare down at your champagne flute to the way Warren is laughing. He places a gentle hand on your shoulder, offering a sympathetic smile that asks if you're okay. You nod your head and force a smile back. You don’t need him to intervene; if Jack wanted to, he would.
He doesn't.
A sudden squeal from the microphone interrupts the chatter. "If there are any couples here tonight—or anyone hoping to be in one—head to the dance floor!"
Laughter ripples through the room as soft music begins playing.
You press your lips together, staring down at your drink. You plan to stay where you are.
"Wanna go—" Warren begins, and your chest aches. You can't stay here if he dances with her.
But Jack stays still, too, only to then reach his outstretched hand into your field of vision. "May I?"
You look up at him, surprised, but then realise it's just for show. Married couples dance. He can't exactly go off with Warren when there are people here whom you know. One last time pretending can't hurt, so you place your hand in his.
He leads you out onto the crowded dance floor and places a hand at your waist. The two of you step awkwardly, but somewhere between the music and the closeness, it stops. Your body remembers the shape of him, the rhythm, the ease of existing near him.
Your arms wrap around his neck, and the two of you sway gently. For the first time during this trip, you actually look at him. The lighting catches the green flecks in his eyes, his gaze locked on yours.
Your mouth goes dry, and you nervously bite your lip, almost willing to swear that his gaze drops down to it. Heat rushes up your neck.
You lean in closer, and he mirrors your movement.
"Can I—" he begins, and for a foolish second, you think he might kiss you. Then the room erupts into loud claps as the song ends, and your eyes snap open. You take a quick step back.
"I—I'll be right back," you stammer.
Jack frowns. "You okay?"
"Yeah," you nod quickly. "Just need to...pee!" You rush off before he can say anything else.
The bathroom is too bright and too quiet, though you're thankful no one is here to watch your spiral. You grip the sink tightly, exhaling harshly.
You need to get your shit together. Remember that this doesn't mean anything. It's a performance—he doesn't want you. No matter how much you can't help but keep hoping, even after the hallway, that he does.
You stay in there longer than you should. Splash water on your wrists, fix your lipstick, and try not to feel like you're sixteen years old again—stupid and foolish when it comes to love.
When you finally head back, you're not sure what you expected, but it wasn't seeing Jack and Warren laughing together. Her hand on his bicep, her head tilted backwards. You watch as she leans in, whispering something to him before heading over to the bar.
The hurt turns into anger as humiliation washes over you. He really doesn't care about your reputation or the fact that you'll forever be known for him straying.
You stride over to him.
"There you are—" he begins with a relieved smile.
You don't let him finish, leaning in to murmur to him. "I'm gonna go."
Jack blinks at you. "Why? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," you huff, but he seems unconvinced, searching your face for answers.
He sets his glass down. "Okay, let's go."
Your brows knit together. "No, you stay." Your gaze shifts to Warren. "It looks like you're doing just fine without me anyway."
"What—"
You step back, sending him a forced smile that hurts. "Have fun." You begin to turn around, but then remember— "Oh, just text me if you need the room."
Before he can ask anything else, before you can embarrass yourself further and before he can notice the angry tears glistening in your eyes, you turn and walk away.
Jack stands frozen for several seconds after you leave, staring at the spot you just occupied, trying—yet failing—to wrap his head around what just happened. He’d been trying to shake off Warren ever since you went to the bathroom, and just when she finally decided to head to the bar, you appeared with that piercing glare.
It looks like you're doing fine without me anyway.
Your words replay in his head.
Text me if you need the room.
Said as if you expected him not to come back, or like you expected him to—
His stomach sinks. He pushes through the crowd, ignoring Warren’s calls, impatiently tapping his fingers against his arms as he waits for the elevator. When it finally reaches your floor, he rushes out, swiping his key card haphazardly.
As the door swings open, he immediately sees you pacing, making sharp turns from the bed to the desk and back again. Your heels are thrown off to the side carelessly.
He closes the door behind him softly. "What's going on?"
You stop at the desk, your back turned to him, and he notices your shoulders rising and falling with quick breaths. "Nothing. You can go back," you dismiss him with a wave of your hand. There's an anger in your tone he’s never heard before.
"Go back?" He doesn't understand why you think he would—you're clearly upset.
"To Warren. Or whoever."
"Why on earth would I do that?"
You huff a laugh, bitter and low. "Don't play dumb."
Jack takes a cautious step closer. "Tell me what's going on."
"I told you. Nothing."
"Well, it's clearly not nothing," he says, frustration creeping into his voice. He doesn't understand why you won't look at him or why you're pushing him away like this—like you can't stand him.
"Jack—" you sigh, glancing back for barely a second. It's enough for him to spot the frustration carved deep in your features.
"Sweetheart," he says softly. You remain silent, but he feels like he’s making progress. "Why did you say that? About the room?"
Whatever hope he had quickly dissipates as you rip your earrings out and fling them onto the desk. "You know."
"No," he says. "I really don't."
You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, turning to face him, your eyes blazing with fury. "Oh, please." You cross your arms defiantly. "She was all over you. And you just let her."
Jack doesn't pretend not to know who you're talking about. It's clear that it's Warren. He wants to make it clear that he has no interest in her, but in his surprise, all he can manage to say is, "She knows we're married."
You scoff, rolling your eyes. "Well...you're not. Not really. Not in the way that matters." Taking a step closer, you add, "And she clearly doesn’t care anyway, but if it matters to you, you can just tell her we’re in an open relationship."
Jack stares at you. "Is that what you want?"
Your expression twists instantly. "What?"
"Is that what you want?" he repeats, slower, taking a step forward, too.
Your laugh this time sounds bitter. "Who cares what I want? If you want this, go for it," you say, gesturing vaguely toward the hallway. "Seriously. Have fun. I’ll leave."
Jack watches as you begin messily shoving things into your bag. Why is it that you keep saying things like this when you know what he feels for you? Are you just looking for a fight so you can leave?
Jack tightens his jaw. "And where exactly are you staying?"
You shrug.
"At Jeremy's?" he says, mocking the way you said it all evening. Soft and sweet and nauseating.
"Maybe...yeah," you snap, glaring at him. "He wouldn't flirt in front of the person he’s supposed to be married to."
Jack shakes his head in frustration. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Why did you keep saying that?"
You throw a shirt down and spin toward him. "Because it's true and you know it." You step closer, and he mirrors your movement. "Just stop pretending."
You’re close enough now for him to see your hands shaking with anger.
"I know you regret this," you say, voice cracking as it rises in volume. "And it’s okay."
"What?"
"The least you can do," you continue, "is be honest about it."
"I don’t—" His pulse races, the blood rushing in his ears as he tries to catch up.
"Come on," you scoff. "You don’t have to pretend anymore."
"Pretend what?" He steps closer.
"That you didn't hate every second of this. That saying yes to me wasn’t the biggest mistake of your life."
"What are you talking about?"
"That you regret getting stuck in this marriage!"
"That's not true!"
You close your eyes briefly, looking utterly worn out. "Can we not do this? Please?"
There’s barely any space between you now. He can feel your uneven breaths, just as clearly as he can see them.
"I've got a viewing in a few days. If it looks good, then I'll be out of your hair soon." The words pummel into him, stealing his breath.
You continue like you haven't just broken his heart, "We can sign the divorce papers when we get back. It's been long enough now."
The pieces of his heart shatter into even finer shards. "What?"
You avoid his gaze. "You can finally be with the person you actually want to be with."
His brows pinch together. "Who?"
"Lily."
Jack stares at you, confused. "...Lily?"
You huff, anger bubbling back up. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Don't pretend you don’t know."
"I genuinely don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!"
"I've seen the way you talk about her," you tell him. "The way your face changes."
His brain feels like it’s malfunctioning. "You think I’m in love with Lily?"
"You seriously expect me to believe otherwise?"
"Yes, because that's insane."
"I’m not blind, Jack!" you snap, your voice cracking. "I love you, and you don't love me, and that's fine."
"You—" His voice comes out rough. "What?"
Your eyes widen, and you quickly look away. "...Let's just stop."
Jack's hand shoots out, grabbing hold of your wrist before you can turn away. "No." The word comes out fast. "That's not what I want."
His mind is spinning. You love him.
"Well, we can't always get what we want," you say quietly, sounding incredibly sad. You try to tug your wrist free, but he keeps his grip firm.
"Trouble—" Jack begins, running a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. "You love me?" he asks quietly.
You love him.
"Jack," you interject.
He takes a step closer. "I don't understand why you’re still pulling away. Not when you know—“
"That’s exactly why!" you cut him off.
His laugh comes out strained. "Is it that horrible to be with me? To let me love you?"
You stare at him with wide eyes, but then you shake your head. "You don't love me."
"What?" he asks. But you knew? Didn't you?
"No, you’re upset," you say quickly. "Or you feel guilty, or—or you're trying to fix this because I said something embarrassing."
"You think this is pity? After everything?"
"I think you're a good person," you say quietly. "And I think you're trying not to hurt me."
"No."
"Jack—"
"You really think I'd do that?" he asks quietly.
You hesitate.
His laugh comes out sharp. He turns away for a moment, pressing both hands against his mouth, as if trying to hold it together. Because somehow this feels more devastating than everything else: worse than thinking you didn’t want him, worse than the apartment viewings, worse than the divorce papers.
You think he pitied you. That every moment between you had been an obligation.
"You think I stayed because I felt bad for you?" he asks.
"I...yeah," you murmur, and the words nearly take him out at the knees.
"Sweetheart," he says softly, and there’s something wrecked in the word now. "I don’t know how I fucked this up so badly."
"You think I wanted out?" he asks. "All this time?" He shakes his head hard before you can answer. "I have spent months trying not to love you."
Your breath hitches in your throat.
"I tried," he admits helplessly. "I tried so hard. And I failed."
Doubt still flickers across your face.
"Sweetheart. Please. I don't know how else to tell you."
You look down. "I just don't want you to say something you'll regret tomorrow."
"Regret?" he repeats quietly. That damn word haunts him.
You shrug helplessly, eyes glassy. "When this all settles," you say softly, "I don't want you to wake up and feel trapped again."
"Oh sweetheart," he murmurs, "I have done a lot of stupid shit that I regret, but loving you has never been one of them."
You still look doubtful.
Jack feels something hot and frantic curl in his chest. He doesn't know what to say to make you believe him, so he does the next best thing. He closes the gap between you, his hand cradling your jaw as he tilts your head back and kisses you. It isn't a soft or careful kiss like he'd imagined you'd share after he'd told you that—no, this is angry, frustration bleeding into every part of it.
You shove weakly at his chest, and he's ready to step back, but then your fingers close into a fist, tugging at his shirt and pulling him closer.
His lips press against yours again, devouring you as he crowds you into the desk. He loses himself in the feeling, barely noticing how he's lifted you onto the desk, how your legs have parted around him or how he's grinding into you.
All he can focus on is the way you breathe his name softly, the sweet sounds you make as he trails kisses down your neck, and how your fingers claw at his hair, his shoulders, his arms, urging him to come closer.
You love him.
It's an euphoric feeling—he almost feels like he's floating outside his body. The thought keeps hitting him over and over again, dizzying and intoxicating.
Jack pulls back to look you in the eye. "I love you." His thumb brushes your jaw gently and across your kiss-swollen lips. You kiss it softly, leaning your face into his touch.
"Do you understand? Not Lily. Not anyone else." He searches your eyes, desperate for you to grasp the depth of his feelings. You’re the only one who’s ever mattered. "I love you."
Your eyes start glistening again, but you nod. Relief fills his chest. "I thought you didn't—" Before he can say anything to reassure you again, you move forward, capturing his lips in another heated kiss. The force of it nearly tilts him backwards, and the way you giggle against his lips sends his heart fluttering.
Your legs pull him closer, and he finally notices how your dress has bunched up around your waist. He curses at the sight of your underwear, the sweet little bow that starkly contradicts the naughty way you're moving against him and the wetness that's slowly soaking his slacks.
"Fuck me," he groans, his fingers gripping onto your waist, helping you move. He's never been this hard before. He moves slowly, trailing his fingers down to your thighs, watching you carefully.
His chest rumbles lowly when he finally feels just how wet you are. He can't count on one—or even two—hands how much he's thought about doing this and reality is so much better.
"You really love me?" he asks quietly, still not quite able to believe it.
"Yeah," you whisper. "I always have."
He leans his forehead against yours, pieces of his heart mending with each kiss. He pushes the fabric aside, brushes his fingers softly through your wetness, circling your clit and listening as you moan sweetly for him. He swears he could cum from just this.
You're so soft. So sweet. So tight around his fingers. "You're gorgeous," he breathes, and he feels you squeeze around him. He catches on to that quickly, leaning in close so he can whisper to you. "You're doing so well, sweetheart. You're so wet. So perfect." He pulls his fingers in and out, relishing in the sounds he manages to pull from both your cunt and your mouth.
"Ja-ack," you gasp, and he can tell you're close.
"Be a good girl and cum for me," he says, pressing his other hand against your clit. The combined stimulation and his words push you over the edge, your legs shaking against him, your nails pressing hard into his arms. He doesn't mind, welcoming it and staying close until you begin pulling back.
He's never seen anyone as stunning as you. He watches as the glazed look in your eyes slowly subsides, and you come back to earth.
He still can't believe this is real. His thumb brushes softly against your jaw. "Hi, sweetheart."
"Hi," you murmur, a shy smile on your face. "That was—that was incredible."
It's like you know he'll tease you because you pull his face close, kissing him again. He could do this all the time. He hopes you'll let him.
He's so caught up in your kisses and making you feel good that he's forgotten about himself. It's only when your hands travel down his chest to his slacks and begin to palm him that he remembers.
You grin into the kiss at the groans he makes.
"Stop teasing," he begs, but doesn't move to change anything. He stands still as you find the zipper and begin pulling his slacks and boxer briefs down. He lets you take the lead, won't force you to do anything you don't want to—even if he's aching to feel your heat around him.
You pull him out, and then you stare down at his cock with a wide-eyed look. He can't help but tease you. "Don't tell me you've never seen one of these before?"
"Ha," you huff, slapping his chest. "It's just...big."
"You flatter me," he says, pride rushing through him. He's about to make another silly comment, but it evaporates the second you twist your hand.
"Fuck," he gasps when you pull him close, letting the head swipe through your wetness.
"I don't—" It takes all his strength to think clearly. "I don't have a condom."
"It's okay." You continue grinding against him.
"You sure?"
"Yes," you confirm, looking him deeply in the eye. Then you position him against your entrance and pull at his hips. He pushes forward slowly. Fuck. You're so tight. So warm.
He watches you carefully, ready to stop at the slightest hint of discomfort.
"Move, Jack," you beg him once the full length of him is inside. "Please."
Who is he to deny you? His hips snap forward, setting a steady pace. "I won't last long," he warns you.
You kiss him again, pulling him closer. Your gasps and moans are more than enough to send him over the edge, but he gathers all the strength he has. He reaches a hand down and finds your clit and waits until your eyes begin to glaze over and your legs shake again.
Only then does he let go of all restraint. His hips snap into you in a furious pace before he pulls away with a loud groan, spilling onto your cunt. He watches it drip down your thighs, his chest rising unevenly as he comes down from his high.
"That was—" he breathes out, locking eyes with you again. You nod, equally speechless. The two of you share a moment of silence before Jack springs into action, grabbing a towel to wipe you down.
He sends you away to pee and slips out of his clothes, leaving only his underwear on. His prosthetic lands next to the bed as he crawls under the covers, a wave of nervousness washing over him.
What if you regretted it? What if you didn't feel like that anyway?
You emerge from the bathroom, barely meeting his gaze, and Jack's stomach drops at the sight. His t-shirt from yesterday hangs on the chair, and he watches breathlessly as you put it on along with a fresh pair of panties. Then you settle in beside him, leaning into the crook of his neck with a smile, and he finally feels himself relax.
You don't regret it.
"I'm sorry," he says softly after a moment of breathing in your calming scent.
"For what?"
"For not telling you sooner." He exhales, tracing gentle patterns on your skin with his fingers. "I thought you knew. I thought you were pulling away because of that."
You pause to process his words, your head shaking firmly. "I'm sorry, too. I should've asked you instead of just assuming." You take his hand, intertwining your fingers. "I overheard you saying you regretted this, and that sent me spiralling. It didn't help that I thought you loved Lily."
Jack frowns. "When did I say that?"
"In the hallway. With Robby..."
He thinks back and realises, "Oh, sweetheart. That's not what I meant—I said I regretted it because I fell in love with you during it, and I couldn't stop it from happening despite knowing you didn't want me like that."
"I do—"
"I know," he interrupts gently. "I know that now." He squeezes your fingers and leans down to plant a soft kiss on your head. "And just to be clear—if you need to hear it again—I don’t love Lily. I love you."
He can feel the smile spreading across your face. "I love you, too."
He's grateful you're not looking at him because he must look silly grinning this widely. You press a kiss to his neck and then sigh contentedly.
"Guess I should've trusted Olivia," you murmur after a moment.
He chuckles, making a mental note to send her a thank-you gift for having his back without him knowing. "Robby, too."
You groan. "They're gonna be insufferable once they find out they were right."
Jack hums, his fingers dancing along your back. "We don't have to tell them right away."
"No?" You lean back slightly to look at him.
"We can keep this between us for a little bit, don't you think?" he says, his gaze dropping down your lips.
"Yeah," you breathe, your eyes darkening as your fingers gently tug at the hair at the nape of his neck to bring him close. Jack kisses you again. And again. And again.
He isn't sure how long he kisses you for, not that it really matters. All he knows is that it won't ever get better than this. He finally has his girl.
a/n: aaahhhh!! they finally confessed!!! it's been a long (and painful) journey but we're finally here <33333
I’M AN ASTRONAUT, YOU’RE THE MOON
Summary: When you moved halfway across the world to work nights at PTMC, the last thing you expected was for your soulmate string to lead straight to Dr. Jack Abbot—who’s already happily married to his own soulmate. So you bury your feelings beneath friendship, trauma shifts, and years of silence… until tragedy changes everything, and both of you begin to realize that maybe soulmates were never about fate, but choice. Or, the Soulmate AU with Jack Abbot.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader (Can still be read by anyone! It’s not super specific)
Warnings: 18+ Soulmate String AU, Unrequited Love to Requited Love, Age-Gap Romance (Not Specified), Hospitals, ER, ANGST, Fluff, Crush, Blood, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow(ish) Burn, Eventual Hurt-to-Comfort, Longing, YEARNING, Major Character Death, The Pitt AU, Grief, Tragic Heroine, Tragic Hero, Widow!Abbot, Depressed!Abbot, Anger, Crying, GSW, Happily Ever After, COVID-19, Kissing,
Word Count: 22.5k
A/N: We're gonna take a break from Ducky and Robby for a bit. Welcome, Jack Abbot. You are in my domain now >:D ALSO, I HIT THE LIMIT ON SPACING SOOO THE FORMAT MIGHT BE FUCKED IDK. Sorry :(((
Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/keeryscupid. I’m not a doctor or a nurse. I’m dyslexic, and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!
Songs: Orbiter by Noah Kahan, Brush Fire by Gracie Abrams, and If You Let Me by Maisie Peters (with Marcus Mumford)
| Jack Abbot Masterlist | Main Masterlist |
2018
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
The first thing you notice about the Pitt isn’t the noise.
It’s the pace.
Everything moves fast, but no one looks rushed. People pass each other like they’ve done this a thousand times, sliding through narrow spaces without looking, voices overlapping in half-finished sentences, monitors beeping in uneven rhythms that somehow don’t throw anyone off.
Organized disaster is exactly what an emergency department should feel like. You tighten your grip on the strap of your bag as you follow Lena down the hall, trying not to stare at everything like it’s your first day on Earth.
New country, New hospital, New job.
Night shift.
Your body still hasn’t figured out what time zone it’s supposed to be in, but adrenaline is already kicking in, that familiar hum under your skin that always comes when you step into an ER. You tell yourself you’ve handled worse. That you’ve worked typhoon nights, mass casualty drills, and overcrowded government hospitals with half the supplies you needed.
You can handle this.
Lena pushes the double doors open with her shoulder, not even breaking stride. “ER’s through here,” she says. “You said you worked trauma before, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” you answer automatically.
She glances back at you immediately, “Drop the ma’am. You’ll make everyone feel old.”
Heat creeps up your neck, “Sorry. Habit.”
“You’ll fit in,” she mutters, half amused, half distracted as she scans the room.
You step through the doors behind her—and the sound hits all at once. Phones ringing, a monitor alarming somewhere in the back, sharp and insistent. A patient down the hall is yelling that he’s been waiting for three hours and he’s going to sue somebody.
It’s loud and crowded, but very alive and all too familiar. Your shoulders drop just a little, tension you didn’t realize you were holding easing out of your spine.
Lena stops near the central desk, scanning the board, then jerks her chin toward the far side of the room, “That’s Dr. Jack Abbot. He’s on trauma tonight, so you’ll probably be with him most of the shift.”
You follow her gaze without thinking.
He stands near the counter, scrolling through a chart on an iPad, stethoscope hanging loose around his neck like he forgot it was there. Curly salt and pepper hair slightly messy, the kind of tired that comes from too many night shifts in a row.
He looks up when someone calls his name, and the moment your eyes land on him, your wrist burns.
You suck in a small breath, instinctively looking down. There’s a red string looped around your wrist, thin, bright, and impossible to miss.
Your stomach drops so fast it makes you dizzy. Because what the actual fuck? No. Not here. Not now.
At some point, you’d convinced yourself maybe you simply didn’t have one. Maybe the universe skipped you.
The thread pulls slightly, like something on the other end just moved, and your fingers curl around it before you even realize what you’re doing. A voice in your head tells you not to look… but you look anyway. The string stretches across the room, weaving through people and stretchers and equipment like it doesn’t care about physics; it never has.
Your breath gets stuck in your throat as you follow it as it leads straight to him—Jack Abbot.
Your heart stutters hard enough that you feel it in your ears.
No.
No, no, no.
Lena is still talking beside you, something about assignments, but the words blur together. “…good with procedures, just don’t let him skip charting, he tries— Abbot!”
He looks up again, this time, at you. The string pulls tight between your wrists. For a second, neither of you moves. Then he walks over, casual, pumping sanitizer on his hands like this is just another shift, just another new nurse, nothing important happening at all.
He’s taller up close.
Tired-looking in a way that somehow makes him seem softer instead of intimidating. Curly salt-and-pepper hair slightly messy, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stethoscope hanging around his neck like he forgot it was there hours ago.
“You the new one?” he asks. His voice is warm and easy. Maybe a little rough around the edges from too much coffee and too many overnight shifts.
You force your brain to function.
“Yeah,” you manage. “First night.”
He nods once, then holds out his hand.
“Jack Abbot.”
Your hand hesitates for half a second before you take it. The second your skin touches his—the string snaps tight. It feels like something deep in your bones clicks violently into place.
Your pulse jumps hard beneath your skin, and for one horrifying second you think maybe he can feel it too.
But Jack just smiles politely, completely unaffected.
Because he can’t see it, not fully. The thread only loops faintly around his wrist before disappearing, incomplete and one-sided.
You swallow hard, “Nice to meet you.”
“Welcome to the Pitt,” he says. “Try not to run.” You let out a shaky laugh before you can stop yourself, “Too late for that.”
A faint smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, like he likes your answer. By God, that tiny expression alone nearly kills you.
Then he shifts the iPad under his arm—and you see the ring.
A silver band on his left hand.
Your entire body goes cold.
For a second, you genuinely can’t process what you’re looking at. Of course, he’s married. Because, yes, the universe would do something this cruel.
You force yourself to look away before your face gives you away—and that’s when you notice her.
A woman stands near Central holding a paper bag against her hip, looking around the department with the comfortable familiarity of someone who’s been here a hundred times before.
Waiting for him.
Jack notices her immediately, and his whole face changes. It softens enough for you to understand instantly how much he loves her. “Hey,” he says quietly, already walking toward her.
The incomplete thread around his wrist brightens faintly.
She smiles the second he reaches her, “You forgot dinner again.” Jack laughs softly, taking the bag from her, “I was busy.”
“You’re always busy.”
“Occupational hazard.”
She rolls her eyes affectionately, and he leans down automatically to kiss her cheek. It’s absent-minded and natural. The kind of intimacy built over years. Loving her is as easy as breathing. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist feels unbearably tight. Because the universe already chose—it’s not you. Never you.
Lena nudges your shoulder lightly, “You good?”
You blink quickly, forcing your expression back under control before anyone notices the way your soul feels like it’s collapsing inward. “Yeah,” you say, your voice almost sounds steady. “Just jet lag.”
Lena nods distractedly and turns back toward the board.
Across the room, Jack says something under his breath that makes his wife laugh. The warm and happy sound carries across the department.
You look down at the string around your wrist one last time before pulling your sleeve over it completely.
You can do this—you’ve survived harder things than heartbreak.
You square your shoulders, take the iPad Lena hands you, and step fully into the chaos of the Pitt.
So when Jack glances back at you a moment later, smiling like you’re just another coworker starting a shift, you smile back, pretending that your heart didn’t just fall through the floor.
A FEW MONTHS LATER…
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT SHIFT
By the time the Pitt starts feeling familiar, it’s already too late. You know the rhythm of the department now, the same way you know your own breathing. Which monitor is about to alarm before it starts screaming. Which psych patient is one bad interaction away from throwing a urinal at security, or a resident is about to panic during a difficult intubation.
You know the trauma bay doors stick when it rains, and Lena hides the good coffee above the Pyxis because Ellis steals the decent stuff first, and the fluorescent lights over Hallway C flicker around three in the morning like they’re barely holding on, and you know Jack Abbot’s footsteps before you even see him.
Well, to be honest, that part happens slowly. Shift after shift. Trauma after trauma. Somewhere between your first week and your third month, working beside him stops feeling intimidating and starts feeling natural.
You know how he likes his trauma setups organized. You know he taps his pen twice against the desk when he’s thinking too hard. You know he rubs the back of his neck when he’s exhausted and trying not to show it. And worse—he knows you too.
“Lifeline!” Ellis’ voice cuts across the department as you walk out of Trauma Two carrying an empty suture tray. You stop mid-step. “You people are never letting that nickname die, are you?”
Ellis swivels around in her chair with a grin. “Absolutely not.”
The nickname started during your second week after a pediatric code that had gone catastrophically wrong.
A seven-year-old nearly drowned—no pulse on arrival. The room had dissolved into controlled chaos within seconds—respiratory trying to secure the airway while one of the newer residents nearly froze trying to place an IO line.
Shen, still early enough into residency that panic sometimes beat experience, had looked one second away from completely spiraling.
But through all of it, you had stayed calm.
You’d guided Shen through the tibial IO placement while simultaneously pushing epinephrine prep toward Jack and coordinating compression rotations so nobody burned out too early.
At one point, Ellis had looked up from the monitor and muttered, “Jesus Christ. She’s everybody’s lifeline in here.”
Unfortunately for you, the name stuck. Now, half the ED used it more than your actual name.
“Lifeline, Trauma Two,” Lena calls without looking up from the board.
“On my way.”
Jack steps out of the trauma bay at the same time you do, peeling bloody gloves off his hands. “You steal my nurse again?” he asks Lena.
Lena snorts. “You don’t own her, Abbot.”
“That’s not what I said.”
There’s something easy in the exchange that makes warmth spread unexpectedly through you.
Jack falls into step beside you automatically as you head toward Trauma Two.
“You eat yet?” he asks.
You glance at him suspiciously. “Are you asking because you care or because you need me conscious enough to survive this shift?”
“A little of both.”
You huff out a laugh. Because that’s the problem with Jack. He’s kind in ways that sneak up on you, a quiet attentiveness that drives you nuts. He notices when you haven’t sat down in seven hours or when your hands shake after a bad pediatric trauma and when you’re pushing yourself too hard, and casually hands you a granola bar like he didn’t specifically go looking for one because he knew you skipped dinner.
The kind of doctor who stays with family members after delivering bad news instead of disappearing the second the conversation gets uncomfortable, and the kind of man who wears his wedding ring like it means something sacred.
Which somehow makes all of this hurt even more. Because every soft look. Every quiet joke at three in the morning or moment beside him in a trauma bay—belongs to someone else.
And you know that.
The universe reminds you every single day that the red string hidden beneath the cuff of your scrub jacket pulls tight whenever he gets too close.
You’ve gotten good at ignoring it or pretending to.
TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT
Tonight’s MVA is a disaster. Twenty-six-year-old male. Ejected through the windshield. Hypotensive on arrival. The second EMS wheels him through the ambulance bay doors, and the department shifts gears instantly.
“BP seventy over forty,” Ellis says from the monitor. “Heart rate one-forty.”
“Breath sounds diminished on the left,” Shen adds quickly, trying to keep up.
“Alright, let’s move,” Jack says sharply.
You’re already there.
Trauma shears cut through blood-soaked clothing while respiratory preps for intubation. You place oxygen and start hanging fluids while Jack performs the FAST exam. Free fluid in Morrison’s pouch appears on the screen almost immediately. Internal bleeding, most likely splenic rupture.
“Call OR,” Jack says. “He’s going upstairs.”
“Already on it,” you answer, grabbing the phone before he even finishes speaking. Jack glances toward you over the patient. There’s blood smeared across the sleeve of his scrub top, exhaustion pulled deep into the lines around his eyes. Yet still—that small flicker of trust when he looks at you. He knows you’ll catch whatever he misses.
You hate how much that matters to you.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
By four in the morning, the Pitt settles into its strange version of quiet. You’re charting near Central when the elevator doors open.
Jack’s wife walks out carrying six pizza boxes stacked in her arms.
The entire department visibly brightens.
“Oh thank God,” Ellis says dramatically. “An angel sent from heaven.”
“You people are unbelievable,” she laughs.
Ellis immediately takes two boxes from her. “Respectfully, I would die for you.”
“That’s deeply concerning,” Lena mutters.
“You’re just jealous she likes me more.”
“I absolutely am not.”
You can’t help laughing softly under your breath. There it is again— that awful ache in your heart. Because she’s truly, genuinely wonderful. The universe could’ve at least made her cold, cruel, or difficult.
Instead, she remembers everyone’s coffee orders and asks about your family back home, and brings food for the night shift because she knows none of you remember to eat unless somebody forces you.
“You must be Lifeline.”
You blink, startled when you realize she’s suddenly standing beside you.
Up close, her smile is warm and effortless. You force yourself to smile back. “That obvious, huh?”
“Oh, very,” she says easily. “Jack talks about you all the time.”
Your heart stumbles painfully against your ribs.
Before you can recover, she continues casually, “Apparently, you’re the only reason this department functions after midnight.”
You laugh weakly. “That gives me way too much credit. Obviously, Lena holds everything down.”
“Have you met these people?” she asks quietly, glancing around Central. “I’m pretty sure Shen would eat expired yogurt if left unsupervised.”
“That happened one time,” Shen shouts.
“You were hallucinating by hour two,” Ellis replies.
You laugh again before you can stop yourself, and somehow, talking to her is easy. Isn’t that cruel? Because you like her immediately, she asks about the Philippines, about your family, and how you plan on surviving Pittsburgh winters.
You’re halfway through explaining that black ice feels like a personal attack when Jack walks out of Trauma Two. He tosses his gloves into the biohazard bin before sanitizing his hands automatically. His curls are damp with sweat at the temples now, scrub top wrinkled from the shift.
Then he looks up to find the two of you talking and smiles—soft around the edges in a way that makes your eyes water.
“Well,” his wife says immediately, “there he is.”
Jack points toward the pizza boxes. “You bribing my staff again?”
“Your staff?” Lena repeats flatly from across the desk.
Jack ignores her completely.
His wife gestures toward you. “Lifeline and I decided you’re actually the problem in this department.” You blink. “We did?”
“We did now.”
Jack looks genuinely betrayed, “That was fast.”
“She’s nice,” his wife says simply. Jack’s eyes flick toward you for half a second, warm and amused. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “She is.”
Your pulse skips hard enough you nearly miss it. Coward, coward, coward.
You look away first while his wife grins triumphantly. “See? I win.”
“You gang up on me constantly.”
“Because you’re easy to bully,” you say before thinking.
Jack stares at you in mock offense. “Wow. Okay.”
“You walked into that one,” Ellis says.
“You’re all terrible people.”
His wife reaches up automatically to straighten the collar of his scrub shirt. Such a small gesture, absent-minded and intimate. The kind of touch that only exists between people who know each other completely.
Your wrist aches beneath your sleeve as the string pulls tighter. Still connected to him. So very impossible and still wrong. But somehow, standing there laughing with both of them at four in the morning, you realize something infinitely more dangerous than loving him.
You’re becoming part of their lives.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — LATER
The shift slows near dawn as you’re charting near Central when Jack drops into the chair beside you with a tired exhale.
“You ever think about leaving emergency medicine?” he asks suddenly. You glance sideways. “Every shift.”
“That’s healthy.”
“I think about becoming a florist at least twice a week.”
Jack huffs out a tired laugh. “You’d last six days.”
“Rude.”
“You yelled at a surgeon yesterday.”
“He was wrong.” You pointed out.
“He was technically right.”
“He was spiritually wrong.”
That earns a real laugh from him, the low and warm kind. God. You hold onto sounds like that more than you should. Silence settles comfortably between you afterward—the kind that only exists between people who know each other well. Then, almost absentmindedly, Jack asks, “Have you met your soulmate yet?”
Your fingers stop over the keyboard. For one horrible second, your entire body forgets how to function. But your face stays calm, because years in emergency medicine have made you terrifyingly good at composure. You keep typing as you reply, “Nope.”
Jack glances sideways at you. “At all?” You shrug lightly, forcing your voice steady. “Might just not be in the cards for me.”
Something softens in his expression immediately. Jack looks at people like he wants to understand them, not fix them. “I doubt that,” he says quietly. You stare at the chart on the screen because looking at him feels too dangerous. The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly heavy.
“I mean it,” he continues softly. “Whoever ends up with you is gonna be lucky.”
Your throat tightens painfully as you force a laugh under your breath before the emotion can show on your face. “Smooth.”
“I’m serious.”
The worst part is—he means it. You finally risk looking at him. His eyes are tired and honest in that devastating way that makes lying to him feel terrible.
“I hope whoever you love…” he says quietly, almost like he’s thinking out loud, “loves you back just as much.”
The cruel irony nearly splits you open. Because you already know exactly what loving him feels like. It feels like swallowing it down every single day, pretending friendship is enough because it has to be, while standing three feet away from your soulmate, while he talks about his wife with soft eyes and absolute devotion.
Your eyes sting suddenly, and you blink hard before he notices. “Me too, Jack,” you whisper. You mean it so much it hurts.
“Me too.”
2020, COVID PANDEMIC
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
The world changes fast. One week, people are joking about a virus overseas between trauma calls and coffee runs, and then the next week, the Pitt is overflowing.
Then, suddenly, every hallway smells like bleach and sanitizer, strong enough to burn your nose through the mask. Every shift feels like drowning—N95s cutting grooves into your skin, face shields fogging every time you breathe, and isolation gowns crackling every time you move.
The emergency department transforms into something unrecognizable almost overnight. There are no visitors or waiting rooms full of family. Alarms, intubations, oxygen sats dropping, and the sound of ventilators become part of the background noise of your life. Everyone starts looking exhausted, and then everyone starts looking haunted. You stop recognizing your coworkers without PPE. Even you stop recognizing yourself.
Through all of it, Jack keeps working.
You think maybe the entire world could collapse around him and he’d still show up for trauma shift fifteen minutes early with coffee in one hand and exhaustion carved into his face. Some nights, the two of you barely talk beyond patient updates. There isn’t time. Not anymore. Every room is full, and the waiting room looks like a war zone; people are dying faster than you can process. But even through the masks and face shields and layers of plastic, you still know him.
You know the crease between his brows when he’s worried and the exhaustion in his posture. The look in his eyes when a patient reminds him too much of somebody else.
To add to that, around the beginning of the pandemic, his wife dies. Not from COVID, which somehow makes it more merciless.
Pedestrian versus drunk driver—DOA. The call comes in just after midnight. You don’t know it’s her at first. Female in her late thirties. Severe head trauma. Massive internal injuries. CPR in progress.
The paramedics wheel her through the doors while respiratory rushes to clear Trauma One. For one horrible second, before you even see her face, the red string around Jack’s wrist burns.
You freeze, not because you understand yet. Because something deep inside you already does.
Then Jack steps into the trauma room, and everything stops. You watch recognition hit him in real time, the way his body locks up and how color drains from his face beneath the mask.
“No,” he says immediately, as if he says it softly enough, maybe reality will change its mind.
“No.”
Lena moves first.
“Jack—”
“That’s my wife.”
The room goes dead silent. Even with monitors alarming and compressions ongoing, along with Shen asking for another round of epi.
It all disappears under the sound of Jack’s voice breaking.
You’ve seen grief before—you work in emergency medicine, so you see it every day. But nothing prepares you for the sound a person makes when their entire life shatters in front of them. Jack tries to step forward, but Lena catches him immediately. “Jack.”
“No, let me—”
“Jack.”
“She’s still warm—”
His voice cracks apart on the words. The paramedic quietly says they found no pulse on scene. Prolonged downtime. Non-survivable head trauma. You can’t breathe—nobody can.
Jack looks at his wife lying on the trauma bed like he genuinely cannot understand what he’s seeing; his brain refuses to process it. Blood in her hair and on the sheet, with her wedding ring still on her hand. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist pulls painfully tight—before snapping loose.
Jack stares at his own wrist instinctively. The string tied there—gone. His face crumples. All that’s left is a man realizing the universe just took something from him that it can never give back.
COVID restrictions mean none of you are allowed at the funeral. No gathering or reception. No sitting beside him in church or placing a hand on his shoulder in comfort; bringing food to his house while relatives fill the rooms with noise and stories and grief.
Only Zoom.
Fucking Zoom.
You sit alone in your apartment at three in the afternoon after night shift, still in scrubs because you were too tired to change, laptop balanced on your kitchen table.
Everyone’s little squares flicker on-screen. Lena is crying silently, Ellis is muted, while Shen is trying and failing not to cry. Multiple other night shift staff are trying their best to pull themselves together—to be brave for Jack.
While Jack is sitting alone in a black button-down shirt in a house that suddenly looks too empty.
He looks hollow. That’s the only word for it. Hollowed out from the inside. You realize halfway through the service that he hasn’t stopped twisting his wedding ring around his finger once. Maybe he believes that if he keeps touching it, maybe she’s still here somehow.
You cry with your microphone muted.
Afterward, nobody knows what to say. There are no casseroles or hugs. No standing together in shared grief. Only little squares blink off one by one until Jack is the last person left in the call.
You stay after everyone disconnects. “You should sleep,” you say quietly. Jack lets out a humorless laugh, “Yeah.”
But he doesn’t move, and neither do you. Finally, he says, “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
There it is… the unbearable part, because she died instantly—no final words or closure. She was there one second—gone the next.
You press your lips together hard enough that they hurt as you faintly say, “I’m so sorry, Jack.”
He nods once because he’s heard it too many times already. Then his face folds inward suddenly, grief cracking through whatever fragile composure he’s been holding together. You’ve never seen him cry before, not really. Now he looks destroyed by it.
“I keep thinking she’s gonna walk through the door,” he whispers. “I keep forgetting for like… five seconds.”
Your lungs ache so violently that it feels unbearable.
Because despite everything—despite the string and the guilt and all the ways you tried to keep your distance—you love him. And loving someone means you cannot stand there and watch them suffer alone.
Not him.
Never him.
So you stay.
At first casually, then constantly, you start checking on him between shifts. You bring coffee, he forgets to drink, and force him to eat crackers during overnight shifts because grief has hollowed him thin. You sit beside him in the break room when he can’t sleep between traumas.
Some nights he talks, and there are nights he doesn’t. Later on, you learn grief has moods. Some days he’s numb, and some days he’s angry. Or days, a patient wearing the same perfume as his wife nearly sends him spiraling mid-shift. Once, after losing a COVID patient around his wife’s age, Jack locks himself in the stairwell for twenty minutes.
You find him there eventually. Still in PPE with his face shield shoved onto the top of his head, breathing hard like he’s trying not to come apart.
You sit beside him without saying anything. For a long time, neither of you speaks. The stairwell is cold through your scrub pants, concrete hard beneath you. Somewhere beyond the heavy metal door, the hospital keeps moving. Monitors alarming. Phones ringing. Ventilators hissing.
Life continued like his world didn’t just end.
Jack sits one step below you, elbows braced against his knees, surgical cap shoved halfway off his head. His N95 hangs loose around his neck now, leaving angry red pressure marks across his skin. He appears worn out in a manner unrelated to sleep. The type of tiredness that becomes bone-deep.
For a while, all you hear is his controlled breathing, but then, you know, if he lets himself lose control for even a second, he’ll never stop. Then quietly, without looking at you, Jack says, “I don’t know who I am without her.”
You nearly shatter at his confession, because it’s proof he loved her so completely. You saw it every day in small, ordinary ways. In the way his face softened when she walked into the department carrying takeout, or the absent-minded way he leaned toward her without realizing it. In the wedding ring, he twisted whenever he talked about her during quieter shifts. He loved her with the kind of certainty people spend their whole lives searching for, and somehow that only makes you love him more.
You look down at your hands, clasped tightly in your lap.
“At work?” you say softly after a moment. “You’re still Jack.” A weak laugh escapes him, humorless and tired, “Very inspirational speech.”
“I’m serious.”
You glance toward him carefully. Even now, he’s still wearing blood on the sleeve of his isolation gown from the code downstairs. His curls are damp with sweat, exhaustion carved deep into the lines around his eyes.
"When everything hurts," you say carefully, "you don't have to figure out how to survive the next ten years."
Jack finally looks up, with his eyes bloodshot, red-rimmed, and devastatingly tired. "You just find the next thing." His brow furrows slightly as you keep going, "The next cup of coffee that tastes okay."
A faint huff of breath leaves him.
"The next shift." You offer a small smile. "The next stupid joke Shen makes that isn't actually funny."
That earns the ghost of an eye roll—you take it.
"The next hour. The next day." Your throat tightens, but you push through it, "And eventually..." Your voice softens. "Eventually you realize you've made it farther than you thought you could."
Jack stares at you, fully paying attention and listening.
"The pain doesn't disappear," you admit quietly. "Some losses stay with you forever. But one day you wake up, and it isn't the first thing you feel."
The stairwell falls silent again, and you watch as Jack's eyes close briefly as if the possibility of hope hurts. When he opens them again, there's something unbearably raw there—something stripped bare. "You really believe that?" The question comes out almost broken, and you don't hesitate as you reply, "Yes."
Because you have to, for him, for yourself, and for every patient you've ever watched claw their way through impossible things.
"Yes," you repeat softly. Jack studies your face for a long moment—searching for something there. Maybe hope or permission. Or proof that somebody still sees him underneath all the grief. Then he gives one small, fragile nod, because he's trying very hard to believe you, too.
A softer shared silence settles between you again afterward. You remain beside him on the stairwell steps while the hospital hums around you. Two exhausted healthcare workers in the middle of a pandemic. One grieving the loss of the love of his life. The other grieving quietly beside him. Then, after a long time, you speak again.
Your voice barely rises above a whisper, "I don't think there's such a thing as a good goodbye." Jack doesn't look away, but you stare at the concrete floor.
"People say it gets easier. That you find closure. That eventually you make peace with it." Your fingers tighten together. "But I think losing someone just becomes part of you. You learn how to carry it." Your throat burns, "There are days when you think you're okay. Days when you laugh and work and breathe normally." You glance toward him. "And then something happens. A song, a smell, maybe a memory.” Blinking back your tears, you revealed, "The grief finds you again."
Jack's eyes shine slightly as you continue softly, "Not because you failed to move on." Your voice wavers. "But because they mattered."
A long silence follows. Then, quietly—"So what am I supposed to do?" When he asks the question, it sounds incredibly trivial.
You look at Jack—at the man who spent years helping everyone else survive. He stayed with frightened soldiers, and loved his wife so completely that even death couldn't erase her from him.
"Keep loving her," you say softly, and Jack's breath catches. "Just don't let her be the reason you stop living, too."
The silence that follows feels sacred, somewhere beneath your sleeve, hidden from the world, the red string wrapped around your wrist aches. Not because it hurts, but because for the first time since she died, you realize you would carry his grief with him for as long as he needed.
Even if he never knew.
2021
YOUR APARTMENT — NIGHT
By late 2021, you recognize the symptoms almost immediately. The exhaustion first. Not normal exhaustion—the kind every ER nurse carries around like a second heartbeat—but something meaner. The sort that becomes deeply ingrained in your bones and wears you out just by standing straight.
Then the fever, then it’s the cough that follows soon after, and the body aches that feel like somebody took a hammer to every joint you have.
You take the rapid test in your bathroom with trembling hands, already knowing what the result will be before the second line even appears.
Positive.
You stare at it for a long moment anyway, “Fuck.”
You’d been vaccinated months ago. Healthcare workers got priority access early on, one of the very few benefits of spending every shift neck-deep in a pandemic. And thank God for that, because without it, you’re almost certain this would’ve landed you intubated in an ICU somewhere.
Still—it hits you hard.
Your immune system has never exactly been reliable. Too many years of stress, skipped meals, night shifts, and pushing yourself past exhaustion had seen to that long before COVID ever existed.
So you quarantine immediately with no qualms or arguments. Immediately, you text Lena and Dana to tell them that you’ve contracted COVID-19. Then you lock yourself inside your apartment and prepare to wait it out.
The loneliness settles in fast after that. The first day isn’t terrible, but the second day is worse. By the third day, you genuinely feel like you’re losing your mind. Your apartment suddenly feels too small and too quiet. Every surface smells faintly of disinfectant and cough drops. Empty Gatorade bottles and medication wrappers clutter your coffee table because you’re too exhausted to clean properly.
You sleep in fragments. Wake up drenched in sweat. Cough until your ribs ache. Then fall asleep again, only to wake up disoriented an hour later. You try texting your family back home once, but hearing your mother’s worried voice over FaceTime nearly makes you cry, so you stop answering calls after that.
You tell everyone you’re fine. You’re not.
One particularly bad night, you sit on the bathroom floor wrapped in a blanket because the cold tiles feel good against your feverish skin, genuinely debating at what oxygen saturation you’d finally call an ambulance.
Ninety-three? Ninety-two?
You know too much…that’s the problem. You’re aware exactly how quickly patients can crash, and what respiratory distress looks like. You know what COVID sounds like when it starts settling deeper into the lungs. And alone in your apartment at two in the morning, feverish and exhausted and struggling not to spiral, you think: If this gets worse, I’m gonna end up at Presby or PTMC.
By day five, your phone is full of unread texts. Lena is checking in, Shen is sending memes, and Ellis is threatening to physically fight you if you don’t hydrate. But then there’s Jack calling twice… then three times.
You don’t answer any of them. Not intentionally. Your brain feels too foggy to function most of the time. Looking at your phone takes effort you barely have energy for. So when there’s suddenly a knock at your apartment door that evening, you frown from beneath your blanket without moving.
Probably the wrong apartment.
Another knock. Then—your real name, muffled through the door in a voice you’d recognize half-asleep.
“Hey.”
Your stomach drops.
No.
Absolutely not.
You push yourself upright too quickly and immediately regret it when dizziness crashes over you. You stumble toward the door anyway, coughing into your elbow before peeking through the peephole.
And there he is.
Jack Abbot. Standing outside your apartment in full PPE. N95. Face shield. Gloves. Isolation gown. Holding a plastic takeout bag in one hand. You stare at him in complete disbelief before yanking yourself back from the door. “Jack?!”
“Oh, good,” his voice comes through the other side, dry with relief. “You’re alive.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” you hiss through the door. “How did you even find where I live?”
“Lena told me… and Dana.”
Traitors.
You lean your forehead briefly against the door, exhausted. “You can’t be here,” you argue weakly. “You could get sick.” Jack snorts softly from the hallway, “Lifeline, we work in an emergency department.”
“That is not comforting!”
“Also,” he continues, ignoring you completely, “is there a reason you’ve been ignoring my texts and calls?”
You close your eyes briefly. Honestly, you hadn’t even realized how many messages you missed.
“Jack—”
“Open the door.”
You blink as you screech, “Are you fucking insane? No.” His voice lowers slightly then, gentler but firmer somehow. “Lifeline.”
Somewhere behind your ribs, the moniker settles heated and perilous.
“Open the door.”
You stare at the wood for a long moment. Then, against every ounce of common sense you possess, you unlock it. The second the door cracks open, Jack’s eyes immediately scan over you clinically. You can practically see the ER doctor in him assessing your flushed skin, fatigue, and mild shortness of breath. The way you’re subtly bracing yourself against the wall to stay upright. In an instant, his face tightens.
"Oh," he murmurs. Somehow, that soft little sound embarrasses you more than if he’d outright said you looked terrible. You cross your arms defensively, “I look worse than I feel.”
“That’s concerning, because you look awful.”
You let out a tired laugh despite yourself, immediately coughing afterward. Jack’s eyes narrow behind the face shield, “How high’s the fever?”
“It’s fine.”
“Temperature.”
“One-oh-one earlier.”
“And oxygen?”
You hesitate half a second too long, and Jack notices immediately, “Lifeline.”
“Ninety-four. I’ve been checking my Apple Watch.”
His jaw tightens, “Okay.”
You step aside reluctantly. “There’s hand sanitizer and ethyl alcohol everywhere. I’ve been disinfecting the place whenever I can.”
Jack walks inside carefully, setting the takeout bag down near the kitchen counter. Your apartment suddenly feels unbearably small with him standing in it. Messy blankets on the couch. Medications scattered across the coffee table. Laundry you’ve been too sick to fold. You suddenly want the earth to swallow you whole. “Sorry,” you mutter. “It’s kind of a disaster.”
Jack glances around once before looking back at you. “I’ve seen residents cry over missing lab results. This is nothing.” That earns another weak laugh out of you while he pulls out one of the dining chairs and gestures toward it, “Sit down before you fall down.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“You almost passed out opening the door.”
Rude.
You sit anyway because standing suddenly feels impossible, and Jack immediately starts fussing. Taking your temperature again. Checking your pulse ox. Asking when you last ate.
In a manner that hurts your core, it's somehow intimate. After observing him in silence for a while, you gently inquire, "Why are you here?"
Jack pauses before he shrugs one shoulder like the answer should be obvious. “Because I know you.”
“You don’t have family here,” he continues quietly. “No roommates. No neighbors you’re close enough with to help if things go bad.” He leans back slightly in the chair across from you.
“You moved halfway across the world by yourself,” he says. “So yeah. I came to do a welfare check.” Something warm and painful twists in your chest all at once, so you try covering it with humor. “Am I that unlucky or just that special?”
Jack looks at you for a long moment. Then, softly, he replies, “Just that special.” The room goes very still while your pulse stutters painfully against your ribs. Jack clears his throat first, looking away. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.”
He gives you a tired, unimpressed look immediately, “Don’t start with me.” You sigh, shoulders slumping. “I feel…” You swallow hard. “Honestly? Like I got hit by a truck.”
Jack nods once like he expected that answer. “My chest hurts when I cough,” you admit quietly. “And I’m exhausted all the time. Walking to the bathroom feels like running a 10k.”
Jack’s expression softens instantly to concern. “Okay,” he says gently. “That sounds about right for breakthrough COVID.”
You laugh weakly, “Reassuring.”
“You’re vaccinated. Your sats are holding. Fever sucks, but you’re stable.” His voice shifts into that calm doctor cadence you’ve heard him use with terrified patients a hundred times before.
“You’re gonna feel miserable for a little while,” he says softly. “But you’re not dying.”
The ridiculous thing is—you believe him immediately. Maybe because it’s Jack, he always sounds certain even when the world is falling apart. Or maybe because after spending almost a week alone in your apartment feeling terrified and sick and invisible—having somebody show up for you feels dangerously close to relief.
Somewhere beneath the fever and exhaustion and the red string hidden under your sleeve, you realize this is the first time since his wife died that Jack has willingly stepped into somebody else’s home again.
The thought nearly breaks your heart.
Grief has a way of shrinking people's worlds—you'd watched it happen to Jack in real time. After his wife died, he stopped inviting people over. Stopped talking about home or lingering after conversations that might eventually end with someone asking how he was doing outside of work. The walls had gone up slowly. Brick by brick. Most people probably never noticed, but you did. Yet here he is, standing in your cluttered apartment with a stethoscope in one hand and a grocery bag full of electrolyte drinks in the other.
"Drink."
You stare at the bottle he shoves toward you, "You're very bossy outside the hospital."
"Drink." He insists.
"Is this because I ignored your texts?"Jack gives you a look, the one he usually reserves for patients actively making terrible decisions. "Partly."
You sigh dramatically and take the bottle, "Happy?"
"No."
That catches your attention. You look up, and Jack is standing near the kitchen counter, arms folded across his chest. The concern on his face isn't hidden anymore. Hasn't been since he walked through the door. "You should've told somebody you were this sick." Your laugh comes out hoarse, "I did."
"No." Jack shakes his head, "You told people you were fine."
"...I was trying not to worry anyone."
"You had a one-oh-one fever and couldn't walk to your bathroom without getting winded."
You look away because when he says it like that, it sounds bad. "It sounds worse when you say it."
"That's because it is worse."
You can't help smiling, but that only seems to annoy him more.
"Why are you smiling?"
"You care."
Jack stares and then immediately looks away. Your fever-addled brain doesn't miss the faint flush creeping up his neck. "Of course I care."
The answer comes too naturally, and for some reason, that makes something warm settle beneath your body. The television murmurs faintly in the background, forgotten as Jack eventually disappears into your kitchen. You hear cabinets opening and then closing. A frustrated sigh leaves him, "How do you have absolutely no food?"
"I have food."
"You have soy sauce and olive oil."
"That's food-adjacent."
Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. "You work in healthcare."
"So do you."
"I know."
"Have you seen what doctors eat?"
He points at you from across the room, "Deflection."
You grin while Jack shakes his head again, but he opens the takeout containers anyway and pours you soup. Then make sure you actually eat it and wait until you're halfway through before finally sitting down. The quiet and unexpected realization sneaks up on him that somehow—he likes taking care of you. Because it shouldn't feel this good. It shouldn't feel this natural to be here. To fuss over your fever, refill your water glass, and check your pulse ox every twenty minutes because he doesn't trust you not to lie about your symptoms.
Yet every time he glances up and sees you curled beneath a blanket on the couch, alive and stubborn and complaining—something in his heart eases. The same feeling he gets when a trauma patient finally stabilizes. When someone he was worried about turns out okay. Only different. This time, it’s more personal and complicated.
You cough suddenly, and Jack is moving before he even realizes it, quickly handing you water. Waiting until the coughing fit passes. Your eyes lift toward him over the rim of the glass. It’s soft and sleepy. "Thank you." Your words are quiet and sincere.
And God help him—that does something to him. Something he doesn't examine too closely.
Because if he does—he might have to ask himself questions he's not ready to answer. Questions like why spending an afternoon taking care of you feels better than spending it anywhere else, or why your apartment already feels strangely familiar. Why did the idea of you being here alone all week bother him so much?
Instead, he focuses on something safer—annoyance. "You know," he says, sitting back in his chair, "your soulmate's doing a terrible job."
You blink at that, frowning, "What?" Jack shrugs, "If they're out there somewhere, they're slacking." A surprised laugh escapes you. "What does that even mean?"
"It means," he says, gesturing vaguely toward your blanket burrito state, "you're sick. Alone. Living on cough drops and spite."
"I had soup."
"You had olive oil."
"That was one time."
Jack rolls his eyes, "My point stands." A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "They should've shown up by now." The joke is spoken carelessly, and he doesn't know it nearly stops your heart.
You look away first, toward the rain-streaked window, literally anywhere but him. Because if you look at Jack right now—if you look at the man sitting in your apartment, taking care of you, worrying over you, complaining about a soulmate who never appeared—you might break.
The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly burdensome. But Jack doesn't notice, he's too busy opening another bottle of water and making sure your fever isn't climbing again. Somewhere in the quiet warmth of your apartment, he doesn’t realize the irony. Jack is sitting exactly where he should be. Doing exactly what he was supposed to do, and somehow, he can’t see it yet.
2023
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
Five years ago, you were the new nurse from the Philippines. Now you're simply part of the Pitt. Nobody really introduces you anymore. You're just there, part of the machinery. You know where everything is and everyone's habits. Or when Ellis is pretending to chart and is actually looking for the next best place to nap for her double. You know when Shen is about to spiral before he even realizes it himself. By now, you have memorized Lena's "I'm not mad, I'm disappointed" face is significantly more terrifying than actual anger.
Somewhere along the way—you became one of the safest places in Jack's life. Neither of you meant for that to happen.
It just did.
There are hundreds of tiny moments, none of which seem important on their own. But together, they're devastating. A patient's husband is screaming in the hallway after a failed resuscitation. Security is trying to de-escalate, family members are crying, and the entire department feels tense. Then, appearing devastated, Jack leaves the room but not in a noticeable way. Most people wouldn't recognize it, but you do.
You don't say anything; instead, you simply hand him a cup of coffee. Exactly how he takes it. He looks down at it, then at you. "Mind reader?" You shrug, "You looked like you needed caffeine." The corner of his mouth twitches, "Thanks."
Somehow, that small smile stays with him the rest of the shift.
Another night, it’s three in the morning. Everyone's fucking exhausted. You're sitting on the floor of the supply room because it's the only place nobody can find you for five minutes. Jack opens the door and stops. He finds you sitting there cross-legged, eating stale vending machine pretzels. "You hiding?"
"No."
"You are literally hiding."
You hold up a pretzel, defensive, "This is self-care." Jack stares at you, then, to your horror, he sits beside you on the floor. Like it's completely normal. "You know we're adults, right?" he asks.
"Says the man eating peanut butter crackers for dinner." Jack looks offended; he scoffs, "I had a protein bar." You roll your eyes at that, "Oh. Well, that's different."
His laugh echoes through the tiny room. It’s warm and unrestrained. The sound settles somewhere dangerous inside your chest. Then the days keep passing by, and then the days turn into months, then it’s another shift, another trauma.
Another impossible night.
A frightened little girl refuses to let go of your hand while waiting for stitches. You're sitting beside her bed, explaining every step of the procedure. Making balloon animals out of gloves while telling ridiculous stories.
By the time you're finished, she's laughing. You don't notice Jack standing in the doorway watching or the expression on his face either. The one that lingers long after he walks away. Because somewhere over the years, admiration has quietly become affection.
Affection has started becoming something else—something he doesn't have a name for yet. Jack's issue is that he doesn't immediately feel things. Without thinking, he simply begins searching for you first.
A difficult trauma comes in? His eyes automatically find yours. A bad shift? He looks for you at Central. A joke occurs to him? He wants to tell you. A patient reminds him of something sad? Somehow, you're the person he ends up talking to.
It happens gradually enough that neither of you notices.
Until everyone else does.
"You know Abbot's gonna have a breakdown if Lifeline ever leaves, right?" Ellis says it casually while charting. You nearly choke on your coffee, "What?" Across the desk, Shen immediately nods. "Oh, absolutely."
"Parker."
"I'm serious."
You point threateningly, "Stop." Parker raises both hands. "Hey, I don't make the rules."
You refuse to acknowledge the strange warmth crawling up your neck. Because if you acknowledge it—you'll have to acknowledge the way your heart still skips whenever Jack smiles at you. After all these years, that feels pathetic.
2024
PTMC, MAIN ENTRANCE — DAY
The rain starts sometime around six in the morning. Not a drizzle—a proper Pittsburgh downpour. The kind that turns streets silver and pounds against windows hard enough to drown out conversation.
After twelve hours of chaos, the entire department begins filtering out toward the parking garage and bus stops. You finally clock out around seven—exhausted and half-awake, absolutely ready for sleep.
When you step outside, you immediately spot Jack standing beneath the small emergency department awning.
Watching the rain… alone with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. Looking at him, you pause, "You're still here?"
Jack glances over, "My car's in the shop."
That explains it.
"How'd you get here?"
"Rideshare."
You look out toward the street, and the rain is somehow worse now. Jack follows your gaze, "Trying to decide how miserable walking home is gonna be." You glance over, "What happened to your ride?"
Jack lets out a tired breath, "Canceled."
"What?"
"Driver got stuck downtown." You wince at that, and he pulls his phone from his pocket and turns the screen toward you. The rideshare app is a disaster—surge pricing, long wait times. One estimate says thirty-eight minutes, while another says unavailable. Apparently, every exhausted healthcare worker in Pittsburgh had the same idea after shift. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Yeah." Jack stuffs his phone away again. "I've been refreshing it for ten minutes."
You look back toward the rain, then down at the umbrella dangling from your wrist, and then back at him. You ask, "No umbrella?"
"Nope."
You stare at him, then at the rain… and then at the very obvious lack of any workable plan. So, without thinking twice, you hold the umbrella out. Jack blinks, looks at the umbrella, and then at you. Then back at the umbrella. It's baby pink and covered in tiny Miffy rabbits. The ears are even printed around the trim—the thing looks aggressively cheerful.
"You serious?"
"Very."
A laugh escapes him, a real one. Low and surprised and completely unguarded. It's probably the first genuine laugh you've heard from him all shift, maybe longer. You feel absurdly proud of yourself as you snort, "Sorry about the color."
Jack studies the umbrella again, "I think I'll survive."
"You sure? Might destroy your reputation."
"My reputation was already questionable."
"Fair."
You press the handle into his hand without hesitation, because that's just who you are. Someone needs help, so you help; it's that simple. Jack looks genuinely baffled. "Wait."
You pause.
"What about you?" He asks, concerned. You shrug. The rain is cold, and the morning is gray. You've worked twelve hours, and your back hurts, along with your feet. But somehow none of that feels important. "I live closer than you do."
"Lifeline."
"Jack."
"You'll get soaked."
You smile, bright and softly. The same smile you've given frightened patients, overwhelmed residents, and grieving family members. You shrug, "It's rain."
His brow furrows, "You say that like hypothermia isn't a thing." You laugh at that, "I'm from the Philippines. Rain and I have a long-standing relationship."
"That's not remotely reassuring."
"It shouldn't be."
Jack shakes his head, but he's smiling now, which gives you a bit of peace. His eyes linger on you a second too long. Or maybe you're imagining it. You probably are—you usually are. Then you add quietly, "Besides, sometimes life is easier when you stop trying to avoid every uncomfortable thing."
Jack's expression softens, and you glance toward the rain. "Sometimes you just accept you're gonna get soaked and go home anyway." Neither of you says anything for a little bit. Because you both know that your words aren't really about the rain, neither of you acknowledges it. A laugh escapes him again, and he shakes his head, "You always have an answer for everything."
"No." You step backward toward the edge of the awning, and the cold rain immediately spatters against your scrub pants while you grin. "You just have to trust you'll be okay once you get there."
That gets another laugh out of him, the kind that reaches his eyes. You would do almost anything to keep hearing that sound. The umbrella remains clutched in his hand. Pink, ridiculous, and entirely yours. But for some reason, he can't stop staring at it. Or at you, standing in the rain, completely unapologetically yourself. No performance or hidden agenda. Only your kindness offered freely, as if giving away the only thing keeping you dry is the most natural decision in the world.
The thing is—Jack has spent years watching people take. Watching grief take, life and death take. And you...You are always giving… your time, your patience, and your terrible vending machine snacks. Your heart, if someone needed it badly enough. Now, it’s your umbrella.
Something warm twists unexpectedly inside of him, and he feels tingling all over his skin, as well as his mouth begins to dry. You lift a hand in farewell, "See you tomorrow, Dr. Abbot."
Then you turn and jog into the rain, water immediately drenches your hair, and you laugh when your shoe splashes into a puddle. You keep running anyway. While Jack just stands there—watching, until you disappear around the corner. Long after you're gone, he remains beneath the awning with your pink umbrella still hanging from his hand.
The rideshare app was forgotten entirely, and the rain pounded against the pavement as the morning traffic crawled by. For the first time in a very long time—the thought of going home doesn't feel quite as lonely. He looks down at the ridiculous little umbrella again. Then, despite himself, he smiles. Because somehow the damn thing feels exactly like you.
2025
NIGHTCLUB, PITTSBURGH — NIGHT
The music is loud enough to vibrate through your ribs. Honestly, you're having fun, a rare occurrence these days. Between night shifts and overtime and trying to maintain some semblance of a social life outside of the Pitt, opportunities to be a normal twenty-something are increasingly rare.
So when a few friends invited you out, you said yes. You danced, drank, and laughed. You let yourself forget about work for a few hours, and somewhere between your second drink and the realization that your feet hurt, you discovered a very important problem.
Your apartment keys were gone—completely vanished, you checked your purse three times. Your jacket pockets twice, then the bathroom counter, next the bar, and still nothing. Which is how you found yourself sitting in a booth near the back of the club with your phone pressed to your ear.
Waiting for Jack to answer.
He picks up on the second ring, "Everything okay?" You immediately relax, which is probably a problem. "Maybe."
Jack sighs, the sound of a man who has known you far too long, "What happened?" You look mournfully into your drink, "I lost my keys." A pause on the other end, and then, "You what?"
"They're gone."
"Lifeline."
"They disappeared."
"Keys don't disappear."
"They absolutely do."
The music swells around you, and someone screams happily near the dance floor. Through the phone, Jack suddenly goes quiet. He asks, "Where are you?"
You blink, "Huh?"
"Where are you?"
You frown, then glance up at the neon sign hanging over the bar, "Oh." You tell him the club's name. The silence on the other end lasts approximately two seconds before you hear him ask, "How are you getting home?"
You wave a hand vaguely despite the fact he can't see you, "M'gonna Uber." The words come out more slurred than intended. Silence... a long silence, then you hear him sigh, "Jesus Christ."
"It’s not that bad—"
"No."
You open your mouth to argue, but Jack beats you to it. "I'm picking you up." You immediately sober, exclaiming, "What?"
"Do not leave with anybody."
"Jack—"
"Do not get into a stranger's car."
"That's literally what Uber is." You throw back in response.
"Lifeline." The warning in his voice makes you sit up straighter. "I'm serious. Stay where you are."
"Jack—"
"I'm already grabbing my keys."
Your stomach flips unexpectedly as you point out, "You're working tomorrow."
"So are you."
"Jack."
His voice drops lower, gentler as he begs, "Please." And that ends the argument before it starts. You stare at your drink and reluctantly reply, "...Okay."
"Good." A beat and then you hear, "Don't hang up."
Twenty-five minutes later, Jack walks into the club and promptly forgets how to breathe, because he has never seen you like this before. At work, you're always in scrubs, with your hair pulled back, minimal makeup, and practical shoes.
Tonight—tonight you look nothing like the nurse who steals his coffee and argues with surgeons. Your hair is down, and your makeup catches the flashing lights every time you move. The outfit you're wearing should probably be illegal—at least that's what his traitorous brain immediately decides. Far too much skin and too beautiful—too distracting.
Jack stares for half a second too long, but then immediately hates himself for it. Because he's Jack and you're you. You're his friend, and he's forty-something years old and should absolutely know better. But the sudden realization that other people are staring at you, too, fills him with an entirely unreasonable amount of irritation. There are multiple reasons he hates that realization—none of them are good. You spot him immediately, and relief floods your face, "Jack!"
Somehow that's worse—because you're happy to see him, you always are. Jack pushes through the crowd toward your booth. He asks, "You okay?"
You grin, a little tipsy and a little tired, "Hi."
"That's not an answer."
"I lost my keys."
"You mentioned."
You immediately point at him, "I looked."
"I believe you."
"I looked everywhere."
Jack softens despite himself, "I know."
Just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The amount of trust you've placed in him over the years—it sneaks up on him sometimes, along with the amount he's placed in you. Neither of you ever talks about it—it's just simply there.
"Where are your friends?"
You blink.
"Oh."
You glance toward the dance floor, where your group has completely disappeared into the crowd. One of them is standing on a platform dancing with a stranger. Another appears to be attempting karaoke despite there being no karaoke machine. Honestly, nobody looks remotely concerned about your whereabouts. You point vaguely, "Over there." Jack follows your finger, and immediately regrets it. "Jesus."
You laugh, "They're having fun."
"They look like a liability."
"They are." A pause, then you smile warmly at him. The kind of smile that's become increasingly difficult for him to ignore lately.
"You ready to head home?" The question comes out gentler than he intended. Your expression softens immediately. "Mhm."
There’s no argument because the answer was always going to be yes. After all, it's him asking. Something in Jack's chest tightens unexpectedly. You climb out of the booth and wobble slightly when your heel catches on the edge of the floor. His hand is on your elbow before either of you thinks about it. It’s steady and instinctive—the contact lasts barely a second, but you both notice. Your eyes flick down to his hand, then back up to his face. Neither of you says anything, and Jack clears his throat first before he lets go, "You good?"
You nod immediately, "Mhm. Yep." Then point at him. "I need to go tell them I'm not being kidnapped by you."
The laugh that escapes him is helpless, "You go do that."
You grin, "Okay.” Before turning toward the dance floor, you lightly tap his arm. It’s a small gesture, mindless and affectionate. The kind of touch friends make without thinking. Yet Jack feels it long after you've disappeared into the crowd. He watches you weave through the dancers. Watch you throw your arms around one of your friends.
You laugh at something that makes your whole face light up, and standing there in the middle of a crowded nightclub, surrounded by strangers and flashing lights and music loud enough to shake the floor—Jack suddenly realizes he's smiling. He's smiling because you're happy and somewhere deep down, in a place he has been carefully avoiding for a very long time—he knows that's becoming a problem.
You weave your way through the crowd, dodging dancers and spilled drinks, until you finally find your friends near the center of the dance floor. One of them immediately grabs your arm, "There you are!" You laugh, "Apparently, I'm leaving."
"What?" another groans theatrically. "Already?"
You point toward the edge of the club—toward Jack. Standing near the entrance with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, waiting. The second your friends spot him, several heads swivel at once. Then all of them turn suspiciously slowly back toward you.
"Ohhh."
You immediately know that tone, you shake your head, "No."
"That's the doctor."
"No."
"The hot doctor."
You cover your face, "Oh my God." One of them leans closer, asking, "Is he your boyfriend?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Very."
"Because he definitely looks like he's here to pick up his girlfriend." Heat floods your face instantly, "No, he does not."
Across the room, Jack glances over, as if sensing he's being talked about. But when he spots you, his expression visibly relaxes. And unfortunately, your friends see that too. "Oh my God."
You groan, "Stop."
"He likes you."
"He does not."
"He drove here to rescue you from yourself."
"That's called friendship."
"That's called middle-aged pining." You nearly choke, "Please never say those words again."
Laughter follows you all the way back toward the entrance, and Jack looks mildly concerned the closer you get. "You okay?"
"Apparently not."
He narrows his eyes at your response, "What happened?"
"My friends are terrible people."
"Fair."
You point at him, "Don't encourage them."
"I'm not encouraging anybody."
"Liar."
The corner of his mouth twitches, and just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The simple fact that he's here has solved half the problem already. Then you take two steps toward the exit, but Jack is moving before he even thinks about it. One hand catches your elbow, and the other settles briefly at your waist, steadying you. The contact is innocent, but your breath catches anyway. It’s practical and necessary, at least that's what both of you tell yourselves.
"Whoa there." Jack says, and you blink up at him, then immediately start laughing, "I think the floor moved."
"The floor did not move."
"It absolutely moved."
"Lifeline."
"I'm just saying." Jack shakes his head, and his hand doesn't immediately leave your waist. Neither of you seems to notice. Or maybe both of you notice too much. "Come on."
You allow him to guide you outside, and the cool night air hits immediately. Rain lingers on the pavement, turning the streets into rivers of reflected neon. You inhale deeply, then sway again. Jack catches you before it becomes a problem. His hand settles more firmly against your side this time, and your body immediately relaxes into the contact like it's familiar.
Jack notices that too. "You good?" He asked, and you nod, "Mhm." A beat, and then you add, "The ground's still suspicious."
That earns a real laugh out of him, and you love that sound.
The parking lot isn't far, but Jack keeps his hand on your waist the entire walk there. Just in case… well, at least that's what he tells himself. Not because he likes the feeling of you beside him or how perfectly you fit there.
Just in case. That's all…. at least for tonight.
Jack sighs. The long-suffering sigh of a man who spends his life dealing with stubborn people. "Come on."
You allow him to guide you… well. at least until you nearly walk directly into a group of people entering the club. Jack catches your shoulder and redirects you gently, "Okay."
"What?"
His hand settles more firmly against your back, "Maybe we're graduating from independent walking." You gasp dramatically, "I am fully capable." But your words come out slightly slurred.
Jack raises an eyebrow, "You just tried to walk through three people."
"They were in my way."
A laugh escapes him. God. You're something truly special.
Now he has a new problem. Namely, getting you safely into his truck before you attempt something stupid.
The passenger-side door swings open, and you stare at it, then back at the seat. Jack immediately knows what's happening. "Need help?"
"No." A pause as you squint at the truck suspiciously. "Maybe."
"It's higher than it looked five seconds ago, isn't it?"
"It definitely wasn't this tall before."
Jack bites the inside of his cheek, hard, trying not to laugh.
"Okay."
Before you can protest, his firm hands settle at your waist, and suddenly you're being lifted just enough to get into the passenger seat. The whole thing takes maybe two seconds, except neither of you feels normal afterward. You freeze, and Jack also freezes. His hands are still on your waist, and you're looking directly at each other—far too close.
For a brief, dangerous moment, neither of you moves. Then Jack clears his throat, immediately stepping back. "Seatbelt."
Your brain takes several seconds to reboot, "What?"
"Seatbelt."
"Oh."
Of course, duh. You fumble with it and miss the buckle twice before Jack reaches over and clicks it into place. His face is suddenly very near again. Near enough to see the tiny scar near his jaw, and that your heart starts doing things it absolutely should not be doing. "There." His voice comes out lower than usual. You swallow, "Thanks."
Neither of you acknowledges how strange the moment felt and the warmth lingering where his hands had been. Or the way Jack has to grip the steering wheel a little tighter once he's behind it. Because some things are easier left alone. At least for now.
JACK ABBOT’S APARTMENT — NIGHT
The drive back to your apartment is quieter than the nightclub. The city has settled into that strange hour between night and morning, when the roads are mostly empty, and the traffic lights seem to change for no one. Rain taps softly against the windshield as Jack drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. You are attempting to stay awake. Attempting being the important word here. Every few minutes, your head tips toward the window before jerking upright again.
Jack notices every single time, "You can sleep."
"I'm not sleeping."
"You were asleep thirty seconds ago."
"I was thinking."
"You were drooling."
You gasp in offense, and Jack doesn't even look at you as he commands, "Go to sleep."
"You're mean." A laugh escapes him at your comment. He realizes that he’s been doing it a lot when he’s around you.
By the time you arrive at your apartment, you’re humming a song, trying to stay awake. Then Jack pats his pocket, and freezes when he realizes, "...Shit."
You blink, "What?" He closes his eyes, "I forgot your spare key." You stare, then immediately start laughing.
Jack groans, "Oh my God."
"You drove all the way there."
“Don’t.”
"You forgot the whole reason you picked me up."
"Don't."
Your laughter gets worse, and for the first time in years, Jack lets out a full belly laugh too. He begins to drive to his apartment, and since it’s late, he offers for you to crash at his place.
By the time he pulls into his apartment complex, you're visibly losing the fight against exhaustion and alcohol—mostly alcohol. The second you step through the front door, you kick your heels off exaggeratedly. One lands near the couch, and the other somehow ends up halfway down the hallway. Jack silently watches this happen. Then watches you attempt to unbuckle whatever complicated contraption is keeping your outfit together. "Okay," he says immediately.
"What?"
"Maybe let's not do that."
You frown at him, "Why?"
Because you're drunk—very drunk, and apparently completely unaware that you're standing in the middle of his apartment trying to peel yourself out of an outfit that has occupied far too much of his attention already. Jack suddenly finds the ceiling fascinating, the wall too. Actually, maybe the floor. Anywhere except you.
"Because," he says carefully, "you need pajamas."
"Oh." You consider this, then nod solemnly. "Pajamas are smart."
"Thank you."
"I am smart."
"You are." He nods, and you point at him, "I knew you'd agree."
Jack presses his lips together. God help him. Somehow, over the years, you've become one of his favorite people. A few minutes later, after much negotiation and several failed attempts to convince you that sleeping in sequins is a terrible idea, Jack disappears into his bedroom closet. He returns holding an old Army shirt—worn soft with age, the fabric faded from years of washing, along with a pair of boxers. You stare, then grin. "These yours?" Jack immediately regrets everything, "Yes."
"Cool."
Then, before he can stop you—you start changing.
"Jesus Christ."
You blink, "What?"
Jack is staring firmly at the opposite wall. "You could've warned me."
"Why?"
Because you're still drunk enough that embarrassment hasn't caught up with you yet. Meanwhile, Jack is discovering entirely new levels of self-control.
"Bathroom," he says.
"Right." You pause, then gesture wildly. "The bathroom."
"Correct."
Five minutes later, you emerge wearing the oversized shirt. The hem brushes your thighs while sleeves hang past your hands. The sight nearly kills him, because you look comfortable—like you belong here. Which is a thought he immediately shoves into a locked box and throws into the ocean. Nope. Not touching that. Absolutely not. That’s reserved for a future therapy session. Boy, is his therapist going to love that.
"Sit."
You immediately sit on the edge of his bed.
"Drink."
You obediently accept the water bottle, and Jack blinks, "That's new."
"What?"
"You listened."
You point at him, "You're bossy."
"Drink the water."
You drink the water, then he hands you a spare toothbrush and makes sure you actually use it. Then spends several minutes making certain you don't accidentally fall asleep face-first into the sink. By the time he's satisfied you're hydrated and functional enough not to accidentally die overnight, you're sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed, wrapped in one of his old shirts and looking increasingly sleepy.
You dig through your purse. "There are makeup wipes in here."
Jack pauses, asks, "You carry those around?"
"My eyeliner smudges." You shrug. "My mascara too."
Jack shakes his head, "Prepared for everything."
"It's literally why we carry purses."
"Pretty sure that's not why."
"It absolutely is."
He finds the packet eventually and pulls one free, then gestures to you, "Come here." You blink, dazed, "What?"
"Your mascara's halfway down your face."
Well, that’s fucking mortifying—immediately you cover your face, "Oh my God." Jack laughs softly; the sound is low and warm. "You're fine."
"No, I'm not."
"You really are."
Gently, he pulls your hand away and carefully brushes the wipe across your cheek. His touch is light, patient, and unhurried. The same hands that place chest tubes and suture wounds and perform procedures under pressure somehow become impossibly gentle. They always do around people he cares about. You go strangely still, and the room suddenly feels too quiet and small. Jack is close enough that the details become impossible to ignore. The silver was woven through his hair. The exhaustion that never quite leaves his eyes. The traces of loss he carries with him even now. And still, despite all of it—or maybe because of it—he remains devastatingly, painfully beautiful.
"You've done this before." The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.
Jack's hand stills briefly, then resumes. "Mmm." His voice is soft, a little distant. "She hated taking her makeup off."
The ache arrives instantly—it’s deep and familiar.
"She'd fall asleep on the couch." A small smile touches his mouth. "Every time." His gaze drops to the wipe in his hand, "Eventually, it was easier to do it myself."
A tender silence settles over the room, and suddenly your eyes sting. Because even now—all these years later—he still misses her. Of course he does, he always will.
"Jack." He looks up, and you swallow hard. "I'm sorry."
His hand pauses, and he asks, "For what?"
Your throat tightens painfully, "I know you miss her." The words come out small, but completely honest, and are barely above a whisper. Jack looks at you, and what he sees nearly unravels him. Because you're crying for him—not for yourself, or because you're drunk. You're crying because his pain hurts you. Because somehow you've always carried pieces of everyone else's heartbreak as if it belongs to you too.
A tear slips down your cheek, and before you can wipe it away, Jack reaches up, his thumb tenderly brushes gently across your skin.
The touch lingers slightly.
"Hey." His voice is impossibly soft, "Don't cry, honey."
The endearment slips out before he can stop it. The second it does, the room changes. Your breath catches, and Jack freezes. Neither of you moves. For one suspended second, the entire world narrows to that single point of contact. His hand against your cheek, your eyes locked on his. The silence between you is suddenly filled with things neither of you knows how to say. Then Jack does the only thing he can think of—he opens his arms, and you go willingly. The hug is immediate, warm, and safe. Your forehead presses against his shoulder, and his strong arms wrap around you while you melt into him without hesitation. Trusting him completely, the way you always have. Fuck—that might be the most dangerous thing of all. For a moment, neither of you lets go, because none of you wants to. Jack can feel your heartbeat through the thin cotton of his shirt and feel your breathing gradually slowing. He can feel himself becoming far too aware of how perfectly you fit against him.
He closes his eyes for a second.
A mistake.
Because the truth waits for him there—the truth that somewhere along the way, you stopped being just his friend and just his favorite nurse. Stopped being just the person he trusted most and became something he doesn't know what to do with.
Eventually, your breathing evens out. Then slows….then slows again. Jack glances down and realizes you've fallen asleep curled against him. Carefully, he shifts and lowers you onto the bed, pulls the blanket over you, and tucks it beneath your shoulder. The motion is automatic, and for a moment, guilt rises sharp and sudden. Not because you remind him of his late wife. You don't, and you never have. You never will. But somehow that realization doesn't hurt. It simply feels true. You are different—entirely your own person. Entirely your own place in his life. Jack stands there for a long moment, watching you sleep peacefully. Then quietly, he reaches for his crutches resting beside the nightstand.
The apartment is dark now, silent, as he pauses at the doorway, looks back one last time, at you sleeping in his bed. Wrapped in his shirt, breathing softly against his pillow, and despite every effort not to—Jack smiles. Then he switches off the light and heads toward the couch. Completely unaware that he's already fallen far deeper than he ever intended to.
JACK ABBOT'S APARTMENT — MORNING
The first thing you notice when you wake up is that you're comfortable. Suspiciously comfortable. Wrapped in sheets that smell faintly of clean laundry and something familiar you can't quite place. For a few blissful seconds, you remain exactly where you are, half-buried beneath the blankets, eyes still closed. Then your brain starts working slowly… like an old computer booting up. Your mouth is dry, your head hurts, and you have absolutely no idea where the hell you are.
You crack one eye open, and a ceiling you don't recognize stares back. Your stomach immediately drops. "Oh no."
Then the memories start returning. The nightclub, losing your keys, calling Jack… Jack picking you up. The drive to his apartment, the makeup wipes, and the hug. Oh God. The hug.
Your eyes fly open, fully awake now. Mortification floods your entire body with terrifying speed. "No, no, no, no..."
You immediately bury your face in your hands. Maybe if you stay here long enough, you'll evaporate, and the earth will open up and swallow you whole. Maybe cardiac arrest—you'd accept cardiac arrest. Slowly, you peek out from between your fingers, and a glass of water sits on the nightstand. Beside it is a bottle of ibuprofen and a neatly folded note in Jack's handwriting.
Drink water before standing up.
Your heart does something deeply unhelpful as you groan, "Oh, my God."
Because that's such a Jack thing to do, he’s practical, thoughtful, and annoyingly sweet. You whimper and flop backward onto the pillow.
Unfortunately, reality remains—and reality is that you are currently in Jack Abbot's bed. His bed—his actual bed, the place where he sleeps. The place where—You immediately shove that thought into a dumpster and set it on fire. Nope. Absolutely not. Not going there.
You drag yourself upright before your imagination can make things worse. The oversized Army shirt hanging off your shoulders shifts as you move. Your eyes immediately drop. Jack's shirt. You are wearing Jack's shirt. You consider throwing yourself out of the nearest window.
The bathroom is somehow worse. Because now you're sober, fully sober. Which means you remember everything… mostly. You splash cold water onto your face repeatedly. Trying to wash away the embarrassment and the memory of crying. The image of him calling you honey and you falling asleep against him.
"Oh, I'm never recovering from this." You groan into the sink before you force yourself to look in the mirror. You survive trauma shifts and twelve-hour nights. You went through fucking COVID. So… you can survive breakfast. Probably.
After one final pep talk that accomplishes absolutely nothing, you step out of the bathroom and immediately stop. A framed photograph sits atop the dresser, Jack and his wife, both smiling. The picture looks old, well-loved, the edges slightly worn. Guilt arrives like a punch to the ribs. Because no matter how much time has passed, she's still here. In photographs, memories, and the quiet spaces, he doesn't talk about. You stare at the picture for a moment longer, then look away. The guilt lingers anyway.
The smell hits you before you reach the living room. Coffee, eggs, and toast, along with something frying in a pan. Your stomach growls traitorously, then you turn the corner, and nearly walk directly into a wall. Because Jack is standing at the stove, shirtless. You stop functioning completely. Gone. No thoughts. Head empty. Just panic. Because somehow, in all the years you've known him, you've never actually seen him like this.
At work, he's always covered by scrubs, layers, a jacket, and PPE. Now—now he's standing barefoot in his kitchen wearing nothing but athletic shorts and his prosthetic. Morning sunlight spills through the apartment windows. Across broad shoulders, freckled skin, and muscle earned through years of physical therapy, stubbornness, and sheer determination. The prosthetic is already attached as part of him, as familiar and unremarkable as breathing. You know the story and what happened, and understand now the work it takes to live with it.
Still—seeing him outside the hospital feels strangely intimate, and very human. Your jaw nearly hits the floor as Jack turns. He immediately catches your expression, and to his eternal satisfaction, you look horrified. Not by him, but by being caught staring. His mouth twitches, "Morning."
You blink once, then twice, and you begin rapidly looking anywhere else.
"Morning." Your voice cracks. Well, that’s spectacular. Jack's eyebrow rises, "Rough landing?" You clear your throat. "Oh, absolutely."
His smile grows slightly. "There are worse hangovers."
"Don't."
"You called me at midnight because you lost your keys."
"Jack."
"You accused the floor of moving."
"Jack."
"You tried to negotiate with a coat rack."
Your eyes widen as you sputter, "I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"Oh my fucking God."
Jack laughs—there it is again, a little lighter than it used to be. "Come eat." You hesitate, still standing awkwardly in his shirt, and painfully aware you're in his apartment—his space. Then Jack glances over his shoulder, "You need food before your headache gets worse."
There it is. His doctor voice—the one that brooks absolutely no argument. You sigh dramatically and obey. Because apparently that's become a habit. Jack places a plate in front of you. Eggs, toast, fruit, and a giant glass of water.
You stare, and then at him, then back at the plate, "You made breakfast."
"You sound surprised."
"You made breakfast."
"You were hungover." You blink because he says it so simply, as if taking care of you is the most natural thing in the world, and maybe that's what gets you. It's how easy it seems for him—the quiet way he shows up. Again, and again. So instead of saying any of that, you pick up a piece of toast. "Thanks." Jack glances up from his coffee, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. "Anytime, Lifeline."
You lower your gaze quickly and focus on your breakfast instead. Unfortunately, that only makes things worse because now you're sitting at Jack's dining table, in Jack's apartment—wearing Jack's shirt.
Eating breakfast, he made for you. The domesticity of it settles wrong inside your conscience. Not because you or him have done anything wrong. But because it feels like you're standing in a place that once belonged to someone else. Your eyes drift toward the bookshelf across the room. A framed photograph sits among the books, showing Jack and his late wife. They’re smiling and happy.
The familiar guilt immediately curls around your throat. You look away, and your appetite suddenly harder to find. Jack notices and asks, "You okay?"
You force a smile, "Mhm." Jack raises an eyebrow. The same look he gives patients who claim their pain is a three out of ten while actively dying. "Lifeline."
You sigh at being caught, again. "It's stupid."
"If you're saying that, it probably isn't."
The concern in his voice makes the guilt worse. You stare down at your plate, picking apart a piece of toast. "You've done so much for me."
Jack frowns immediately, "Okay."
"And I kind of crashed into your life last night."
His confusion visibly increases as he points out the obvious, "You lost your keys."
"I know."
"You called me."
"I know."
Jack waits as you groan softly because this sounds ridiculous out loud. "It just feels like I'm imposing."
Jack's expression softens as he says, "Lifeline." You hate it when he says your nickname like that—as if he's trying to talk you down from something.
"You are not imposing."
You look away, stubbornly mutter, "Still."
"No." His answer comes immediately.
You glance up, and Jack is looking directly at you now. Completely serious. "You called because you needed help. That's what people do."
"But—"
"It's not a burden."
You open your mouth; however, Jack cuts you off again. "You would've done the same thing for me."
And unfortunately—he's right. You would've, without hesitation. At three in the morning, or in the middle of a thunderstorm. Without a second thought.
Jack sees the realization cross your face. A faint smile touches the corner of his mouth.
"Exactly."
You look back down at your plate, suddenly embarrassed. Because he's making it sound so simple. Meanwhile, your brain is spiraling. You risk a glance upward and immediately regret it. Because Jack is leaning against the counter. Coffee mug in hand. Morning sunlight spilling through the kitchen windows behind him. Now that you're sober, you're trying very hard not to notice things. Like the freckles scattered across his shoulders. Or the way years of physical therapy and hospital shifts have built quiet strength into him. Maybe the fact that he looks unfairly good for someone standing barefoot in his kitchen at eight in the morning. Your eyes immediately dart back to your eggs because you’re a coward.
"So." Jack takes another sip of coffee. The amusement in his voice is impossible to miss. "You gonna keep staring at your breakfast like it’s inedible?"
You nearly choke, "What?"
"The eggs."
"Oh." Your face feels suspiciously warm. "They're intimidating."
Jack stares at you, then laughs.
Somehow and somewhere along the way, Jack stopped being your soulmate, the impossible person at the end of a red string, and became Jack. The man who remembers your coffee order, and the one who checked on you when you had COVID, who keeps spare electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at taking care of yourself. The man who made you breakfast because you were hungover, and the man who still loves his wife. The guilt returns instantly. You glance toward the photograph again. Jack follows your gaze this time. His expression changes subtly. The smile faded into something quieter, more thoughtful. Neither of you says anything for a moment. The apartment settles into a small, comfortable, sad silence. The kind that comes from old grief that never fully disappears. Finally, you clear your throat. "I'm sorry."
Jack immediately looks confused. "For what?" You gesture vaguely around the apartment. "Sleeping in your room." His expression somehow becomes even more confused. "Lifeline."
"I'm serious."
"Why?"
You stare at him, "Because it's your room."
"Correct."
"And your bed."
"Also correct."
You narrow your eyes because Jack is enjoying this. The asshole. "Jack."
"What?"
"I feel bad."
His expression softens immediately into a quiet gentleness. "It's fine." He replied. You shake your head, "But—"
"No." His voice is calm. "I wasn't going to wake you up so you could sleep on the couch." You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. You try to rebut, "But—" Jack points toward your coffee, "You would've fallen asleep sitting upright."
"That's not true."
"It absolutely is."
"It happened one time."
"It happened three times."
"Allegedly."
Jack laughs into his coffee, and for a moment, just a moment, the guilt eases. Because he's looking at you like you're welcome here. As if your presence isn't an intrusion or that helping you wasn't an obligation. It was just something he wanted to do. That realization follows you for the rest of breakfast. Maybe that's why loving him has always felt so dangerous. It's the spare apartment key he keeps on his keyring. The electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at remembering to drink water. The bottle of ibuprofen is waiting on the nightstand before you even wake up. The way he remembers—he doesn't even realize he's doing it.
Eventually, breakfast ends, and you help carry plates to the sink despite Jack's protests. "I'm perfectly capable of washing a plate."
"I know."
"You sounded doubtful."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
Jack rolls his eyes, and you grin.
For a moment, it feels normal. As if this is something the two of you do all the time. Then Jack glances toward the hallway. "I should shower."
Your eyes immediately dart away.
Why are you suddenly embarrassed? You've seen this man covered in blood during trauma activations, and somehow, showering is what's awkward.
"Okay." Jack nods, then pauses, a small frown appearing. "You don't have clothes."
You blink, "Oh." You hadn't actually thought that far ahead. Your club outfit is currently somewhere in the apartment and likely smells like spilled alcohol, perfume, and poor decisions.
Jack disappears down the hallway before you can offer a solution. A moment later he returns carrying a pair of gray sweatpants and another shirt. You immediately recognize the Army logo faded across the front. "Here."
You stare at him, then back at the clothes. "I can't take your clothes."
"You're already wearing my clothes." Unfortunately, he has a point. You glance down at the oversized shirt hanging off your shoulders. Jack's mouth twitches, "The sweats have a drawstring."
"Oh, good."
"They should fit."
"Should?"
"Mostly." You narrow your eyes, but Jack looks entirely unapologetic. "You can keep the shirt." Your heart immediately forgets how to function, breathless, "What?" Jack casually shrugs, "It's old." You can’t fucking breathe, so you settle for, "Oh."
The thought of keeping it, taking it home, and sleeping in it. Smelling his laundry detergent every time you wear it is incredibly intimate. "Thanks."
Across his expression is as soft as his response, "You're welcome." Then he gestures toward the hallway. "I'm gonna shower."
You nod, "Okay."
"The shower chair's in my bathroom, so I'll be in there awhile." The statement is matter-of-fact and unremarkable. The same way he always talks about it. Not because it doesn't matter. But because Jack long ago learned there was no point treating every accommodation like a tragedy. It's simply part of his life—part of him. You nod again, "Take your time."
Jack studies you for a second; he's checking for lingering hangover symptoms. Then apparently decides you'll survive. "I'll drive you home after."
"Sounds good." You agree. There’s a pause before Jack says, "Try not to break anything while I'm gone." Your gasp is immediate, "Rude."
"I know you."
"You wound me."
Jack laughs, then walks down the hallway. A few moments later, you hear the bathroom door close. The apartment becomes quiet—the one that only exists in the homes of people who live alone. You wander slowly—absolutely not snooping. You were observing, there's a difference. The apartment itself feels like Jack. Comfortable, practical, and unpretentious. Bookshelves line one wall of the living room. Medical textbooks, military history, and novels with dog-eared pages. A few framed photographs scattered throughout the apartment—friends, coworkers, and people who matter.
You pause near one shelf. A photograph sits there. Jack and his late wife, when they were younger, were laughing. The picture caught in the middle of a moment rather than a pose. She has her head tipped toward him, and Jack is looking at her like she hung the moon.
Your stomach lurches. Because even now—years later—she still belongs here. Of course she does. This was their home, their life. You gently set the frame back exactly where you found it. Suddenly feeling like an intruder again, your gaze drifts around the apartment. There are signs of her everywhere if you know where to look. It isn’t overwhelming or frozen in time. There’s a photograph, a ceramic mug, and a framed postcard tucked between books. Evidence that she existed, and you hate yourself a little. Because standing here, wrapped in Jack's clothes, waiting for him to finish showering, part of you wishes things were different. Part of you wishes you weren't standing in the aftermath of someone else's great love story. The guilt settles heavily, along with the red string hidden beneath your sleeve. You glance toward the hallway, and the sound of running water. Toward the man you've loved for years. Because no matter how badly you want him—you've never wanted to replace her. Not for a second. Never. You just...wanted him to be happy, even if it was never with you.
The drive back to your apartment is quiet, but not uncomfortable. You sit curled into the passenger seat, your folded dress resting on your lap alongside your heels. The sleeves of Jack's old Army shirt hang past your wrists, and the sweatpants are too big with the drawstring pulled tight enough to keep them from falling. You feel ridiculous, like a child playing dress-up. Outside the window, Pittsburgh drifts by in shades of gray. You keep your eyes fixed on it. Because every time you glance at Jack, your heart hurts. Especially after last night… the makeup wipes, the hug, his hand on your face, honey. You don't trust yourself anymore, not even a little. Beside you, Jack steals another glance. You're unusually quiet, and that alone is enough to make him nervous. Normally, even hungover, you'd be talking, making terrible jokes, or complaining about your headache.
Instead, you're staring out the window like you're already somewhere else. His fingers tighten slightly on the steering wheel as he asks, "You okay?" You nod immediately, humming, "Mhm."
A lie that Jack recognizes instantly, but he lets it go for now. When he finally pulls up in front of your apartment building, neither of you moves immediately. The truck idles softly as silence stretches, then you suddenly unbuckle. Before Jack can process what's happening, you lean across the center console and wrap your arms around him. The hug catches him completely off guard, and for a moment, he freezes. Then instinct takes over. His arms come around you automatically. Your face presses briefly against his shoulder. Jack's heart does something strange and painful. Because it feels like goodbye, and he has absolutely no idea why.
"Hey." His voice comes out softer than intended. You squeeze him once before you let go, because if you hold on any longer, you won't be able to leave.
"Thanks," you whisper. Your eyes sting immediately, but you force a smile anyway. "For everything." The words shouldn't sound final, but they do. "Anytime, honey." The endearment slips out effortlessly and naturally now. Neither of you acknowledges it. Jack studies your face, trying to figure out what's wrong, to understand why you suddenly look like you're trying not to cry. So he asks carefully, "I'll see you later at work, yeah?"
Your throat tightens while you nod. "Mhm." It's not technically a lie. The second you step out of the truck, you don't look back. You can't. Because if you do, you'll stay. So you practically run inside your apartment building.
Leaving Jack staring after you, confused, worried, and somehow strangely unsettled.
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — DAY
Dana and Lena listen quietly. The three of you sit in an empty conference room before shift change. You make it approximately halfway through your explanation before you start crying. Not graceful tears, pretty tears, but the ugly kind. The tears you've spent years swallowing, "I'm sorry."
Dana immediately reaches for you, "Hey." You shake your head, "I'm sorry."
"Hon." Dana rubs circles against your back, her voice gentle, maternal. "Why are you apologizing?" You laugh through your tears because the answer feels obvious and impossible. "Because I'm in love with him."
The room falls silent as Lena and Dana exchange a glance. A look. One that says they already knew. Everyone always knows except the people involved. "It's just for a little while," you whisper while you wipe furiously at your face. "I just need some space." Dana's expression softens. She asks, "And what about your heart?"
That's the problem, isn't it? Your heart—your stupid, stubborn heart. You stare down at your hands, "Until it relearns how to stop beating for him." Then quietly you hear Lena ask, "So you're not gonna tell him?" You shake your head immediately, "I can't."
Because how do you tell someone that you've been tethered to them for seven years? That you've loved them through a marriage, grief, and loss. Through healing. How do you tell someone that? Especially when he never chose you. So you don't.
THREE DAYS LATER…
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
Three days later, Jack notices immediately, the second he walks into the ED, you're gone. No coffee sitting beside your workstation and sarcastic comments from Central—there’s no you. He finds Lena first and asks, "Where is she?" Lena doesn't even look up from her charting, "Where's who?” Jack stares, "Lifeline."
"Oh." She clicks something on her computer. "Day shift." His stomach drops, "What?"
"She switched."
"When?" Lena shrugs at him, "A few days ago."
Jack blinks slowly. "Why?"
"Ask Dana." Suddenly, Lena becomes very interested in her chart.
A week passes, then two, and Jack begins losing his mind. Because you are avoiding him, deliberately and aggressively. You leave before he arrives, or arrive before he leaves. You disappear down hallways and take lunch at different times. Find literally any excuse not to be alone with him. The few times he manages to catch sight of you—you smile and wave.
Then vanish again, like smoke, as if you're afraid of him, and that hurts. Because Jack keeps replaying that night. The club, his apartment, the hug, and the morning after. What did he miss? What did he do? Did he cross a line? Did he make you uncomfortable? Did he somehow ruin the one friendship he can't bear to lose? Every answer leads nowhere, and every day you drift a little farther away. Three weeks later, during shift change, Jack finally spots you. Walking quickly through the corridor, badge swinging from the clip of your scrub pocket, and iced coffee in hand.
He immediately changes direction. "Lifeline." You freeze for a second, then keep walking. Fuck. Jack follows and calls after you, "Lifeline." Your pace somehow gets faster, and now he's genuinely irritated and hurt. "Hey."
Finally, you stop, turning around, with a careful smile already in place, too careful. But not him, never him, not until now. "Hi, Jack." The distance between you feels enormous as he asks, "What is going on?" Nothing. Everything. You force a shrug, "Nothing."
That’s bullshit, and Jack knows it's bullshit. You know he knows, but neither of you says it. Then somebody calls your name from down the hallway, and relief floods your face at escaping him. The realization dawns on him like a punch.
"I gotta go."
"Lifeline—"
"See you around." Then you're gone, again. Practically running.
That's when it happens—Jack stares after you, heart pounding, confused, angry, and hurt. Suddenly—pain flares around his wrist. It’s sharp and hot. He physically flinches, "What the—"
A red thread appears beneath his skin, bright and impossible, but all too real. Jack freezes as the world tilts. No. No. No. The string winds itself slowly around his wrist. As it has always belonged there, it was simply waiting.
His breath catches because he knows what it is; everybody knows what it is. His pulse begins hammering. The thread stretches down the hallway, past nurses, residents, and stretchers, straight toward—You. Jack stumbles, his hand slamming against the wall to keep himself upright as the hallway blurs and his vision tunnels.
No. No, that's impossible. His heart pounds so hard it hurts. The red string glows softly between his wrist and yours, unbroken. Years… all these years. Every conversation, every shift, every cup of coffee, and every moment. Every time you'd looked at him and then looked away, or when you'd disappeared when things became too close. All the times you'd chosen distance. The truth crashes into him all at once. You knew. Oh God. You knew, and somewhere down the hallway—completely unfazed—you kept walking.
While Jack stands frozen in place, one hand braced against the wall, staring at the impossible thread connecting him to the woman he's been desperately trying not to admit he's fallen in love with.
2025
6:00 PM
PTMC, CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY
The emergency department shifts from busy to catastrophic in less than thirty seconds. One moment, people are charting the next—every television screen in the department lights up with breaking news.
There’s an active shooter at PittFest—mass casualty incident. Every healthcare worker in the room recognizes it instantly. The moment before impact… before disaster arrives.
"Hey, what's going on?" McKay asks.
Robby strides into Central, already moving and planning. Carrying the weight of what is coming. "Mass casualty at PittFest."
Samira looks up sharply, "How many victims?"
"We don't know." Robby's face is grim. "Expect the worst.” A terrible silence settles, while someone else immediately reaches for a phone. "Did the police find David?" McKay asks. Robby shakes his head, then raises his voice, "Okay, everybody, listen up."
Every head turns to pay attention to Robby.
"There is an active shooter at PittFest. As the nearest trauma center, we are going to be getting the majority of the victims." The room goes completely still. "We don't know yet how many we're getting, but we are instituting hospital-wide emergency protocols. We need to move every patient out of here. Either home, upstairs, or Family Medicine. Call your loved ones now if you need to."
Robby glances toward the windows, toward the city. Towards the disaster unfolding somewhere beyond it. "I can guarantee cell service will soon be overwhelmed. Eat something. Stay hydrated. Use the bathroom while there's time and meet back here for a full briefing in five minutes."
Then his gaze lands on someone entering through the ambulance bay doors, relief flashes across his face.
"Brother." Robby exhales. "I'm so fucking glad to see you." Jack, carrying his backpack and wearing his black scrubs, briefly hugs Robby, "Heard it on the scanner."
Jack drops his bag onto a workstation. "How many are we expecting?"
"I don't know." Robby's expression darkens. "But it doesn't sound good."
After placing his things down, Jack looks up directly at you. The breath leaves your lungs. Already focused entirely on you.
Your stomach drops. Oh no. No. No. No. He knows. The realization slams into you so hard it feels physical. You don't know how or when. But something in his expression tells you immediately.
He knows about the string—your secret. The thing you've spent seven years burying. Your pulse begins hammering, and blood rushes up to your ears. Across Central, Jack doesn't look away; his jaw flexes, hard, angry. You know that look—you've seen it directed at negligent parents, reckless drivers, people who made choices that hurt others.
Five minutes. That's all you have before the briefing. Before the entire hospital erupts into chaos. Apparently five minutes is all Jack needs. The second he catches you alone, a hand closes firmly around your elbow. "Lifeline." You freeze, your heart immediately dropping into your stomach. "Jack—"
"We need to talk." The words come out low and controlled. He steers you toward an empty supply room. A narrow space lined with IV fluids and sterile procedure kits. The door swings shut behind you, and the silence is deafening.
You turn toward him, trying to keep your face neutral, and completely fall apart. "What's going on?" The question sounds pathetic even to your own ears. Jack stares, and for a moment, he says nothing. Which makes everything worse, because his eyes are furious.
Furious at being hurt and at being lied to. At realizing something important happened without him knowing. His jaw clenches, "You knew." Your vision immediately blurs, "Jack—"
"You knew." The repetition is softer, devastated. You feel your tears threatening already.
"Don't." Your voice cracks. "Don't look at me like that." Something flashes across his face—pain, but then anger returns to cover it. "So what was the plan?" His words come out sharp.
"Jack—"
"What?" His voice rises, years of confusion finally boiling over. "What were you doing?"
You flinch, and Jack immediately hates himself for it, but he can't stop, not now. "Were you just waiting?" The accusation hangs between you, ugly, unfair, and born entirely from hurt. "Were you waiting for your chance?"
Your eyes widen as the tears come instantly, and suddenly you're angry too. Years of restraint snap all at once.
"No." The word echoes off the walls. "No." You step toward him, furious, heartbroken, and shaking.
"I buried it." Your voice breaks. "I buried every part of it." Jack freezes as you keep going, "You don't get to stand there and act like I wanted this." The tears are falling freely now. It’s hot and humiliating. "I buried every chance of loving you so deep I could barely breathe around it."
The room goes silent as Jack stares while you choke on the next words, because they're true, every single one. "I buried my wanting for you." Your voice cracks again. "And don't you dare accuse me of waiting." The anger disappears, leaving only raw, ancient grief. "You don't get to accuse me of that when I respected it."
Jack's face changes back to confusion and regret. But you're not finished, "I respected her." The words nearly destroy you while you wipe at your face, failing miserably. "I respected both of you."
A photograph flashes through your mind. Then she laughed in the department, bringing Jack lunch, loving him. Being loved by him, the woman you'd genuinely cared about. The woman who had never done anything except be kind to you.
"She was brilliant." You laugh bitterly as another tear slips free. "Beautiful. And I knew I'd never measure up."
Jack physically recoils, as if you'd struck him. "What?" The word comes out strangled. You look away because you can't bear seeing his face. "I know that."
"No." Pain flashes across his expression. "No, you don't." You laugh again, broken, "I do." Then quietly, you add, "The first time I saw the end of the string." Jack goes completely still at your admission.
"The first time I saw it unfinished." Your voice drops, barely above a whisper. "I knew I was going to lose you either way."
Silence—absolute silence. Jack feels like the floor has vanished beneath him, because suddenly, he understands. All those years, smiles, retreats, your careful boundaries. How you'd chosen distance instead of possibility. You weren't waiting. You were grieving the entire time.
The supply room door suddenly swings open, and Robby appears, already halfway through speaking. "Abbot, I need—"
Then he stops, immediately, because you're crying, and Jack looks wrecked. The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.
"...Whoa." Robby looks between both of you a few times, then decides he absolutely does not want whatever this is. "What the hell is—"
You move first, past Robby and Jack. Past all of it. Your shoulder brushes the doorframe as you leave. You don't stop, and can’t look back. Because if you do, you'll fall apart. While Jack just stands there, watching you go, understanding too late. For the first time in seven years, understanding exactly how much it must have hurt. Then, somewhere outside the room—an overhead page sounds. The first ambulances are arriving, signaling that the mass casualty has begun. However, the conversation isn't over. Not even close.
7:00 PM
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
All at once, the emergency department is already overflowing. Trauma bays filled, hallways lined with stretchers, and blood smeared across floors that Environmental Services doesn't have time to clean. The overhead speakers haven't stopped paging for nearly twenty minutes. Victims keep coming. Gunshot wounds, shrapnel injuries, and crush injuries from the stampede that followed.
The air feels thick with adrenaline and fear. Every single person in the department is running on instinct, training, and experience.
You haven't looked at Jack since the supply room, not really. You can feel him occasionally, like a gravitational force somewhere at the edge of your awareness. A pull you refuse to acknowledge. Every time your eyes accidentally find his across Central, you immediately look away. You don't have the luxury of falling apart right now, because people are dying, you know that, and so does Jack.
So, whatever happened between you has been shoved aside by necessity.
"Let's go!" Langdon's voice cuts through the noise. Another victim on a gurney in Central. Male, approximately late twenties, multiple injuries, semi-conscious, and blood soaking through his shirt. Samira immediately moves to the stretcher, "Who do you have?"
"Semi-conscious. Responds only to pain. Decent carotid."
"Strip him." Mateo reaches for trauma shears, and so does Tim, "Let's go." The team descends immediately, beginning to cut clothing, assessing injuries, checking his airway, and breathing. Everything is moving with practiced efficiency. Then—something feels wrong. You don't know why, it’s just a feeling. A prickling sensation along the back of your neck.
The patient suddenly jerks, and the nurses yelp. A hand disappears beneath the shredded remains of his shirt. Langdon freezes, then shouts. "Whoa!" Everything happens at once.
"Gun!" The word detonates through Central. "Gun! He's going for his gun!"
Every person in the room reacts instantly; some hit the floor, and others dive behind workstations. The patient somehow manages to yank a handgun free. His eyes are wild, disoriented, and terrified. The muzzle swings wildly across the room and lands directly toward Robby and Jack.
Time slows for you as you watch. Later, you'll never be able to explain why you moved, whether it was instinct, training, love… or something much darker. A part of you wonders if maybe you were simply tired—tired of carrying this, of loving him, maybe of being afraid. You never figure it out, because your body moves before your brain does.
One second, you're standing near Central, the next you're running.
The gun fires, and the sound is deafening. A violent crack that echoes through the department. For one suspended moment—nobody moves or breathes. Then pain explodes through you, white-hot, blinding.
You stagger as your knees immediately buckle while the floor rushes upward. Somewhere nearby, people are screaming while others are shouting for security. The world becomes noise, blurred shapes, blood—too much blood. Then, you hear Jack scream your name, and it tears straight out of him. Raw, animal, nothing like you've ever heard before. The resident beside him barely has time to react before Jack is already moving. He’s running—ignoring everyone and everything. None of it matters, not anymore. Because you're on the floor, and you're bleeding. Suddenly, the worst thing Jack has ever imagined is happening right in front of him.Again.
He drops to his knees beside you, not caring that his stump is aching, hands immediately searching, assessing, locating the wound, trying to stop the bleeding while SWAT restrains the man who shot you. His trauma training takes over automatically, even while the rest of him is breaking apart.
"Pressure!" Somebody throws him gauze, Jack slams it hard against the wound. Too much blood—so much fucking blood, and the sight makes his stomach turn. "No."
Your vision swims, and you can barely focus. But somehow—somehow—Jack is all you see. Always him, maybe it was always going to be him. His face is pale, terrified—more terrified than you've ever seen him, and somehow that hurts worse than the bullet.
You manage a weak laugh, and blood touches your lips. Jack immediately hates the sound, "Don't." Your eyes find his, and for the first time in years, you stop hiding. "It was painful."
Jack freezes, "Lifeline—"
"When you looked at me." Your voice trembles, blood continues soaking through the gauze. "When you smiled at me."
"No." His hands shake, just slightly, but you feel it. "When you believed in me." Tears blur your vision. "It hurt."
Jack's face completely crumples because now he understands all of it.
"It tore me apart." The words barely make it out, and an unfiltered sob escapes him. Because you're dying, and he just found you. He spent seven years standing beside you without seeing it. "No." His voice breaks. "No, no, no."
Someone is calling for Trauma One and bringing a stretcher. The department is moving around him. But Jack doesn't care, because the world has narrowed to you—only you.
"I just got you." The words rip from his throat, his eyes shine, desperate, furious, and every bit terrified. "I just got you." Your breath catches. You love him, you always will. So maybe—maybe honesty won't kill you now. "I love you."
Jack closes his eyes, as if the words physically hurt. You smile weakly, doubling down, "I love you, Jack Abbot."
Silence for a moment, then, firmly, "No." The answer comes instantly, violently, as if he's rejecting reality itself. "No." His forehead presses briefly against yours. "You're not doing this."
Tears slide down his face, but he doesn't even notice. "You hear me?" His voice cracks. "You're not doing this to me."
The stretcher arrives, and Robby appears, blood on his gloves. Panic hidden beneath professionalism. "Jack." Nothing… Jack doesn't move. "Jack." Still nothing.
"Abbot!" Finally, Jack looks up, and Robby immediately understands. Oh. Oh no. "We need Trauma One." Robby's voice softens. "Now."
Jack nods once, then helps lift you onto the stretcher himself. Refuses to let go or step away. He refuses to leave your side as they race down the hallway. Trauma One is already being prepared. Blood products, thoracotomy tray, massive transfusion protocol—Everything and anything. Whatever it takes.
Dana meets them at the door, and one look at Jack's face tells her everything, every awful piece of it. "Oh, honey." Jack doesn't even hear her; his eyes never leave you, not once. Dana steps close, careful. "Jack." No response from him, so she tries again, "You need to let them work."
His jaw tightens, "No."
"Jack."
"No." His voice breaks again. Because he knows—he knows exactly how bad this is. Knows every possible complication, terrible outcome, and statistic. Every nightmare, and he cannot survive another one. Not you, God, please, especially not after all this—after finally finding you.
The trauma team begins crowding around the bed. Voices overlap, orders fly, blood pressure dropping, airway concerns, surgical consult from Garcia, massive transfusion. Yet, Jack refuses to move, standing beside your stretcher, his hand wrapped around yours. As if letting go might somehow allow death to take you, or sheer stubbornness can keep you here.
As if love might finally be enough this time around.
PTMC, ICU — DAY
The surgery lasts hours—too many hours, long enough for the adrenaline to burn away, and for exhaustion to settle into everyone's bones. Long enough for Jack to memorize every crack in the ICU waiting room floor.
The bullet had done catastrophic damage. A through-and-through gunshot wound with massive internal bleeding. Multiple units of blood transfused. Emergency surgery. Complications halfway through that had nearly sent the entire operating room into a panic. At one point, Robby had physically forced Jack to sit down because he looked seconds away from collapsing. Jack couldn't remember most of it afterward, only fragments. Your blood on his hands. Your voice. I love you, Jack Abbot.
The terror of watching your blood pressure disappear from the monitor. The awful realization that he might lose you before he'd ever gotten the chance to tell you—I love you too. But somehow, you survive. The surgeons manage to stop the bleeding and repair the damage. They brought you back. It feels less like medicine and more like a miracle.
Three days later, you're still asleep, intubated, and hooked to enough machines to make the room hum softly around you. But you're alive, and right now, that's enough.
Jack hasn't left at all. Dana, Robby, Lena, and even Whitaker—all of them fail. Because every time someone tells him to go home, he looks at you lying in that hospital bed and refuses. The man is impossible when he decides on something, and he decided he was staying.
So he stays, wearing scrubs more often than not. Surviving almost entirely on hospital coffee and vending machine food, and sleeping in the uncomfortable chair beside your bed. If you could see him, you'd probably yell at him. Tell him he's being ridiculous, and that he should shower. To stop looking like a man who personally lost a fight against a tornado. Unfortunately, you're unconscious, which means nobody can stop him.
The red string remains, that impossible thread winding around his wrist before disappearing into yours, completely visible now. Neither of you is hiding anymore. Sometimes Jack simply stares at it, as if he's afraid it'll disappear—a chance he'll wake up and discover this was some cruel fever dream. Because for years he believed he'd had his soulmate, then he lost her. And now—now the universe has somehow handed him another sacred thing. A second chance he never expected. One he's terrified of losing before it even begins.
The ICU room is quiet that afternoon as sunlight spills through the window. Your face is pale against the white pillow. Your hair is messy, and there's bruising along your neck from procedures, tape securing lines, and dressings. Evidence of how close death came for you. Jack reaches forward, his fingers brushing gently through your hair. The movement reverent, as if touching something precious. Something fragile and almost lost.
His thumb traces softly across your cheek. "You scared the hell out of me." His voice is rough, sleep-deprived, and broken around the edges. You don't answer, but that never stops him.
The door opens quietly as Robby steps inside, coffee in one hand and concern written all over his face. He pauses immediately, taking in the scene. Jack slumped beside your bed, wearing his scrubs, faintly stained with blood—your blood. His hand wrapped around yours, and the red string was visible between them. For a moment, Robby says nothing, simply watches. Understanding settling over him piece by piece. Then finally, he asks, "How's she doing?"
Jack glances up. His eyes are bloodshot and exhausted. "Stable." The word comes out cautious. Because saying it too loudly might somehow jinx everything.
Robby nods, steps closer, looking down at you, at the monitors, then at Jack. A realization flickers across his face. "Is she also..." His voice softens. "...your soulmate?"
The question hangs quietly between them, and Jack's gaze immediately drops to your hand. To the red thread wrapped around both wrists. He can't speak for a little while, then he nods once.
"I think so." The words sound ridiculous even now. "I didn't think..." His voice catches as he looks down at you. At the woman he'd spent seven years loving without understanding why it felt different. Not understanding why losing your friendship hurt more than it should, or why seeing you happy mattered so much. Why he'd kept showing up, again and again. "I didn't think it was possible."
The rRobby remains silent, letting him continue as Jack swallows. "I didn't think it would happen to me." The confession comes out almost embarrassed—he's admitting something shameful. Robby exhales slowly, nods. "There've been a few reports."
Jack glances up.
"A few studies." Robby shrugs. "The theory is that some soulmate bonds don't form immediately." His eyes drift toward the red string, toward your intertwined hands. "Sometimes they form after loss."
The room falls quiet, neither of them says the obvious thing. That his late had been Jack's soulmate too, and loving her had been real, complete, and true. That none of this erased her.
Jack looks back at your sleeping face, the rise and fall of your chest, and the steady rhythm on the monitor. Alive and still here. His fingers slide gently through your hair again, careful not to disturb anything, as his hand cups your cheek. The gesture impossibly tender. Robby immediately looks away, because some moments aren't meant for witnesses.
Jack leans forward, pressing a kiss against your forehead, lingering there for a second, eyes closed and relieved. Terrified and very in love. When he finally pulls back, his thumb brushes across your skin. And for the first time since the shooting, a small smile appears. Fragile, hopeful, like he's allowing himself to believe it. Just a little.
"Come back to me, Lifeline." His voice is barely above a whisper. The red string glows softly between your wrists, and Jack squeezes your hand gently, as if you're already listening. As if somewhere beneath the machines and medications and healing wounds, you can hear him. Maybe, for the first time in a very long time, he isn't asking fate for anything. He's only asking for you.
PTMC, ICU — DAY
The first thing you become aware of is discomfort, not pain, well, not yet anyway, just wrongness. A strange pressure lodged in your throat—something foreign. Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy, as if someone glued them shut. The effort required to open them feels monumental. Slowly, painstakingly—you manage it, and the world arrives in fragments. White ceiling, muted sunlight, the rhythmic beeping of monitors, and the steady hiss of oxygen.
A hospital room—your hospital room, and immediately your nursing brain starts putting pieces together. ICU, you're in the ICU, which means—Oh. Oh no, the shooting. Memory crashes back all at once: the gun, Jack, blood, Trauma One. I love you, Jack Abbot.
Your eyes widen immediately as panic flares. Because there is definitely a tube down your throat, a ventilator tube, and suddenly every survival instinct in your body starts screaming. You try to move—a mistake, as pain explodes through your abdomen. Pain that says somebody has spent several hours trying very hard to keep you alive. A strangled sound leaves you; your heart monitor immediately speeds up.
Then you feel it, a hand, wrapped around yours. You turn your head, slowly, and there he is… Jack. Curled awkwardly in the chair beside your bed, wearing his black scrubs, asleep. His head was resting against folded arms near your mattress, one hand tangled with yours, the red string winding quietly between your wrists. For a moment, you just stare because he looks awful. His curls are a mess, dark circles shadow his eyes, his jaw is covered in stubble, his scrubs are wrinkled because he hasn't slept properly in days, and he hasn't left. This whole time, he stayed. Your fingers twitch, weakly, barely enough movement to count. Then you squeeze his hand.
Jack jerks awake instantly, years of emergency medicine, and years of sleeping lightly. His head snaps upward, disoriented and confused. Then his eyes land on yours, and the entire world stops. For a moment, he doesn't move or breathe. Doesn't seem capable of either. He just stares, afraid you're another dream, or another hallucination born from exhaustion.
"Hey." The word comes out rough, barely audible, and your eyes immediately fill with tears. Because he's crying, relief floods his face so quickly it looks painful. His hand tightens around yours.
"My Lifeline." His voice cracks completely, and suddenly, tears are sliding down his cheeks, unashamed. Jack laughs once, a choked sound halfway between a sob and a prayer. "Oh, my God."
You try to answer, then immediately regret it, because the tube is still there. Panic spikes again.
Jack notices instantly, "Hey." His hand cups the side of your face, gentle and grounding. "Hey, hey." His thumb brushes your cheek, "You're okay." Your breathing becomes faster, the ventilator alarms immediately begin protesting. "You're okay." Jack is already reaching for the call button, never taking his eyes off you. "You're okay."
Within seconds, the room fills with people. Garcia arrives first. Followed by respiratory therapy, a nurse, and half the ICU, apparently. "Well, look at that." Garcia's grin is immediate. "About time."
You want to roll your eyes, but unfortunately, you still have a breathing tube. The respiratory therapist immediately begins assessing and following commands. Checking your neurological status. Making sure you're strong enough for extubation. You squeeze hands, follow fingers with your eyes, nod appropriately. All while Jack hovers nearby. Trying desperately not to interfere, and failing miserably.
"She's ready." The therapist glances toward Garcia, and then Garcia nods. "Let's do it."
Jack immediately moves closer, instinctively. Like he physically cannot help himself. The ventilator disconnects, the securing device is removed, and the respiratory therapist gives instructions. You barely hear any of them; your entire focus is on the tube. Then—it's out. Immediately, you cough violently because your throat burns. Every breath feels strange and uncomfortable, but you're breathing on your own.
Jack is already helping support you upright, one arm behind your shoulders, the other holding a cup with ice chips. "Easy." His voice is impossibly soft. "Slow down."
You cough again, eyes watering. Jack looks ready to fight somebody on your behalf. Possibly the tube or the entire ICU. Eventually, the coughing settles enough for you to breathe comfortably, and the monitors stabilize, everyone visibly relaxing.
Garcia steps forward, professional mode fully activated. "Okay. The surgery went well." She begins carefully. "You sustained a gunshot wound to the abdomen." Jack's jaw tightens visibly as she continues, "There was significant internal bleeding." Garcia continues. "We had to perform an emergency exploratory laparotomy."
Your nurse brain immediately fills in blanks, searching for damage, complications, and probabilities. Garcia notices this and says, "We repaired injuries to your small bowel and controlled several bleeding vessels."
Your stomach drops.
Jesus.
"You required multiple transfusions." Garcia continues. "But you're stable now."
Stable—the most beautiful word in medicine. You glance toward Jack; he's staring at the floor, hearing the details physically hurts. Garcia notices that, too, a tiny smile appears. One that says she understands far more than she's commenting on.
"Recovery's going to suck." You manage a weak laugh; the sound comes out raspy. Garcia points immediately. "There she is. Don't make me regret taking that tube out."
For the first time since waking, you actually smile. Garcia gathers her chart and steps toward the door, then pauses, looking between you. Then Jack, the red string, then back again.
"Oh." A knowing expression crosses her face. "Right."
Jack immediately looks uncomfortable, which is almost impressive considering everything that's happened.
Garcia grins. "Try not to stress her out." Then she points at you. "And try not to get shot again."
The door closes behind her, and the room suddenly feels much quieter. Much smaller and more intimate. Silence settles; neither of you quite knows what to say. Because there are too many things, seven years' worth.
Jack remains seated beside the bed, his hand never leaving yours, not once. He's afraid the second he lets go, you'll disappear again.
Your throat hurts—everything hurts, but somehow none of it matters right now. Because Jack is looking at you, really looking at you, and there are tears still caught in his eyelashes. Evidence of how terrified he'd been, your fingers tighten weakly around his. "Hi." The word comes out hoarse, barely audible. A wet laugh escapes him, disbelieving, and relieved. "Hi."
His thumb brushes across your knuckles, again and again. As if he needs the contact—he needs proof. Then Jack lowers his head, pressing his forehead gently against your joined hands, his eyes closing. Breathing shakily, and in that moment, you realize he was just as afraid of losing you as you'd always been of losing him.
Finally, Jack swallows hard, then asks quietly, "How long?" You know exactly what he means, not the shooting or the string. All of it. You stare down at your intertwined hands. At the red thread winding around both wrists, then back at him, and answer honestly. "Since my first day.”
Jack blinks, once and twice. He genuinely thought he'd misheard you, "Your first day?" You nod, a sad laugh escaping. "Yeah."
His mouth opens, then closes, and opens again. The physician in him is clearly attempting to process impossible information. Unfortunately for him, he's currently operating as a man in love, not a doctor, which means none of this is going well.
"Seven years?" The words come out strangled, and you give a tiny nod. Jack leans back in his chair, looking dizzy. "Jesus Christ."
A weak laugh escapes you. "That was more or less my reaction too." His hand tightens around yours to reassure himself.
"Why didn't you tell me?" The question is quiet, not accusing anymore, only hurt. He’s trying to understand. You look away first, toward the window. Because this part is harder. "You were married." The words are simple, obvious, and true, Jack's expression immediately softens.
"You loved her." You smile sadly. "Of course you did." Because he had, you'd seen it, every day, in every smile or phone call, at the mere mention of her.
"I wasn't going to be the woman who showed up and destroyed that." Your voice trembles. "I couldn't. It's why I never said anything." A tear slips free, and you don't bother wiping it away.
"I respected her too much." Your laugh cracks. "And honestly?" You finally look at him, unwaveringly, you admit, "I loved you too much.” Jack closes his eyes, processing the truth of it all. "I knew you were happy." You smile weakly. "I thought… I thought if I couldn't be the person you loved, then I'd settle for being someone you trusted."
Jack stares at you, completely speechless. Suddenly, every memory makes sense, every retreat or careful boundary. You chose distance over possibility. You weren't waiting. You weren't hoping for his wife to die. Goddamit. The thought makes him sick now. You were protecting him—protecting both of them, at the expense of yourself, for seven years.
"That's insane." The words slip out before he can stop them. You blink, offended. "Excuse me?" Jack actually laughs, a wet, exhausted sound. "You loved me for seven years."
"You make it sound like a disease." You frowned.
"It kind of is."
You point weakly, "I got shot."
"Exactly." For the first time since waking up—you both laugh. The sound fades slowly, leaving only the truth behind. Jack shifts closer, his chair scrapes softly against the floor, until he's sitting right beside the bed, close to you, so that there's nowhere left to hide.
"I need you to understand something." His voice lowers, gentler now, and more vulnerable than you've ever heard it. Jack looks down briefly, then back up. "She was my soulmate." The words settle softly between you, simply true and not at all cruel. You nod, because you know—you've always known.
"I loved her." His eyes shine, "I'll always love her."
You squeeze his hand, "I know." Jack exhales shakily, then continues, "But somewhere along the way..." His voice falters, and you can’t recall if you've ever seen him this scared. His thumb brushes your cheek, the same way it did the night you almost died. "You became my favorite part of the day. The first person I wanted to talk to." Another stroke of his thumb. "The person I looked for first." His eyes never leave yours. "And when you started avoiding me..."
He laughs once, humorless and every bit painful. "It felt like somebody was ripping pieces off me." The confession steals the air from your lungs, and Jack leans forward slightly, and your heart starts racing.
"I thought I was losing my mind." A tiny smile appears at the corners of his mouth. "Turns out I was just in love with you."
Everything disappears—leaving just him and tears blur your vision instantly.
"Oh." It's all you can manage. Jack smiles, soft, beautiful, it’s entirely his. "Yeah."
Suddenly, you're crying. Because after seven years—after all that grief and silence and fear—he chose you. Not because of the string or fate. Or because destiny told him to. But because he loved you.
"You idiot." Your words wobble and Jack laughs, "I know."
"You absolute idiot."
"I've been told."
You laugh through your tears, and somehow, he wipes them away before they can fall. The gentlest touch imaginable, as if you're something precious. Then his forehead rests against yours, and neither of you speaks. You don't need to. The red string glows softly between your wrists, a silent witness, and for the first time—it doesn't feel like a chain. It feels like a beginning.
Jack's gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then immediately back to your eyes. Giving you every opportunity to stop him. Every opportunity to say no. You don't. Not even a little.
So, he kisses you, softly, as if you're something holy. Something he spent seven years searching for without realizing it. His hand cups your cheek, while yours finds his wrist. Right where the string wraps around him, the kiss is gentle and tender. A promise rather than a fire.
When he finally pulls back, neither of you moves very far, foreheads touching, breathing the same air. Jack smiles, the kind of smile you've spent years secretly collecting. "Hi."
A laugh escapes you, "Hi." Then his eyes soften, filled with something warm enough to last a lifetime. "There you are."
After seven years of loving him in silence—you finally get to stay.
End Notes:
Where do I even begin? This idea has been cooking in my head for MONTHS. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how I wanted this story to go. But then you know how things just suddenly click and fall into place? That’s exactly what happened.
It was absolutely euphoric—once I got the plot beats down, I just couldn’t stop writing lol.
I wanted you, the reader, to know how much you respected Jack’s wife and that you weren’t trying to replace her.
Also.. do you get it? Lifeline = Line = String…. Ha ha ha. You are his Line…
Everyone blame Noah Kahan for making me cry to Orbiter.
LOWKEY, wasn’t expecting a lot of people to read this…
Taglist: @gennywennypenny @kneelforloki @unknownhuman102 @thebewitchingvagabond @danah-20 @i-do-not-care-bear @nerdgirljen @silksepia @rathatosy @proudlyvastlake @coconuthoneyandjaguars @acciotwinz @thefemininemystiquee @rei-scorpio @buckystwilight
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I’M AN ASTRONAUT, YOU’RE THE MOON
Summary: When you moved halfway across the world to work nights at PTMC, the last thing you expected was for your soulmate string to lead straight to Dr. Jack Abbot—who’s already happily married to his own soulmate. So you bury your feelings beneath friendship, trauma shifts, and years of silence… until tragedy changes everything, and both of you begin to realize that maybe soulmates were never about fate, but choice. Or, the Soulmate AU with Jack Abbot.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader (Can still be read by anyone! It’s not super specific)
Warnings: 18+ Soulmate String AU, Unrequited Love to Requited Love, Age-Gap Romance (Not Specified), Hospitals, ER, ANGST, Fluff, Crush, Blood, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow(ish) Burn, Eventual Hurt-to-Comfort, Longing, YEARNING, Major Character Death, The Pitt AU, Grief, Tragic Heroine, Tragic Hero, Widow!Abbot, Depressed!Abbot, Anger, Crying, GSW, Happily Ever After, COVID-19, Kissing,
Word Count: 22.5k
A/N: We're gonna take a break from Ducky and Robby for a bit. Welcome, Jack Abbot. You are in my domain now >:D ALSO, I HIT THE LIMIT ON SPACING SOOO THE FORMAT MIGHT BE FUCKED IDK. Sorry :(((
Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/keeryscupid. I’m not a doctor or a nurse. I’m dyslexic, and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!
Songs: Orbiter by Noah Kahan, Brush Fire by Gracie Abrams, and If You Let Me by Maisie Peters (with Marcus Mumford)
| Jack Abbot Masterlist | Main Masterlist |
2018
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
The first thing you notice about the Pitt isn’t the noise.
It’s the pace.
Everything moves fast, but no one looks rushed. People pass each other like they’ve done this a thousand times, sliding through narrow spaces without looking, voices overlapping in half-finished sentences, monitors beeping in uneven rhythms that somehow don’t throw anyone off.
Organized disaster is exactly what an emergency department should feel like. You tighten your grip on the strap of your bag as you follow Lena down the hall, trying not to stare at everything like it’s your first day on Earth.
New country, New hospital, New job.
Night shift.
Your body still hasn’t figured out what time zone it’s supposed to be in, but adrenaline is already kicking in, that familiar hum under your skin that always comes when you step into an ER. You tell yourself you’ve handled worse. That you’ve worked typhoon nights, mass casualty drills, and overcrowded government hospitals with half the supplies you needed.
You can handle this.
Lena pushes the double doors open with her shoulder, not even breaking stride. “ER’s through here,” she says. “You said you worked trauma before, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” you answer automatically.
She glances back at you immediately, “Drop the ma’am. You’ll make everyone feel old.”
Heat creeps up your neck, “Sorry. Habit.”
“You’ll fit in,” she mutters, half amused, half distracted as she scans the room.
You step through the doors behind her—and the sound hits all at once. Phones ringing, a monitor alarming somewhere in the back, sharp and insistent. A patient down the hall is yelling that he’s been waiting for three hours and he’s going to sue somebody.
It’s loud and crowded, but very alive and all too familiar. Your shoulders drop just a little, tension you didn’t realize you were holding easing out of your spine.
Lena stops near the central desk, scanning the board, then jerks her chin toward the far side of the room, “That’s Dr. Jack Abbot. He’s on trauma tonight, so you’ll probably be with him most of the shift.”
You follow her gaze without thinking.
He stands near the counter, scrolling through a chart on an iPad, stethoscope hanging loose around his neck like he forgot it was there. Curly salt and pepper hair slightly messy, the kind of tired that comes from too many night shifts in a row.
He looks up when someone calls his name, and the moment your eyes land on him, your wrist burns.
You suck in a small breath, instinctively looking down. There’s a red string looped around your wrist, thin, bright, and impossible to miss.
Your stomach drops so fast it makes you dizzy. Because what the actual fuck? No. Not here. Not now.
At some point, you’d convinced yourself maybe you simply didn’t have one. Maybe the universe skipped you.
The thread pulls slightly, like something on the other end just moved, and your fingers curl around it before you even realize what you’re doing. A voice in your head tells you not to look… but you look anyway. The string stretches across the room, weaving through people and stretchers and equipment like it doesn’t care about physics; it never has.
Your breath gets stuck in your throat as you follow it as it leads straight to him—Jack Abbot.
Your heart stutters hard enough that you feel it in your ears.
No.
No, no, no.
Lena is still talking beside you, something about assignments, but the words blur together. “…good with procedures, just don’t let him skip charting, he tries— Abbot!”
He looks up again, this time, at you. The string pulls tight between your wrists. For a second, neither of you moves. Then he walks over, casual, pumping sanitizer on his hands like this is just another shift, just another new nurse, nothing important happening at all.
He’s taller up close.
Tired-looking in a way that somehow makes him seem softer instead of intimidating. Curly salt-and-pepper hair slightly messy, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stethoscope hanging around his neck like he forgot it was there hours ago.
“You the new one?” he asks. His voice is warm and easy. Maybe a little rough around the edges from too much coffee and too many overnight shifts.
You force your brain to function.
“Yeah,” you manage. “First night.”
He nods once, then holds out his hand.
“Jack Abbot.”
Your hand hesitates for half a second before you take it. The second your skin touches his—the string snaps tight. It feels like something deep in your bones clicks violently into place.
Your pulse jumps hard beneath your skin, and for one horrifying second you think maybe he can feel it too.
But Jack just smiles politely, completely unaffected.
Because he can’t see it, not fully. The thread only loops faintly around his wrist before disappearing, incomplete and one-sided.
You swallow hard, “Nice to meet you.”
“Welcome to the Pitt,” he says. “Try not to run.” You let out a shaky laugh before you can stop yourself, “Too late for that.”
A faint smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, like he likes your answer. By God, that tiny expression alone nearly kills you.
Then he shifts the iPad under his arm—and you see the ring.
A silver band on his left hand.
Your entire body goes cold.
For a second, you genuinely can’t process what you’re looking at. Of course, he’s married. Because, yes, the universe would do something this cruel.
You force yourself to look away before your face gives you away—and that’s when you notice her.
A woman stands near Central holding a paper bag against her hip, looking around the department with the comfortable familiarity of someone who’s been here a hundred times before.
Waiting for him.
Jack notices her immediately, and his whole face changes. It softens enough for you to understand instantly how much he loves her. “Hey,” he says quietly, already walking toward her.
The incomplete thread around his wrist brightens faintly.
She smiles the second he reaches her, “You forgot dinner again.” Jack laughs softly, taking the bag from her, “I was busy.”
“You’re always busy.”
“Occupational hazard.”
She rolls her eyes affectionately, and he leans down automatically to kiss her cheek. It’s absent-minded and natural. The kind of intimacy built over years. Loving her is as easy as breathing. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist feels unbearably tight. Because the universe already chose—it’s not you. Never you.
Lena nudges your shoulder lightly, “You good?”
You blink quickly, forcing your expression back under control before anyone notices the way your soul feels like it’s collapsing inward. “Yeah,” you say, your voice almost sounds steady. “Just jet lag.”
Lena nods distractedly and turns back toward the board.
Across the room, Jack says something under his breath that makes his wife laugh. The warm and happy sound carries across the department.
You look down at the string around your wrist one last time before pulling your sleeve over it completely.
You can do this—you’ve survived harder things than heartbreak.
You square your shoulders, take the iPad Lena hands you, and step fully into the chaos of the Pitt.
So when Jack glances back at you a moment later, smiling like you’re just another coworker starting a shift, you smile back, pretending that your heart didn’t just fall through the floor.
A FEW MONTHS LATER…
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT SHIFT
By the time the Pitt starts feeling familiar, it’s already too late. You know the rhythm of the department now, the same way you know your own breathing. Which monitor is about to alarm before it starts screaming. Which psych patient is one bad interaction away from throwing a urinal at security, or a resident is about to panic during a difficult intubation.
You know the trauma bay doors stick when it rains, and Lena hides the good coffee above the Pyxis because Ellis steals the decent stuff first, and the fluorescent lights over Hallway C flicker around three in the morning like they’re barely holding on, and you know Jack Abbot’s footsteps before you even see him.
Well, to be honest, that part happens slowly. Shift after shift. Trauma after trauma. Somewhere between your first week and your third month, working beside him stops feeling intimidating and starts feeling natural.
You know how he likes his trauma setups organized. You know he taps his pen twice against the desk when he’s thinking too hard. You know he rubs the back of his neck when he’s exhausted and trying not to show it. And worse—he knows you too.
“Lifeline!” Ellis’ voice cuts across the department as you walk out of Trauma Two carrying an empty suture tray. You stop mid-step. “You people are never letting that nickname die, are you?”
Ellis swivels around in her chair with a grin. “Absolutely not.”
The nickname started during your second week after a pediatric code that had gone catastrophically wrong.
A seven-year-old nearly drowned—no pulse on arrival. The room had dissolved into controlled chaos within seconds—respiratory trying to secure the airway while one of the newer residents nearly froze trying to place an IO line.
Shen, still early enough into residency that panic sometimes beat experience, had looked one second away from completely spiraling.
But through all of it, you had stayed calm.
You’d guided Shen through the tibial IO placement while simultaneously pushing epinephrine prep toward Jack and coordinating compression rotations so nobody burned out too early.
At one point, Ellis had looked up from the monitor and muttered, “Jesus Christ. She’s everybody’s lifeline in here.”
Unfortunately for you, the name stuck. Now, half the ED used it more than your actual name.
“Lifeline, Trauma Two,” Lena calls without looking up from the board.
“On my way.”
Jack steps out of the trauma bay at the same time you do, peeling bloody gloves off his hands. “You steal my nurse again?” he asks Lena.
Lena snorts. “You don’t own her, Abbot.”
“That’s not what I said.”
There’s something easy in the exchange that makes warmth spread unexpectedly through you.
Jack falls into step beside you automatically as you head toward Trauma Two.
“You eat yet?” he asks.
You glance at him suspiciously. “Are you asking because you care or because you need me conscious enough to survive this shift?”
“A little of both.”
You huff out a laugh. Because that’s the problem with Jack. He’s kind in ways that sneak up on you, a quiet attentiveness that drives you nuts. He notices when you haven’t sat down in seven hours or when your hands shake after a bad pediatric trauma and when you’re pushing yourself too hard, and casually hands you a granola bar like he didn’t specifically go looking for one because he knew you skipped dinner.
The kind of doctor who stays with family members after delivering bad news instead of disappearing the second the conversation gets uncomfortable, and the kind of man who wears his wedding ring like it means something sacred.
Which somehow makes all of this hurt even more. Because every soft look. Every quiet joke at three in the morning or moment beside him in a trauma bay—belongs to someone else.
And you know that.
The universe reminds you every single day that the red string hidden beneath the cuff of your scrub jacket pulls tight whenever he gets too close.
You’ve gotten good at ignoring it or pretending to.
TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT
Tonight’s MVA is a disaster. Twenty-six-year-old male. Ejected through the windshield. Hypotensive on arrival. The second EMS wheels him through the ambulance bay doors, and the department shifts gears instantly.
“BP seventy over forty,” Ellis says from the monitor. “Heart rate one-forty.”
“Breath sounds diminished on the left,” Shen adds quickly, trying to keep up.
“Alright, let’s move,” Jack says sharply.
You’re already there.
Trauma shears cut through blood-soaked clothing while respiratory preps for intubation. You place oxygen and start hanging fluids while Jack performs the FAST exam. Free fluid in Morrison’s pouch appears on the screen almost immediately. Internal bleeding, most likely splenic rupture.
“Call OR,” Jack says. “He’s going upstairs.”
“Already on it,” you answer, grabbing the phone before he even finishes speaking. Jack glances toward you over the patient. There’s blood smeared across the sleeve of his scrub top, exhaustion pulled deep into the lines around his eyes. Yet still—that small flicker of trust when he looks at you. He knows you’ll catch whatever he misses.
You hate how much that matters to you.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
By four in the morning, the Pitt settles into its strange version of quiet. You’re charting near Central when the elevator doors open.
Jack’s wife walks out carrying six pizza boxes stacked in her arms.
The entire department visibly brightens.
“Oh thank God,” Ellis says dramatically. “An angel sent from heaven.”
“You people are unbelievable,” she laughs.
Ellis immediately takes two boxes from her. “Respectfully, I would die for you.”
“That’s deeply concerning,” Lena mutters.
“You’re just jealous she likes me more.”
“I absolutely am not.”
You can’t help laughing softly under your breath. There it is again— that awful ache in your heart. Because she’s truly, genuinely wonderful. The universe could’ve at least made her cold, cruel, or difficult.
Instead, she remembers everyone’s coffee orders and asks about your family back home, and brings food for the night shift because she knows none of you remember to eat unless somebody forces you.
“You must be Lifeline.”
You blink, startled when you realize she’s suddenly standing beside you.
Up close, her smile is warm and effortless. You force yourself to smile back. “That obvious, huh?”
“Oh, very,” she says easily. “Jack talks about you all the time.”
Your heart stumbles painfully against your ribs.
Before you can recover, she continues casually, “Apparently, you’re the only reason this department functions after midnight.”
You laugh weakly. “That gives me way too much credit. Obviously, Lena holds everything down.”
“Have you met these people?” she asks quietly, glancing around Central. “I’m pretty sure Shen would eat expired yogurt if left unsupervised.”
“That happened one time,” Shen shouts.
“You were hallucinating by hour two,” Ellis replies.
You laugh again before you can stop yourself, and somehow, talking to her is easy. Isn’t that cruel? Because you like her immediately, she asks about the Philippines, about your family, and how you plan on surviving Pittsburgh winters.
You’re halfway through explaining that black ice feels like a personal attack when Jack walks out of Trauma Two. He tosses his gloves into the biohazard bin before sanitizing his hands automatically. His curls are damp with sweat at the temples now, scrub top wrinkled from the shift.
Then he looks up to find the two of you talking and smiles—soft around the edges in a way that makes your eyes water.
“Well,” his wife says immediately, “there he is.”
Jack points toward the pizza boxes. “You bribing my staff again?”
“Your staff?” Lena repeats flatly from across the desk.
Jack ignores her completely.
His wife gestures toward you. “Lifeline and I decided you’re actually the problem in this department.” You blink. “We did?”
“We did now.”
Jack looks genuinely betrayed, “That was fast.”
“She’s nice,” his wife says simply. Jack’s eyes flick toward you for half a second, warm and amused. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “She is.”
Your pulse skips hard enough you nearly miss it. Coward, coward, coward.
You look away first while his wife grins triumphantly. “See? I win.”
“You gang up on me constantly.”
“Because you’re easy to bully,” you say before thinking.
Jack stares at you in mock offense. “Wow. Okay.”
“You walked into that one,” Ellis says.
“You’re all terrible people.”
His wife reaches up automatically to straighten the collar of his scrub shirt. Such a small gesture, absent-minded and intimate. The kind of touch that only exists between people who know each other completely.
Your wrist aches beneath your sleeve as the string pulls tighter. Still connected to him. So very impossible and still wrong. But somehow, standing there laughing with both of them at four in the morning, you realize something infinitely more dangerous than loving him.
You’re becoming part of their lives.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — LATER
The shift slows near dawn as you’re charting near Central when Jack drops into the chair beside you with a tired exhale.
“You ever think about leaving emergency medicine?” he asks suddenly. You glance sideways. “Every shift.”
“That’s healthy.”
“I think about becoming a florist at least twice a week.”
Jack huffs out a tired laugh. “You’d last six days.”
“Rude.”
“You yelled at a surgeon yesterday.”
“He was wrong.” You pointed out.
“He was technically right.”
“He was spiritually wrong.”
That earns a real laugh from him, the low and warm kind. God. You hold onto sounds like that more than you should. Silence settles comfortably between you afterward—the kind that only exists between people who know each other well. Then, almost absentmindedly, Jack asks, “Have you met your soulmate yet?”
Your fingers stop over the keyboard. For one horrible second, your entire body forgets how to function. But your face stays calm, because years in emergency medicine have made you terrifyingly good at composure. You keep typing as you reply, “Nope.”
Jack glances sideways at you. “At all?” You shrug lightly, forcing your voice steady. “Might just not be in the cards for me.”
Something softens in his expression immediately. Jack looks at people like he wants to understand them, not fix them. “I doubt that,” he says quietly. You stare at the chart on the screen because looking at him feels too dangerous. The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly heavy.
“I mean it,” he continues softly. “Whoever ends up with you is gonna be lucky.”
Your throat tightens painfully as you force a laugh under your breath before the emotion can show on your face. “Smooth.”
“I’m serious.”
The worst part is—he means it. You finally risk looking at him. His eyes are tired and honest in that devastating way that makes lying to him feel terrible.
“I hope whoever you love…” he says quietly, almost like he’s thinking out loud, “loves you back just as much.”
The cruel irony nearly splits you open. Because you already know exactly what loving him feels like. It feels like swallowing it down every single day, pretending friendship is enough because it has to be, while standing three feet away from your soulmate, while he talks about his wife with soft eyes and absolute devotion.
Your eyes sting suddenly, and you blink hard before he notices. “Me too, Jack,” you whisper. You mean it so much it hurts.
“Me too.”
2020, COVID PANDEMIC
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
The world changes fast. One week, people are joking about a virus overseas between trauma calls and coffee runs, and then the next week, the Pitt is overflowing.
Then, suddenly, every hallway smells like bleach and sanitizer, strong enough to burn your nose through the mask. Every shift feels like drowning—N95s cutting grooves into your skin, face shields fogging every time you breathe, and isolation gowns crackling every time you move.
The emergency department transforms into something unrecognizable almost overnight. There are no visitors or waiting rooms full of family. Alarms, intubations, oxygen sats dropping, and the sound of ventilators become part of the background noise of your life. Everyone starts looking exhausted, and then everyone starts looking haunted. You stop recognizing your coworkers without PPE. Even you stop recognizing yourself.
Through all of it, Jack keeps working.
You think maybe the entire world could collapse around him and he’d still show up for trauma shift fifteen minutes early with coffee in one hand and exhaustion carved into his face. Some nights, the two of you barely talk beyond patient updates. There isn’t time. Not anymore. Every room is full, and the waiting room looks like a war zone; people are dying faster than you can process. But even through the masks and face shields and layers of plastic, you still know him.
You know the crease between his brows when he’s worried and the exhaustion in his posture. The look in his eyes when a patient reminds him too much of somebody else.
To add to that, around the beginning of the pandemic, his wife dies. Not from COVID, which somehow makes it more merciless.
Pedestrian versus drunk driver—DOA. The call comes in just after midnight. You don’t know it’s her at first. Female in her late thirties. Severe head trauma. Massive internal injuries. CPR in progress.
The paramedics wheel her through the doors while respiratory rushes to clear Trauma One. For one horrible second, before you even see her face, the red string around Jack’s wrist burns.
You freeze, not because you understand yet. Because something deep inside you already does.
Then Jack steps into the trauma room, and everything stops. You watch recognition hit him in real time, the way his body locks up and how color drains from his face beneath the mask.
“No,” he says immediately, as if he says it softly enough, maybe reality will change its mind.
“No.”
Lena moves first.
“Jack—”
“That’s my wife.”
The room goes dead silent. Even with monitors alarming and compressions ongoing, along with Shen asking for another round of epi.
It all disappears under the sound of Jack’s voice breaking.
You’ve seen grief before—you work in emergency medicine, so you see it every day. But nothing prepares you for the sound a person makes when their entire life shatters in front of them. Jack tries to step forward, but Lena catches him immediately. “Jack.”
“No, let me—”
“Jack.”
“She’s still warm—”
His voice cracks apart on the words. The paramedic quietly says they found no pulse on scene. Prolonged downtime. Non-survivable head trauma. You can’t breathe—nobody can.
Jack looks at his wife lying on the trauma bed like he genuinely cannot understand what he’s seeing; his brain refuses to process it. Blood in her hair and on the sheet, with her wedding ring still on her hand. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist pulls painfully tight—before snapping loose.
Jack stares at his own wrist instinctively. The string tied there—gone. His face crumples. All that’s left is a man realizing the universe just took something from him that it can never give back.
COVID restrictions mean none of you are allowed at the funeral. No gathering or reception. No sitting beside him in church or placing a hand on his shoulder in comfort; bringing food to his house while relatives fill the rooms with noise and stories and grief.
Only Zoom.
Fucking Zoom.
You sit alone in your apartment at three in the afternoon after night shift, still in scrubs because you were too tired to change, laptop balanced on your kitchen table.
Everyone’s little squares flicker on-screen. Lena is crying silently, Ellis is muted, while Shen is trying and failing not to cry. Multiple other night shift staff are trying their best to pull themselves together—to be brave for Jack.
While Jack is sitting alone in a black button-down shirt in a house that suddenly looks too empty.
He looks hollow. That’s the only word for it. Hollowed out from the inside. You realize halfway through the service that he hasn’t stopped twisting his wedding ring around his finger once. Maybe he believes that if he keeps touching it, maybe she’s still here somehow.
You cry with your microphone muted.
Afterward, nobody knows what to say. There are no casseroles or hugs. No standing together in shared grief. Only little squares blink off one by one until Jack is the last person left in the call.
You stay after everyone disconnects. “You should sleep,” you say quietly. Jack lets out a humorless laugh, “Yeah.”
But he doesn’t move, and neither do you. Finally, he says, “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
There it is… the unbearable part, because she died instantly—no final words or closure. She was there one second—gone the next.
You press your lips together hard enough that they hurt as you faintly say, “I’m so sorry, Jack.”
He nods once because he’s heard it too many times already. Then his face folds inward suddenly, grief cracking through whatever fragile composure he’s been holding together. You’ve never seen him cry before, not really. Now he looks destroyed by it.
“I keep thinking she’s gonna walk through the door,” he whispers. “I keep forgetting for like… five seconds.”
Your lungs ache so violently that it feels unbearable.
Because despite everything—despite the string and the guilt and all the ways you tried to keep your distance—you love him. And loving someone means you cannot stand there and watch them suffer alone.
Not him.
Never him.
So you stay.
At first casually, then constantly, you start checking on him between shifts. You bring coffee, he forgets to drink, and force him to eat crackers during overnight shifts because grief has hollowed him thin. You sit beside him in the break room when he can’t sleep between traumas.
Some nights he talks, and there are nights he doesn’t. Later on, you learn grief has moods. Some days he’s numb, and some days he’s angry. Or days, a patient wearing the same perfume as his wife nearly sends him spiraling mid-shift. Once, after losing a COVID patient around his wife’s age, Jack locks himself in the stairwell for twenty minutes.
You find him there eventually. Still in PPE with his face shield shoved onto the top of his head, breathing hard like he’s trying not to come apart.
You sit beside him without saying anything. For a long time, neither of you speaks. The stairwell is cold through your scrub pants, concrete hard beneath you. Somewhere beyond the heavy metal door, the hospital keeps moving. Monitors alarming. Phones ringing. Ventilators hissing.
Life continued like his world didn’t just end.
Jack sits one step below you, elbows braced against his knees, surgical cap shoved halfway off his head. His N95 hangs loose around his neck now, leaving angry red pressure marks across his skin. He appears worn out in a manner unrelated to sleep. The type of tiredness that becomes bone-deep.
For a while, all you hear is his controlled breathing, but then, you know, if he lets himself lose control for even a second, he’ll never stop. Then quietly, without looking at you, Jack says, “I don’t know who I am without her.”
You nearly shatter at his confession, because it’s proof he loved her so completely. You saw it every day in small, ordinary ways. In the way his face softened when she walked into the department carrying takeout, or the absent-minded way he leaned toward her without realizing it. In the wedding ring, he twisted whenever he talked about her during quieter shifts. He loved her with the kind of certainty people spend their whole lives searching for, and somehow that only makes you love him more.
You look down at your hands, clasped tightly in your lap.
“At work?” you say softly after a moment. “You’re still Jack.” A weak laugh escapes him, humorless and tired, “Very inspirational speech.”
“I’m serious.”
You glance toward him carefully. Even now, he’s still wearing blood on the sleeve of his isolation gown from the code downstairs. His curls are damp with sweat, exhaustion carved deep into the lines around his eyes.
"When everything hurts," you say carefully, "you don't have to figure out how to survive the next ten years."
Jack finally looks up, with his eyes bloodshot, red-rimmed, and devastatingly tired. "You just find the next thing." His brow furrows slightly as you keep going, "The next cup of coffee that tastes okay."
A faint huff of breath leaves him.
"The next shift." You offer a small smile. "The next stupid joke Shen makes that isn't actually funny."
That earns the ghost of an eye roll—you take it.
"The next hour. The next day." Your throat tightens, but you push through it, "And eventually..." Your voice softens. "Eventually you realize you've made it farther than you thought you could."
Jack stares at you, fully paying attention and listening.
"The pain doesn't disappear," you admit quietly. "Some losses stay with you forever. But one day you wake up, and it isn't the first thing you feel."
The stairwell falls silent again, and you watch as Jack's eyes close briefly as if the possibility of hope hurts. When he opens them again, there's something unbearably raw there—something stripped bare. "You really believe that?" The question comes out almost broken, and you don't hesitate as you reply, "Yes."
Because you have to, for him, for yourself, and for every patient you've ever watched claw their way through impossible things.
"Yes," you repeat softly. Jack studies your face for a long moment—searching for something there. Maybe hope or permission. Or proof that somebody still sees him underneath all the grief. Then he gives one small, fragile nod, because he's trying very hard to believe you, too.
A softer shared silence settles between you again afterward. You remain beside him on the stairwell steps while the hospital hums around you. Two exhausted healthcare workers in the middle of a pandemic. One grieving the loss of the love of his life. The other grieving quietly beside him. Then, after a long time, you speak again.
Your voice barely rises above a whisper, "I don't think there's such a thing as a good goodbye." Jack doesn't look away, but you stare at the concrete floor.
"People say it gets easier. That you find closure. That eventually you make peace with it." Your fingers tighten together. "But I think losing someone just becomes part of you. You learn how to carry it." Your throat burns, "There are days when you think you're okay. Days when you laugh and work and breathe normally." You glance toward him. "And then something happens. A song, a smell, maybe a memory.” Blinking back your tears, you revealed, "The grief finds you again."
Jack's eyes shine slightly as you continue softly, "Not because you failed to move on." Your voice wavers. "But because they mattered."
A long silence follows. Then, quietly—"So what am I supposed to do?" When he asks the question, it sounds incredibly trivial.
You look at Jack—at the man who spent years helping everyone else survive. He stayed with frightened soldiers, and loved his wife so completely that even death couldn't erase her from him.
"Keep loving her," you say softly, and Jack's breath catches. "Just don't let her be the reason you stop living, too."
The silence that follows feels sacred, somewhere beneath your sleeve, hidden from the world, the red string wrapped around your wrist aches. Not because it hurts, but because for the first time since she died, you realize you would carry his grief with him for as long as he needed.
Even if he never knew.
2021
YOUR APARTMENT — NIGHT
By late 2021, you recognize the symptoms almost immediately. The exhaustion first. Not normal exhaustion—the kind every ER nurse carries around like a second heartbeat—but something meaner. The sort that becomes deeply ingrained in your bones and wears you out just by standing straight.
Then the fever, then it’s the cough that follows soon after, and the body aches that feel like somebody took a hammer to every joint you have.
You take the rapid test in your bathroom with trembling hands, already knowing what the result will be before the second line even appears.
Positive.
You stare at it for a long moment anyway, “Fuck.”
You’d been vaccinated months ago. Healthcare workers got priority access early on, one of the very few benefits of spending every shift neck-deep in a pandemic. And thank God for that, because without it, you’re almost certain this would’ve landed you intubated in an ICU somewhere.
Still—it hits you hard.
Your immune system has never exactly been reliable. Too many years of stress, skipped meals, night shifts, and pushing yourself past exhaustion had seen to that long before COVID ever existed.
So you quarantine immediately with no qualms or arguments. Immediately, you text Lena and Dana to tell them that you’ve contracted COVID-19. Then you lock yourself inside your apartment and prepare to wait it out.
The loneliness settles in fast after that. The first day isn’t terrible, but the second day is worse. By the third day, you genuinely feel like you’re losing your mind. Your apartment suddenly feels too small and too quiet. Every surface smells faintly of disinfectant and cough drops. Empty Gatorade bottles and medication wrappers clutter your coffee table because you’re too exhausted to clean properly.
You sleep in fragments. Wake up drenched in sweat. Cough until your ribs ache. Then fall asleep again, only to wake up disoriented an hour later. You try texting your family back home once, but hearing your mother’s worried voice over FaceTime nearly makes you cry, so you stop answering calls after that.
You tell everyone you’re fine. You’re not.
One particularly bad night, you sit on the bathroom floor wrapped in a blanket because the cold tiles feel good against your feverish skin, genuinely debating at what oxygen saturation you’d finally call an ambulance.
Ninety-three? Ninety-two?
You know too much…that’s the problem. You’re aware exactly how quickly patients can crash, and what respiratory distress looks like. You know what COVID sounds like when it starts settling deeper into the lungs. And alone in your apartment at two in the morning, feverish and exhausted and struggling not to spiral, you think: If this gets worse, I’m gonna end up at Presby or PTMC.
By day five, your phone is full of unread texts. Lena is checking in, Shen is sending memes, and Ellis is threatening to physically fight you if you don’t hydrate. But then there’s Jack calling twice… then three times.
You don’t answer any of them. Not intentionally. Your brain feels too foggy to function most of the time. Looking at your phone takes effort you barely have energy for. So when there’s suddenly a knock at your apartment door that evening, you frown from beneath your blanket without moving.
Probably the wrong apartment.
Another knock. Then—your real name, muffled through the door in a voice you’d recognize half-asleep.
“Hey.”
Your stomach drops.
No.
Absolutely not.
You push yourself upright too quickly and immediately regret it when dizziness crashes over you. You stumble toward the door anyway, coughing into your elbow before peeking through the peephole.
And there he is.
Jack Abbot. Standing outside your apartment in full PPE. N95. Face shield. Gloves. Isolation gown. Holding a plastic takeout bag in one hand. You stare at him in complete disbelief before yanking yourself back from the door. “Jack?!”
“Oh, good,” his voice comes through the other side, dry with relief. “You’re alive.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” you hiss through the door. “How did you even find where I live?”
“Lena told me… and Dana.”
Traitors.
You lean your forehead briefly against the door, exhausted. “You can’t be here,” you argue weakly. “You could get sick.” Jack snorts softly from the hallway, “Lifeline, we work in an emergency department.”
“That is not comforting!”
“Also,” he continues, ignoring you completely, “is there a reason you’ve been ignoring my texts and calls?”
You close your eyes briefly. Honestly, you hadn’t even realized how many messages you missed.
“Jack—”
“Open the door.”
You blink as you screech, “Are you fucking insane? No.” His voice lowers slightly then, gentler but firmer somehow. “Lifeline.”
Somewhere behind your ribs, the moniker settles heated and perilous.
“Open the door.”
You stare at the wood for a long moment. Then, against every ounce of common sense you possess, you unlock it. The second the door cracks open, Jack’s eyes immediately scan over you clinically. You can practically see the ER doctor in him assessing your flushed skin, fatigue, and mild shortness of breath. The way you’re subtly bracing yourself against the wall to stay upright. In an instant, his face tightens.
"Oh," he murmurs. Somehow, that soft little sound embarrasses you more than if he’d outright said you looked terrible. You cross your arms defensively, “I look worse than I feel.”
“That’s concerning, because you look awful.”
You let out a tired laugh despite yourself, immediately coughing afterward. Jack’s eyes narrow behind the face shield, “How high’s the fever?”
“It’s fine.”
“Temperature.”
“One-oh-one earlier.”
“And oxygen?”
You hesitate half a second too long, and Jack notices immediately, “Lifeline.”
“Ninety-four. I’ve been checking my Apple Watch.”
His jaw tightens, “Okay.”
You step aside reluctantly. “There’s hand sanitizer and ethyl alcohol everywhere. I’ve been disinfecting the place whenever I can.”
Jack walks inside carefully, setting the takeout bag down near the kitchen counter. Your apartment suddenly feels unbearably small with him standing in it. Messy blankets on the couch. Medications scattered across the coffee table. Laundry you’ve been too sick to fold. You suddenly want the earth to swallow you whole. “Sorry,” you mutter. “It’s kind of a disaster.”
Jack glances around once before looking back at you. “I’ve seen residents cry over missing lab results. This is nothing.” That earns another weak laugh out of you while he pulls out one of the dining chairs and gestures toward it, “Sit down before you fall down.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“You almost passed out opening the door.”
Rude.
You sit anyway because standing suddenly feels impossible, and Jack immediately starts fussing. Taking your temperature again. Checking your pulse ox. Asking when you last ate.
In a manner that hurts your core, it's somehow intimate. After observing him in silence for a while, you gently inquire, "Why are you here?"
Jack pauses before he shrugs one shoulder like the answer should be obvious. “Because I know you.”
“You don’t have family here,” he continues quietly. “No roommates. No neighbors you’re close enough with to help if things go bad.” He leans back slightly in the chair across from you.
“You moved halfway across the world by yourself,” he says. “So yeah. I came to do a welfare check.” Something warm and painful twists in your chest all at once, so you try covering it with humor. “Am I that unlucky or just that special?”
Jack looks at you for a long moment. Then, softly, he replies, “Just that special.” The room goes very still while your pulse stutters painfully against your ribs. Jack clears his throat first, looking away. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.”
He gives you a tired, unimpressed look immediately, “Don’t start with me.” You sigh, shoulders slumping. “I feel…” You swallow hard. “Honestly? Like I got hit by a truck.”
Jack nods once like he expected that answer. “My chest hurts when I cough,” you admit quietly. “And I’m exhausted all the time. Walking to the bathroom feels like running a 10k.”
Jack’s expression softens instantly to concern. “Okay,” he says gently. “That sounds about right for breakthrough COVID.”
You laugh weakly, “Reassuring.”
“You’re vaccinated. Your sats are holding. Fever sucks, but you’re stable.” His voice shifts into that calm doctor cadence you’ve heard him use with terrified patients a hundred times before.
“You’re gonna feel miserable for a little while,” he says softly. “But you’re not dying.”
The ridiculous thing is—you believe him immediately. Maybe because it’s Jack, he always sounds certain even when the world is falling apart. Or maybe because after spending almost a week alone in your apartment feeling terrified and sick and invisible—having somebody show up for you feels dangerously close to relief.
Somewhere beneath the fever and exhaustion and the red string hidden under your sleeve, you realize this is the first time since his wife died that Jack has willingly stepped into somebody else’s home again.
The thought nearly breaks your heart.
Grief has a way of shrinking people's worlds—you'd watched it happen to Jack in real time. After his wife died, he stopped inviting people over. Stopped talking about home or lingering after conversations that might eventually end with someone asking how he was doing outside of work. The walls had gone up slowly. Brick by brick. Most people probably never noticed, but you did. Yet here he is, standing in your cluttered apartment with a stethoscope in one hand and a grocery bag full of electrolyte drinks in the other.
"Drink."
You stare at the bottle he shoves toward you, "You're very bossy outside the hospital."
"Drink." He insists.
"Is this because I ignored your texts?"Jack gives you a look, the one he usually reserves for patients actively making terrible decisions. "Partly."
You sigh dramatically and take the bottle, "Happy?"
"No."
That catches your attention. You look up, and Jack is standing near the kitchen counter, arms folded across his chest. The concern on his face isn't hidden anymore. Hasn't been since he walked through the door. "You should've told somebody you were this sick." Your laugh comes out hoarse, "I did."
"No." Jack shakes his head, "You told people you were fine."
"...I was trying not to worry anyone."
"You had a one-oh-one fever and couldn't walk to your bathroom without getting winded."
You look away because when he says it like that, it sounds bad. "It sounds worse when you say it."
"That's because it is worse."
You can't help smiling, but that only seems to annoy him more.
"Why are you smiling?"
"You care."
Jack stares and then immediately looks away. Your fever-addled brain doesn't miss the faint flush creeping up his neck. "Of course I care."
The answer comes too naturally, and for some reason, that makes something warm settle beneath your body. The television murmurs faintly in the background, forgotten as Jack eventually disappears into your kitchen. You hear cabinets opening and then closing. A frustrated sigh leaves him, "How do you have absolutely no food?"
"I have food."
"You have soy sauce and olive oil."
"That's food-adjacent."
Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. "You work in healthcare."
"So do you."
"I know."
"Have you seen what doctors eat?"
He points at you from across the room, "Deflection."
You grin while Jack shakes his head again, but he opens the takeout containers anyway and pours you soup. Then make sure you actually eat it and wait until you're halfway through before finally sitting down. The quiet and unexpected realization sneaks up on him that somehow—he likes taking care of you. Because it shouldn't feel this good. It shouldn't feel this natural to be here. To fuss over your fever, refill your water glass, and check your pulse ox every twenty minutes because he doesn't trust you not to lie about your symptoms.
Yet every time he glances up and sees you curled beneath a blanket on the couch, alive and stubborn and complaining—something in his heart eases. The same feeling he gets when a trauma patient finally stabilizes. When someone he was worried about turns out okay. Only different. This time, it’s more personal and complicated.
You cough suddenly, and Jack is moving before he even realizes it, quickly handing you water. Waiting until the coughing fit passes. Your eyes lift toward him over the rim of the glass. It’s soft and sleepy. "Thank you." Your words are quiet and sincere.
And God help him—that does something to him. Something he doesn't examine too closely.
Because if he does—he might have to ask himself questions he's not ready to answer. Questions like why spending an afternoon taking care of you feels better than spending it anywhere else, or why your apartment already feels strangely familiar. Why did the idea of you being here alone all week bother him so much?
Instead, he focuses on something safer—annoyance. "You know," he says, sitting back in his chair, "your soulmate's doing a terrible job."
You blink at that, frowning, "What?" Jack shrugs, "If they're out there somewhere, they're slacking." A surprised laugh escapes you. "What does that even mean?"
"It means," he says, gesturing vaguely toward your blanket burrito state, "you're sick. Alone. Living on cough drops and spite."
"I had soup."
"You had olive oil."
"That was one time."
Jack rolls his eyes, "My point stands." A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "They should've shown up by now." The joke is spoken carelessly, and he doesn't know it nearly stops your heart.
You look away first, toward the rain-streaked window, literally anywhere but him. Because if you look at Jack right now—if you look at the man sitting in your apartment, taking care of you, worrying over you, complaining about a soulmate who never appeared—you might break.
The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly burdensome. But Jack doesn't notice, he's too busy opening another bottle of water and making sure your fever isn't climbing again. Somewhere in the quiet warmth of your apartment, he doesn’t realize the irony. Jack is sitting exactly where he should be. Doing exactly what he was supposed to do, and somehow, he can’t see it yet.
2023
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
Five years ago, you were the new nurse from the Philippines. Now you're simply part of the Pitt. Nobody really introduces you anymore. You're just there, part of the machinery. You know where everything is and everyone's habits. Or when Ellis is pretending to chart and is actually looking for the next best place to nap for her double. You know when Shen is about to spiral before he even realizes it himself. By now, you have memorized Lena's "I'm not mad, I'm disappointed" face is significantly more terrifying than actual anger.
Somewhere along the way—you became one of the safest places in Jack's life. Neither of you meant for that to happen.
It just did.
There are hundreds of tiny moments, none of which seem important on their own. But together, they're devastating. A patient's husband is screaming in the hallway after a failed resuscitation. Security is trying to de-escalate, family members are crying, and the entire department feels tense. Then, appearing devastated, Jack leaves the room but not in a noticeable way. Most people wouldn't recognize it, but you do.
You don't say anything; instead, you simply hand him a cup of coffee. Exactly how he takes it. He looks down at it, then at you. "Mind reader?" You shrug, "You looked like you needed caffeine." The corner of his mouth twitches, "Thanks."
Somehow, that small smile stays with him the rest of the shift.
Another night, it’s three in the morning. Everyone's fucking exhausted. You're sitting on the floor of the supply room because it's the only place nobody can find you for five minutes. Jack opens the door and stops. He finds you sitting there cross-legged, eating stale vending machine pretzels. "You hiding?"
"No."
"You are literally hiding."
You hold up a pretzel, defensive, "This is self-care." Jack stares at you, then, to your horror, he sits beside you on the floor. Like it's completely normal. "You know we're adults, right?" he asks.
"Says the man eating peanut butter crackers for dinner." Jack looks offended; he scoffs, "I had a protein bar." You roll your eyes at that, "Oh. Well, that's different."
His laugh echoes through the tiny room. It’s warm and unrestrained. The sound settles somewhere dangerous inside your chest. Then the days keep passing by, and then the days turn into months, then it’s another shift, another trauma.
Another impossible night.
A frightened little girl refuses to let go of your hand while waiting for stitches. You're sitting beside her bed, explaining every step of the procedure. Making balloon animals out of gloves while telling ridiculous stories.
By the time you're finished, she's laughing. You don't notice Jack standing in the doorway watching or the expression on his face either. The one that lingers long after he walks away. Because somewhere over the years, admiration has quietly become affection.
Affection has started becoming something else—something he doesn't have a name for yet. Jack's issue is that he doesn't immediately feel things. Without thinking, he simply begins searching for you first.
A difficult trauma comes in? His eyes automatically find yours. A bad shift? He looks for you at Central. A joke occurs to him? He wants to tell you. A patient reminds him of something sad? Somehow, you're the person he ends up talking to.
It happens gradually enough that neither of you notices.
Until everyone else does.
"You know Abbot's gonna have a breakdown if Lifeline ever leaves, right?" Ellis says it casually while charting. You nearly choke on your coffee, "What?" Across the desk, Shen immediately nods. "Oh, absolutely."
"Parker."
"I'm serious."
You point threateningly, "Stop." Parker raises both hands. "Hey, I don't make the rules."
You refuse to acknowledge the strange warmth crawling up your neck. Because if you acknowledge it—you'll have to acknowledge the way your heart still skips whenever Jack smiles at you. After all these years, that feels pathetic.
2024
PTMC, MAIN ENTRANCE — DAY
The rain starts sometime around six in the morning. Not a drizzle—a proper Pittsburgh downpour. The kind that turns streets silver and pounds against windows hard enough to drown out conversation.
After twelve hours of chaos, the entire department begins filtering out toward the parking garage and bus stops. You finally clock out around seven—exhausted and half-awake, absolutely ready for sleep.
When you step outside, you immediately spot Jack standing beneath the small emergency department awning.
Watching the rain… alone with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. Looking at him, you pause, "You're still here?"
Jack glances over, "My car's in the shop."
That explains it.
"How'd you get here?"
"Rideshare."
You look out toward the street, and the rain is somehow worse now. Jack follows your gaze, "Trying to decide how miserable walking home is gonna be." You glance over, "What happened to your ride?"
Jack lets out a tired breath, "Canceled."
"What?"
"Driver got stuck downtown." You wince at that, and he pulls his phone from his pocket and turns the screen toward you. The rideshare app is a disaster—surge pricing, long wait times. One estimate says thirty-eight minutes, while another says unavailable. Apparently, every exhausted healthcare worker in Pittsburgh had the same idea after shift. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Yeah." Jack stuffs his phone away again. "I've been refreshing it for ten minutes."
You look back toward the rain, then down at the umbrella dangling from your wrist, and then back at him. You ask, "No umbrella?"
"Nope."
You stare at him, then at the rain… and then at the very obvious lack of any workable plan. So, without thinking twice, you hold the umbrella out. Jack blinks, looks at the umbrella, and then at you. Then back at the umbrella. It's baby pink and covered in tiny Miffy rabbits. The ears are even printed around the trim—the thing looks aggressively cheerful.
"You serious?"
"Very."
A laugh escapes him, a real one. Low and surprised and completely unguarded. It's probably the first genuine laugh you've heard from him all shift, maybe longer. You feel absurdly proud of yourself as you snort, "Sorry about the color."
Jack studies the umbrella again, "I think I'll survive."
"You sure? Might destroy your reputation."
"My reputation was already questionable."
"Fair."
You press the handle into his hand without hesitation, because that's just who you are. Someone needs help, so you help; it's that simple. Jack looks genuinely baffled. "Wait."
You pause.
"What about you?" He asks, concerned. You shrug. The rain is cold, and the morning is gray. You've worked twelve hours, and your back hurts, along with your feet. But somehow none of that feels important. "I live closer than you do."
"Lifeline."
"Jack."
"You'll get soaked."
You smile, bright and softly. The same smile you've given frightened patients, overwhelmed residents, and grieving family members. You shrug, "It's rain."
His brow furrows, "You say that like hypothermia isn't a thing." You laugh at that, "I'm from the Philippines. Rain and I have a long-standing relationship."
"That's not remotely reassuring."
"It shouldn't be."
Jack shakes his head, but he's smiling now, which gives you a bit of peace. His eyes linger on you a second too long. Or maybe you're imagining it. You probably are—you usually are. Then you add quietly, "Besides, sometimes life is easier when you stop trying to avoid every uncomfortable thing."
Jack's expression softens, and you glance toward the rain. "Sometimes you just accept you're gonna get soaked and go home anyway." Neither of you says anything for a little bit. Because you both know that your words aren't really about the rain, neither of you acknowledges it. A laugh escapes him again, and he shakes his head, "You always have an answer for everything."
"No." You step backward toward the edge of the awning, and the cold rain immediately spatters against your scrub pants while you grin. "You just have to trust you'll be okay once you get there."
That gets another laugh out of him, the kind that reaches his eyes. You would do almost anything to keep hearing that sound. The umbrella remains clutched in his hand. Pink, ridiculous, and entirely yours. But for some reason, he can't stop staring at it. Or at you, standing in the rain, completely unapologetically yourself. No performance or hidden agenda. Only your kindness offered freely, as if giving away the only thing keeping you dry is the most natural decision in the world.
The thing is—Jack has spent years watching people take. Watching grief take, life and death take. And you...You are always giving… your time, your patience, and your terrible vending machine snacks. Your heart, if someone needed it badly enough. Now, it’s your umbrella.
Something warm twists unexpectedly inside of him, and he feels tingling all over his skin, as well as his mouth begins to dry. You lift a hand in farewell, "See you tomorrow, Dr. Abbot."
Then you turn and jog into the rain, water immediately drenches your hair, and you laugh when your shoe splashes into a puddle. You keep running anyway. While Jack just stands there—watching, until you disappear around the corner. Long after you're gone, he remains beneath the awning with your pink umbrella still hanging from his hand.
The rideshare app was forgotten entirely, and the rain pounded against the pavement as the morning traffic crawled by. For the first time in a very long time—the thought of going home doesn't feel quite as lonely. He looks down at the ridiculous little umbrella again. Then, despite himself, he smiles. Because somehow the damn thing feels exactly like you.
2025
NIGHTCLUB, PITTSBURGH — NIGHT
The music is loud enough to vibrate through your ribs. Honestly, you're having fun, a rare occurrence these days. Between night shifts and overtime and trying to maintain some semblance of a social life outside of the Pitt, opportunities to be a normal twenty-something are increasingly rare.
So when a few friends invited you out, you said yes. You danced, drank, and laughed. You let yourself forget about work for a few hours, and somewhere between your second drink and the realization that your feet hurt, you discovered a very important problem.
Your apartment keys were gone—completely vanished, you checked your purse three times. Your jacket pockets twice, then the bathroom counter, next the bar, and still nothing. Which is how you found yourself sitting in a booth near the back of the club with your phone pressed to your ear.
Waiting for Jack to answer.
He picks up on the second ring, "Everything okay?" You immediately relax, which is probably a problem. "Maybe."
Jack sighs, the sound of a man who has known you far too long, "What happened?" You look mournfully into your drink, "I lost my keys." A pause on the other end, and then, "You what?"
"They're gone."
"Lifeline."
"They disappeared."
"Keys don't disappear."
"They absolutely do."
The music swells around you, and someone screams happily near the dance floor. Through the phone, Jack suddenly goes quiet. He asks, "Where are you?"
You blink, "Huh?"
"Where are you?"
You frown, then glance up at the neon sign hanging over the bar, "Oh." You tell him the club's name. The silence on the other end lasts approximately two seconds before you hear him ask, "How are you getting home?"
You wave a hand vaguely despite the fact he can't see you, "M'gonna Uber." The words come out more slurred than intended. Silence... a long silence, then you hear him sigh, "Jesus Christ."
"It’s not that bad—"
"No."
You open your mouth to argue, but Jack beats you to it. "I'm picking you up." You immediately sober, exclaiming, "What?"
"Do not leave with anybody."
"Jack—"
"Do not get into a stranger's car."
"That's literally what Uber is." You throw back in response.
"Lifeline." The warning in his voice makes you sit up straighter. "I'm serious. Stay where you are."
"Jack—"
"I'm already grabbing my keys."
Your stomach flips unexpectedly as you point out, "You're working tomorrow."
"So are you."
"Jack."
His voice drops lower, gentler as he begs, "Please." And that ends the argument before it starts. You stare at your drink and reluctantly reply, "...Okay."
"Good." A beat and then you hear, "Don't hang up."
Twenty-five minutes later, Jack walks into the club and promptly forgets how to breathe, because he has never seen you like this before. At work, you're always in scrubs, with your hair pulled back, minimal makeup, and practical shoes.
Tonight—tonight you look nothing like the nurse who steals his coffee and argues with surgeons. Your hair is down, and your makeup catches the flashing lights every time you move. The outfit you're wearing should probably be illegal—at least that's what his traitorous brain immediately decides. Far too much skin and too beautiful—too distracting.
Jack stares for half a second too long, but then immediately hates himself for it. Because he's Jack and you're you. You're his friend, and he's forty-something years old and should absolutely know better. But the sudden realization that other people are staring at you, too, fills him with an entirely unreasonable amount of irritation. There are multiple reasons he hates that realization—none of them are good. You spot him immediately, and relief floods your face, "Jack!"
Somehow that's worse—because you're happy to see him, you always are. Jack pushes through the crowd toward your booth. He asks, "You okay?"
You grin, a little tipsy and a little tired, "Hi."
"That's not an answer."
"I lost my keys."
"You mentioned."
You immediately point at him, "I looked."
"I believe you."
"I looked everywhere."
Jack softens despite himself, "I know."
Just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The amount of trust you've placed in him over the years—it sneaks up on him sometimes, along with the amount he's placed in you. Neither of you ever talks about it—it's just simply there.
"Where are your friends?"
You blink.
"Oh."
You glance toward the dance floor, where your group has completely disappeared into the crowd. One of them is standing on a platform dancing with a stranger. Another appears to be attempting karaoke despite there being no karaoke machine. Honestly, nobody looks remotely concerned about your whereabouts. You point vaguely, "Over there." Jack follows your finger, and immediately regrets it. "Jesus."
You laugh, "They're having fun."
"They look like a liability."
"They are." A pause, then you smile warmly at him. The kind of smile that's become increasingly difficult for him to ignore lately.
"You ready to head home?" The question comes out gentler than he intended. Your expression softens immediately. "Mhm."
There’s no argument because the answer was always going to be yes. After all, it's him asking. Something in Jack's chest tightens unexpectedly. You climb out of the booth and wobble slightly when your heel catches on the edge of the floor. His hand is on your elbow before either of you thinks about it. It’s steady and instinctive—the contact lasts barely a second, but you both notice. Your eyes flick down to his hand, then back up to his face. Neither of you says anything, and Jack clears his throat first before he lets go, "You good?"
You nod immediately, "Mhm. Yep." Then point at him. "I need to go tell them I'm not being kidnapped by you."
The laugh that escapes him is helpless, "You go do that."
You grin, "Okay.” Before turning toward the dance floor, you lightly tap his arm. It’s a small gesture, mindless and affectionate. The kind of touch friends make without thinking. Yet Jack feels it long after you've disappeared into the crowd. He watches you weave through the dancers. Watch you throw your arms around one of your friends.
You laugh at something that makes your whole face light up, and standing there in the middle of a crowded nightclub, surrounded by strangers and flashing lights and music loud enough to shake the floor—Jack suddenly realizes he's smiling. He's smiling because you're happy and somewhere deep down, in a place he has been carefully avoiding for a very long time—he knows that's becoming a problem.
You weave your way through the crowd, dodging dancers and spilled drinks, until you finally find your friends near the center of the dance floor. One of them immediately grabs your arm, "There you are!" You laugh, "Apparently, I'm leaving."
"What?" another groans theatrically. "Already?"
You point toward the edge of the club—toward Jack. Standing near the entrance with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, waiting. The second your friends spot him, several heads swivel at once. Then all of them turn suspiciously slowly back toward you.
"Ohhh."
You immediately know that tone, you shake your head, "No."
"That's the doctor."
"No."
"The hot doctor."
You cover your face, "Oh my God." One of them leans closer, asking, "Is he your boyfriend?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Very."
"Because he definitely looks like he's here to pick up his girlfriend." Heat floods your face instantly, "No, he does not."
Across the room, Jack glances over, as if sensing he's being talked about. But when he spots you, his expression visibly relaxes. And unfortunately, your friends see that too. "Oh my God."
You groan, "Stop."
"He likes you."
"He does not."
"He drove here to rescue you from yourself."
"That's called friendship."
"That's called middle-aged pining." You nearly choke, "Please never say those words again."
Laughter follows you all the way back toward the entrance, and Jack looks mildly concerned the closer you get. "You okay?"
"Apparently not."
He narrows his eyes at your response, "What happened?"
"My friends are terrible people."
"Fair."
You point at him, "Don't encourage them."
"I'm not encouraging anybody."
"Liar."
The corner of his mouth twitches, and just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The simple fact that he's here has solved half the problem already. Then you take two steps toward the exit, but Jack is moving before he even thinks about it. One hand catches your elbow, and the other settles briefly at your waist, steadying you. The contact is innocent, but your breath catches anyway. It’s practical and necessary, at least that's what both of you tell yourselves.
"Whoa there." Jack says, and you blink up at him, then immediately start laughing, "I think the floor moved."
"The floor did not move."
"It absolutely moved."
"Lifeline."
"I'm just saying." Jack shakes his head, and his hand doesn't immediately leave your waist. Neither of you seems to notice. Or maybe both of you notice too much. "Come on."
You allow him to guide you outside, and the cool night air hits immediately. Rain lingers on the pavement, turning the streets into rivers of reflected neon. You inhale deeply, then sway again. Jack catches you before it becomes a problem. His hand settles more firmly against your side this time, and your body immediately relaxes into the contact like it's familiar.
Jack notices that too. "You good?" He asked, and you nod, "Mhm." A beat, and then you add, "The ground's still suspicious."
That earns a real laugh out of him, and you love that sound.
The parking lot isn't far, but Jack keeps his hand on your waist the entire walk there. Just in case… well, at least that's what he tells himself. Not because he likes the feeling of you beside him or how perfectly you fit there.
Just in case. That's all…. at least for tonight.
Jack sighs. The long-suffering sigh of a man who spends his life dealing with stubborn people. "Come on."
You allow him to guide you… well. at least until you nearly walk directly into a group of people entering the club. Jack catches your shoulder and redirects you gently, "Okay."
"What?"
His hand settles more firmly against your back, "Maybe we're graduating from independent walking." You gasp dramatically, "I am fully capable." But your words come out slightly slurred.
Jack raises an eyebrow, "You just tried to walk through three people."
"They were in my way."
A laugh escapes him. God. You're something truly special.
Now he has a new problem. Namely, getting you safely into his truck before you attempt something stupid.
The passenger-side door swings open, and you stare at it, then back at the seat. Jack immediately knows what's happening. "Need help?"
"No." A pause as you squint at the truck suspiciously. "Maybe."
"It's higher than it looked five seconds ago, isn't it?"
"It definitely wasn't this tall before."
Jack bites the inside of his cheek, hard, trying not to laugh.
"Okay."
Before you can protest, his firm hands settle at your waist, and suddenly you're being lifted just enough to get into the passenger seat. The whole thing takes maybe two seconds, except neither of you feels normal afterward. You freeze, and Jack also freezes. His hands are still on your waist, and you're looking directly at each other—far too close.
For a brief, dangerous moment, neither of you moves. Then Jack clears his throat, immediately stepping back. "Seatbelt."
Your brain takes several seconds to reboot, "What?"
"Seatbelt."
"Oh."
Of course, duh. You fumble with it and miss the buckle twice before Jack reaches over and clicks it into place. His face is suddenly very near again. Near enough to see the tiny scar near his jaw, and that your heart starts doing things it absolutely should not be doing. "There." His voice comes out lower than usual. You swallow, "Thanks."
Neither of you acknowledges how strange the moment felt and the warmth lingering where his hands had been. Or the way Jack has to grip the steering wheel a little tighter once he's behind it. Because some things are easier left alone. At least for now.
JACK ABBOT’S APARTMENT — NIGHT
The drive back to your apartment is quieter than the nightclub. The city has settled into that strange hour between night and morning, when the roads are mostly empty, and the traffic lights seem to change for no one. Rain taps softly against the windshield as Jack drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. You are attempting to stay awake. Attempting being the important word here. Every few minutes, your head tips toward the window before jerking upright again.
Jack notices every single time, "You can sleep."
"I'm not sleeping."
"You were asleep thirty seconds ago."
"I was thinking."
"You were drooling."
You gasp in offense, and Jack doesn't even look at you as he commands, "Go to sleep."
"You're mean." A laugh escapes him at your comment. He realizes that he’s been doing it a lot when he’s around you.
By the time you arrive at your apartment, you’re humming a song, trying to stay awake. Then Jack pats his pocket, and freezes when he realizes, "...Shit."
You blink, "What?" He closes his eyes, "I forgot your spare key." You stare, then immediately start laughing.
Jack groans, "Oh my God."
"You drove all the way there."
“Don’t.”
"You forgot the whole reason you picked me up."
"Don't."
Your laughter gets worse, and for the first time in years, Jack lets out a full belly laugh too. He begins to drive to his apartment, and since it’s late, he offers for you to crash at his place.
By the time he pulls into his apartment complex, you're visibly losing the fight against exhaustion and alcohol—mostly alcohol. The second you step through the front door, you kick your heels off exaggeratedly. One lands near the couch, and the other somehow ends up halfway down the hallway. Jack silently watches this happen. Then watches you attempt to unbuckle whatever complicated contraption is keeping your outfit together. "Okay," he says immediately.
"What?"
"Maybe let's not do that."
You frown at him, "Why?"
Because you're drunk—very drunk, and apparently completely unaware that you're standing in the middle of his apartment trying to peel yourself out of an outfit that has occupied far too much of his attention already. Jack suddenly finds the ceiling fascinating, the wall too. Actually, maybe the floor. Anywhere except you.
"Because," he says carefully, "you need pajamas."
"Oh." You consider this, then nod solemnly. "Pajamas are smart."
"Thank you."
"I am smart."
"You are." He nods, and you point at him, "I knew you'd agree."
Jack presses his lips together. God help him. Somehow, over the years, you've become one of his favorite people. A few minutes later, after much negotiation and several failed attempts to convince you that sleeping in sequins is a terrible idea, Jack disappears into his bedroom closet. He returns holding an old Army shirt—worn soft with age, the fabric faded from years of washing, along with a pair of boxers. You stare, then grin. "These yours?" Jack immediately regrets everything, "Yes."
"Cool."
Then, before he can stop you—you start changing.
"Jesus Christ."
You blink, "What?"
Jack is staring firmly at the opposite wall. "You could've warned me."
"Why?"
Because you're still drunk enough that embarrassment hasn't caught up with you yet. Meanwhile, Jack is discovering entirely new levels of self-control.
"Bathroom," he says.
"Right." You pause, then gesture wildly. "The bathroom."
"Correct."
Five minutes later, you emerge wearing the oversized shirt. The hem brushes your thighs while sleeves hang past your hands. The sight nearly kills him, because you look comfortable—like you belong here. Which is a thought he immediately shoves into a locked box and throws into the ocean. Nope. Not touching that. Absolutely not. That’s reserved for a future therapy session. Boy, is his therapist going to love that.
"Sit."
You immediately sit on the edge of his bed.
"Drink."
You obediently accept the water bottle, and Jack blinks, "That's new."
"What?"
"You listened."
You point at him, "You're bossy."
"Drink the water."
You drink the water, then he hands you a spare toothbrush and makes sure you actually use it. Then spends several minutes making certain you don't accidentally fall asleep face-first into the sink. By the time he's satisfied you're hydrated and functional enough not to accidentally die overnight, you're sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed, wrapped in one of his old shirts and looking increasingly sleepy.
You dig through your purse. "There are makeup wipes in here."
Jack pauses, asks, "You carry those around?"
"My eyeliner smudges." You shrug. "My mascara too."
Jack shakes his head, "Prepared for everything."
"It's literally why we carry purses."
"Pretty sure that's not why."
"It absolutely is."
He finds the packet eventually and pulls one free, then gestures to you, "Come here." You blink, dazed, "What?"
"Your mascara's halfway down your face."
Well, that’s fucking mortifying—immediately you cover your face, "Oh my God." Jack laughs softly; the sound is low and warm. "You're fine."
"No, I'm not."
"You really are."
Gently, he pulls your hand away and carefully brushes the wipe across your cheek. His touch is light, patient, and unhurried. The same hands that place chest tubes and suture wounds and perform procedures under pressure somehow become impossibly gentle. They always do around people he cares about. You go strangely still, and the room suddenly feels too quiet and small. Jack is close enough that the details become impossible to ignore. The silver was woven through his hair. The exhaustion that never quite leaves his eyes. The traces of loss he carries with him even now. And still, despite all of it—or maybe because of it—he remains devastatingly, painfully beautiful.
"You've done this before." The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.
Jack's hand stills briefly, then resumes. "Mmm." His voice is soft, a little distant. "She hated taking her makeup off."
The ache arrives instantly—it’s deep and familiar.
"She'd fall asleep on the couch." A small smile touches his mouth. "Every time." His gaze drops to the wipe in his hand, "Eventually, it was easier to do it myself."
A tender silence settles over the room, and suddenly your eyes sting. Because even now—all these years later—he still misses her. Of course he does, he always will.
"Jack." He looks up, and you swallow hard. "I'm sorry."
His hand pauses, and he asks, "For what?"
Your throat tightens painfully, "I know you miss her." The words come out small, but completely honest, and are barely above a whisper. Jack looks at you, and what he sees nearly unravels him. Because you're crying for him—not for yourself, or because you're drunk. You're crying because his pain hurts you. Because somehow you've always carried pieces of everyone else's heartbreak as if it belongs to you too.
A tear slips down your cheek, and before you can wipe it away, Jack reaches up, his thumb tenderly brushes gently across your skin.
The touch lingers slightly.
"Hey." His voice is impossibly soft, "Don't cry, honey."
The endearment slips out before he can stop it. The second it does, the room changes. Your breath catches, and Jack freezes. Neither of you moves. For one suspended second, the entire world narrows to that single point of contact. His hand against your cheek, your eyes locked on his. The silence between you is suddenly filled with things neither of you knows how to say. Then Jack does the only thing he can think of—he opens his arms, and you go willingly. The hug is immediate, warm, and safe. Your forehead presses against his shoulder, and his strong arms wrap around you while you melt into him without hesitation. Trusting him completely, the way you always have. Fuck—that might be the most dangerous thing of all. For a moment, neither of you lets go, because none of you wants to. Jack can feel your heartbeat through the thin cotton of his shirt and feel your breathing gradually slowing. He can feel himself becoming far too aware of how perfectly you fit against him.
He closes his eyes for a second.
A mistake.
Because the truth waits for him there—the truth that somewhere along the way, you stopped being just his friend and just his favorite nurse. Stopped being just the person he trusted most and became something he doesn't know what to do with.
Eventually, your breathing evens out. Then slows….then slows again. Jack glances down and realizes you've fallen asleep curled against him. Carefully, he shifts and lowers you onto the bed, pulls the blanket over you, and tucks it beneath your shoulder. The motion is automatic, and for a moment, guilt rises sharp and sudden. Not because you remind him of his late wife. You don't, and you never have. You never will. But somehow that realization doesn't hurt. It simply feels true. You are different—entirely your own person. Entirely your own place in his life. Jack stands there for a long moment, watching you sleep peacefully. Then quietly, he reaches for his crutches resting beside the nightstand.
The apartment is dark now, silent, as he pauses at the doorway, looks back one last time, at you sleeping in his bed. Wrapped in his shirt, breathing softly against his pillow, and despite every effort not to—Jack smiles. Then he switches off the light and heads toward the couch. Completely unaware that he's already fallen far deeper than he ever intended to.
JACK ABBOT'S APARTMENT — MORNING
The first thing you notice when you wake up is that you're comfortable. Suspiciously comfortable. Wrapped in sheets that smell faintly of clean laundry and something familiar you can't quite place. For a few blissful seconds, you remain exactly where you are, half-buried beneath the blankets, eyes still closed. Then your brain starts working slowly… like an old computer booting up. Your mouth is dry, your head hurts, and you have absolutely no idea where the hell you are.
You crack one eye open, and a ceiling you don't recognize stares back. Your stomach immediately drops. "Oh no."
Then the memories start returning. The nightclub, losing your keys, calling Jack… Jack picking you up. The drive to his apartment, the makeup wipes, and the hug. Oh God. The hug.
Your eyes fly open, fully awake now. Mortification floods your entire body with terrifying speed. "No, no, no, no..."
You immediately bury your face in your hands. Maybe if you stay here long enough, you'll evaporate, and the earth will open up and swallow you whole. Maybe cardiac arrest—you'd accept cardiac arrest. Slowly, you peek out from between your fingers, and a glass of water sits on the nightstand. Beside it is a bottle of ibuprofen and a neatly folded note in Jack's handwriting.
Drink water before standing up.
Your heart does something deeply unhelpful as you groan, "Oh, my God."
Because that's such a Jack thing to do, he’s practical, thoughtful, and annoyingly sweet. You whimper and flop backward onto the pillow.
Unfortunately, reality remains—and reality is that you are currently in Jack Abbot's bed. His bed—his actual bed, the place where he sleeps. The place where—You immediately shove that thought into a dumpster and set it on fire. Nope. Absolutely not. Not going there.
You drag yourself upright before your imagination can make things worse. The oversized Army shirt hanging off your shoulders shifts as you move. Your eyes immediately drop. Jack's shirt. You are wearing Jack's shirt. You consider throwing yourself out of the nearest window.
The bathroom is somehow worse. Because now you're sober, fully sober. Which means you remember everything… mostly. You splash cold water onto your face repeatedly. Trying to wash away the embarrassment and the memory of crying. The image of him calling you honey and you falling asleep against him.
"Oh, I'm never recovering from this." You groan into the sink before you force yourself to look in the mirror. You survive trauma shifts and twelve-hour nights. You went through fucking COVID. So… you can survive breakfast. Probably.
After one final pep talk that accomplishes absolutely nothing, you step out of the bathroom and immediately stop. A framed photograph sits atop the dresser, Jack and his wife, both smiling. The picture looks old, well-loved, the edges slightly worn. Guilt arrives like a punch to the ribs. Because no matter how much time has passed, she's still here. In photographs, memories, and the quiet spaces, he doesn't talk about. You stare at the picture for a moment longer, then look away. The guilt lingers anyway.
The smell hits you before you reach the living room. Coffee, eggs, and toast, along with something frying in a pan. Your stomach growls traitorously, then you turn the corner, and nearly walk directly into a wall. Because Jack is standing at the stove, shirtless. You stop functioning completely. Gone. No thoughts. Head empty. Just panic. Because somehow, in all the years you've known him, you've never actually seen him like this.
At work, he's always covered by scrubs, layers, a jacket, and PPE. Now—now he's standing barefoot in his kitchen wearing nothing but athletic shorts and his prosthetic. Morning sunlight spills through the apartment windows. Across broad shoulders, freckled skin, and muscle earned through years of physical therapy, stubbornness, and sheer determination. The prosthetic is already attached as part of him, as familiar and unremarkable as breathing. You know the story and what happened, and understand now the work it takes to live with it.
Still—seeing him outside the hospital feels strangely intimate, and very human. Your jaw nearly hits the floor as Jack turns. He immediately catches your expression, and to his eternal satisfaction, you look horrified. Not by him, but by being caught staring. His mouth twitches, "Morning."
You blink once, then twice, and you begin rapidly looking anywhere else.
"Morning." Your voice cracks. Well, that’s spectacular. Jack's eyebrow rises, "Rough landing?" You clear your throat. "Oh, absolutely."
His smile grows slightly. "There are worse hangovers."
"Don't."
"You called me at midnight because you lost your keys."
"Jack."
"You accused the floor of moving."
"Jack."
"You tried to negotiate with a coat rack."
Your eyes widen as you sputter, "I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"Oh my fucking God."
Jack laughs—there it is again, a little lighter than it used to be. "Come eat." You hesitate, still standing awkwardly in his shirt, and painfully aware you're in his apartment—his space. Then Jack glances over his shoulder, "You need food before your headache gets worse."
There it is. His doctor voice—the one that brooks absolutely no argument. You sigh dramatically and obey. Because apparently that's become a habit. Jack places a plate in front of you. Eggs, toast, fruit, and a giant glass of water.
You stare, and then at him, then back at the plate, "You made breakfast."
"You sound surprised."
"You made breakfast."
"You were hungover." You blink because he says it so simply, as if taking care of you is the most natural thing in the world, and maybe that's what gets you. It's how easy it seems for him—the quiet way he shows up. Again, and again. So instead of saying any of that, you pick up a piece of toast. "Thanks." Jack glances up from his coffee, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. "Anytime, Lifeline."
You lower your gaze quickly and focus on your breakfast instead. Unfortunately, that only makes things worse because now you're sitting at Jack's dining table, in Jack's apartment—wearing Jack's shirt.
Eating breakfast, he made for you. The domesticity of it settles wrong inside your conscience. Not because you or him have done anything wrong. But because it feels like you're standing in a place that once belonged to someone else. Your eyes drift toward the bookshelf across the room. A framed photograph sits among the books, showing Jack and his late wife. They’re smiling and happy.
The familiar guilt immediately curls around your throat. You look away, and your appetite suddenly harder to find. Jack notices and asks, "You okay?"
You force a smile, "Mhm." Jack raises an eyebrow. The same look he gives patients who claim their pain is a three out of ten while actively dying. "Lifeline."
You sigh at being caught, again. "It's stupid."
"If you're saying that, it probably isn't."
The concern in his voice makes the guilt worse. You stare down at your plate, picking apart a piece of toast. "You've done so much for me."
Jack frowns immediately, "Okay."
"And I kind of crashed into your life last night."
His confusion visibly increases as he points out the obvious, "You lost your keys."
"I know."
"You called me."
"I know."
Jack waits as you groan softly because this sounds ridiculous out loud. "It just feels like I'm imposing."
Jack's expression softens as he says, "Lifeline." You hate it when he says your nickname like that—as if he's trying to talk you down from something.
"You are not imposing."
You look away, stubbornly mutter, "Still."
"No." His answer comes immediately.
You glance up, and Jack is looking directly at you now. Completely serious. "You called because you needed help. That's what people do."
"But—"
"It's not a burden."
You open your mouth; however, Jack cuts you off again. "You would've done the same thing for me."
And unfortunately—he's right. You would've, without hesitation. At three in the morning, or in the middle of a thunderstorm. Without a second thought.
Jack sees the realization cross your face. A faint smile touches the corner of his mouth.
"Exactly."
You look back down at your plate, suddenly embarrassed. Because he's making it sound so simple. Meanwhile, your brain is spiraling. You risk a glance upward and immediately regret it. Because Jack is leaning against the counter. Coffee mug in hand. Morning sunlight spilling through the kitchen windows behind him. Now that you're sober, you're trying very hard not to notice things. Like the freckles scattered across his shoulders. Or the way years of physical therapy and hospital shifts have built quiet strength into him. Maybe the fact that he looks unfairly good for someone standing barefoot in his kitchen at eight in the morning. Your eyes immediately dart back to your eggs because you’re a coward.
"So." Jack takes another sip of coffee. The amusement in his voice is impossible to miss. "You gonna keep staring at your breakfast like it’s inedible?"
You nearly choke, "What?"
"The eggs."
"Oh." Your face feels suspiciously warm. "They're intimidating."
Jack stares at you, then laughs.
Somehow and somewhere along the way, Jack stopped being your soulmate, the impossible person at the end of a red string, and became Jack. The man who remembers your coffee order, and the one who checked on you when you had COVID, who keeps spare electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at taking care of yourself. The man who made you breakfast because you were hungover, and the man who still loves his wife. The guilt returns instantly. You glance toward the photograph again. Jack follows your gaze this time. His expression changes subtly. The smile faded into something quieter, more thoughtful. Neither of you says anything for a moment. The apartment settles into a small, comfortable, sad silence. The kind that comes from old grief that never fully disappears. Finally, you clear your throat. "I'm sorry."
Jack immediately looks confused. "For what?" You gesture vaguely around the apartment. "Sleeping in your room." His expression somehow becomes even more confused. "Lifeline."
"I'm serious."
"Why?"
You stare at him, "Because it's your room."
"Correct."
"And your bed."
"Also correct."
You narrow your eyes because Jack is enjoying this. The asshole. "Jack."
"What?"
"I feel bad."
His expression softens immediately into a quiet gentleness. "It's fine." He replied. You shake your head, "But—"
"No." His voice is calm. "I wasn't going to wake you up so you could sleep on the couch." You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. You try to rebut, "But—" Jack points toward your coffee, "You would've fallen asleep sitting upright."
"That's not true."
"It absolutely is."
"It happened one time."
"It happened three times."
"Allegedly."
Jack laughs into his coffee, and for a moment, just a moment, the guilt eases. Because he's looking at you like you're welcome here. As if your presence isn't an intrusion or that helping you wasn't an obligation. It was just something he wanted to do. That realization follows you for the rest of breakfast. Maybe that's why loving him has always felt so dangerous. It's the spare apartment key he keeps on his keyring. The electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at remembering to drink water. The bottle of ibuprofen is waiting on the nightstand before you even wake up. The way he remembers—he doesn't even realize he's doing it.
Eventually, breakfast ends, and you help carry plates to the sink despite Jack's protests. "I'm perfectly capable of washing a plate."
"I know."
"You sounded doubtful."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
Jack rolls his eyes, and you grin.
For a moment, it feels normal. As if this is something the two of you do all the time. Then Jack glances toward the hallway. "I should shower."
Your eyes immediately dart away.
Why are you suddenly embarrassed? You've seen this man covered in blood during trauma activations, and somehow, showering is what's awkward.
"Okay." Jack nods, then pauses, a small frown appearing. "You don't have clothes."
You blink, "Oh." You hadn't actually thought that far ahead. Your club outfit is currently somewhere in the apartment and likely smells like spilled alcohol, perfume, and poor decisions.
Jack disappears down the hallway before you can offer a solution. A moment later he returns carrying a pair of gray sweatpants and another shirt. You immediately recognize the Army logo faded across the front. "Here."
You stare at him, then back at the clothes. "I can't take your clothes."
"You're already wearing my clothes." Unfortunately, he has a point. You glance down at the oversized shirt hanging off your shoulders. Jack's mouth twitches, "The sweats have a drawstring."
"Oh, good."
"They should fit."
"Should?"
"Mostly." You narrow your eyes, but Jack looks entirely unapologetic. "You can keep the shirt." Your heart immediately forgets how to function, breathless, "What?" Jack casually shrugs, "It's old." You can’t fucking breathe, so you settle for, "Oh."
The thought of keeping it, taking it home, and sleeping in it. Smelling his laundry detergent every time you wear it is incredibly intimate. "Thanks."
Across his expression is as soft as his response, "You're welcome." Then he gestures toward the hallway. "I'm gonna shower."
You nod, "Okay."
"The shower chair's in my bathroom, so I'll be in there awhile." The statement is matter-of-fact and unremarkable. The same way he always talks about it. Not because it doesn't matter. But because Jack long ago learned there was no point treating every accommodation like a tragedy. It's simply part of his life—part of him. You nod again, "Take your time."
Jack studies you for a second; he's checking for lingering hangover symptoms. Then apparently decides you'll survive. "I'll drive you home after."
"Sounds good." You agree. There’s a pause before Jack says, "Try not to break anything while I'm gone." Your gasp is immediate, "Rude."
"I know you."
"You wound me."
Jack laughs, then walks down the hallway. A few moments later, you hear the bathroom door close. The apartment becomes quiet—the one that only exists in the homes of people who live alone. You wander slowly—absolutely not snooping. You were observing, there's a difference. The apartment itself feels like Jack. Comfortable, practical, and unpretentious. Bookshelves line one wall of the living room. Medical textbooks, military history, and novels with dog-eared pages. A few framed photographs scattered throughout the apartment—friends, coworkers, and people who matter.
You pause near one shelf. A photograph sits there. Jack and his late wife, when they were younger, were laughing. The picture caught in the middle of a moment rather than a pose. She has her head tipped toward him, and Jack is looking at her like she hung the moon.
Your stomach lurches. Because even now—years later—she still belongs here. Of course she does. This was their home, their life. You gently set the frame back exactly where you found it. Suddenly feeling like an intruder again, your gaze drifts around the apartment. There are signs of her everywhere if you know where to look. It isn’t overwhelming or frozen in time. There’s a photograph, a ceramic mug, and a framed postcard tucked between books. Evidence that she existed, and you hate yourself a little. Because standing here, wrapped in Jack's clothes, waiting for him to finish showering, part of you wishes things were different. Part of you wishes you weren't standing in the aftermath of someone else's great love story. The guilt settles heavily, along with the red string hidden beneath your sleeve. You glance toward the hallway, and the sound of running water. Toward the man you've loved for years. Because no matter how badly you want him—you've never wanted to replace her. Not for a second. Never. You just...wanted him to be happy, even if it was never with you.
The drive back to your apartment is quiet, but not uncomfortable. You sit curled into the passenger seat, your folded dress resting on your lap alongside your heels. The sleeves of Jack's old Army shirt hang past your wrists, and the sweatpants are too big with the drawstring pulled tight enough to keep them from falling. You feel ridiculous, like a child playing dress-up. Outside the window, Pittsburgh drifts by in shades of gray. You keep your eyes fixed on it. Because every time you glance at Jack, your heart hurts. Especially after last night… the makeup wipes, the hug, his hand on your face, honey. You don't trust yourself anymore, not even a little. Beside you, Jack steals another glance. You're unusually quiet, and that alone is enough to make him nervous. Normally, even hungover, you'd be talking, making terrible jokes, or complaining about your headache.
Instead, you're staring out the window like you're already somewhere else. His fingers tighten slightly on the steering wheel as he asks, "You okay?" You nod immediately, humming, "Mhm."
A lie that Jack recognizes instantly, but he lets it go for now. When he finally pulls up in front of your apartment building, neither of you moves immediately. The truck idles softly as silence stretches, then you suddenly unbuckle. Before Jack can process what's happening, you lean across the center console and wrap your arms around him. The hug catches him completely off guard, and for a moment, he freezes. Then instinct takes over. His arms come around you automatically. Your face presses briefly against his shoulder. Jack's heart does something strange and painful. Because it feels like goodbye, and he has absolutely no idea why.
"Hey." His voice comes out softer than intended. You squeeze him once before you let go, because if you hold on any longer, you won't be able to leave.
"Thanks," you whisper. Your eyes sting immediately, but you force a smile anyway. "For everything." The words shouldn't sound final, but they do. "Anytime, honey." The endearment slips out effortlessly and naturally now. Neither of you acknowledges it. Jack studies your face, trying to figure out what's wrong, to understand why you suddenly look like you're trying not to cry. So he asks carefully, "I'll see you later at work, yeah?"
Your throat tightens while you nod. "Mhm." It's not technically a lie. The second you step out of the truck, you don't look back. You can't. Because if you do, you'll stay. So you practically run inside your apartment building.
Leaving Jack staring after you, confused, worried, and somehow strangely unsettled.
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — DAY
Dana and Lena listen quietly. The three of you sit in an empty conference room before shift change. You make it approximately halfway through your explanation before you start crying. Not graceful tears, pretty tears, but the ugly kind. The tears you've spent years swallowing, "I'm sorry."
Dana immediately reaches for you, "Hey." You shake your head, "I'm sorry."
"Hon." Dana rubs circles against your back, her voice gentle, maternal. "Why are you apologizing?" You laugh through your tears because the answer feels obvious and impossible. "Because I'm in love with him."
The room falls silent as Lena and Dana exchange a glance. A look. One that says they already knew. Everyone always knows except the people involved. "It's just for a little while," you whisper while you wipe furiously at your face. "I just need some space." Dana's expression softens. She asks, "And what about your heart?"
That's the problem, isn't it? Your heart—your stupid, stubborn heart. You stare down at your hands, "Until it relearns how to stop beating for him." Then quietly you hear Lena ask, "So you're not gonna tell him?" You shake your head immediately, "I can't."
Because how do you tell someone that you've been tethered to them for seven years? That you've loved them through a marriage, grief, and loss. Through healing. How do you tell someone that? Especially when he never chose you. So you don't.
THREE DAYS LATER…
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
Three days later, Jack notices immediately, the second he walks into the ED, you're gone. No coffee sitting beside your workstation and sarcastic comments from Central—there’s no you. He finds Lena first and asks, "Where is she?" Lena doesn't even look up from her charting, "Where's who?” Jack stares, "Lifeline."
"Oh." She clicks something on her computer. "Day shift." His stomach drops, "What?"
"She switched."
"When?" Lena shrugs at him, "A few days ago."
Jack blinks slowly. "Why?"
"Ask Dana." Suddenly, Lena becomes very interested in her chart.
A week passes, then two, and Jack begins losing his mind. Because you are avoiding him, deliberately and aggressively. You leave before he arrives, or arrive before he leaves. You disappear down hallways and take lunch at different times. Find literally any excuse not to be alone with him. The few times he manages to catch sight of you—you smile and wave.
Then vanish again, like smoke, as if you're afraid of him, and that hurts. Because Jack keeps replaying that night. The club, his apartment, the hug, and the morning after. What did he miss? What did he do? Did he cross a line? Did he make you uncomfortable? Did he somehow ruin the one friendship he can't bear to lose? Every answer leads nowhere, and every day you drift a little farther away. Three weeks later, during shift change, Jack finally spots you. Walking quickly through the corridor, badge swinging from the clip of your scrub pocket, and iced coffee in hand.
He immediately changes direction. "Lifeline." You freeze for a second, then keep walking. Fuck. Jack follows and calls after you, "Lifeline." Your pace somehow gets faster, and now he's genuinely irritated and hurt. "Hey."
Finally, you stop, turning around, with a careful smile already in place, too careful. But not him, never him, not until now. "Hi, Jack." The distance between you feels enormous as he asks, "What is going on?" Nothing. Everything. You force a shrug, "Nothing."
That’s bullshit, and Jack knows it's bullshit. You know he knows, but neither of you says it. Then somebody calls your name from down the hallway, and relief floods your face at escaping him. The realization dawns on him like a punch.
"I gotta go."
"Lifeline—"
"See you around." Then you're gone, again. Practically running.
That's when it happens—Jack stares after you, heart pounding, confused, angry, and hurt. Suddenly—pain flares around his wrist. It’s sharp and hot. He physically flinches, "What the—"
A red thread appears beneath his skin, bright and impossible, but all too real. Jack freezes as the world tilts. No. No. No. The string winds itself slowly around his wrist. As it has always belonged there, it was simply waiting.
His breath catches because he knows what it is; everybody knows what it is. His pulse begins hammering. The thread stretches down the hallway, past nurses, residents, and stretchers, straight toward—You. Jack stumbles, his hand slamming against the wall to keep himself upright as the hallway blurs and his vision tunnels.
No. No, that's impossible. His heart pounds so hard it hurts. The red string glows softly between his wrist and yours, unbroken. Years… all these years. Every conversation, every shift, every cup of coffee, and every moment. Every time you'd looked at him and then looked away, or when you'd disappeared when things became too close. All the times you'd chosen distance. The truth crashes into him all at once. You knew. Oh God. You knew, and somewhere down the hallway—completely unfazed—you kept walking.
While Jack stands frozen in place, one hand braced against the wall, staring at the impossible thread connecting him to the woman he's been desperately trying not to admit he's fallen in love with.
2025
6:00 PM
PTMC, CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY
The emergency department shifts from busy to catastrophic in less than thirty seconds. One moment, people are charting the next—every television screen in the department lights up with breaking news.
There’s an active shooter at PittFest—mass casualty incident. Every healthcare worker in the room recognizes it instantly. The moment before impact… before disaster arrives.
"Hey, what's going on?" McKay asks.
Robby strides into Central, already moving and planning. Carrying the weight of what is coming. "Mass casualty at PittFest."
Samira looks up sharply, "How many victims?"
"We don't know." Robby's face is grim. "Expect the worst.” A terrible silence settles, while someone else immediately reaches for a phone. "Did the police find David?" McKay asks. Robby shakes his head, then raises his voice, "Okay, everybody, listen up."
Every head turns to pay attention to Robby.
"There is an active shooter at PittFest. As the nearest trauma center, we are going to be getting the majority of the victims." The room goes completely still. "We don't know yet how many we're getting, but we are instituting hospital-wide emergency protocols. We need to move every patient out of here. Either home, upstairs, or Family Medicine. Call your loved ones now if you need to."
Robby glances toward the windows, toward the city. Towards the disaster unfolding somewhere beyond it. "I can guarantee cell service will soon be overwhelmed. Eat something. Stay hydrated. Use the bathroom while there's time and meet back here for a full briefing in five minutes."
Then his gaze lands on someone entering through the ambulance bay doors, relief flashes across his face.
"Brother." Robby exhales. "I'm so fucking glad to see you." Jack, carrying his backpack and wearing his black scrubs, briefly hugs Robby, "Heard it on the scanner."
Jack drops his bag onto a workstation. "How many are we expecting?"
"I don't know." Robby's expression darkens. "But it doesn't sound good."
After placing his things down, Jack looks up directly at you. The breath leaves your lungs. Already focused entirely on you.
Your stomach drops. Oh no. No. No. No. He knows. The realization slams into you so hard it feels physical. You don't know how or when. But something in his expression tells you immediately.
He knows about the string—your secret. The thing you've spent seven years burying. Your pulse begins hammering, and blood rushes up to your ears. Across Central, Jack doesn't look away; his jaw flexes, hard, angry. You know that look—you've seen it directed at negligent parents, reckless drivers, people who made choices that hurt others.
Five minutes. That's all you have before the briefing. Before the entire hospital erupts into chaos. Apparently five minutes is all Jack needs. The second he catches you alone, a hand closes firmly around your elbow. "Lifeline." You freeze, your heart immediately dropping into your stomach. "Jack—"
"We need to talk." The words come out low and controlled. He steers you toward an empty supply room. A narrow space lined with IV fluids and sterile procedure kits. The door swings shut behind you, and the silence is deafening.
You turn toward him, trying to keep your face neutral, and completely fall apart. "What's going on?" The question sounds pathetic even to your own ears. Jack stares, and for a moment, he says nothing. Which makes everything worse, because his eyes are furious.
Furious at being hurt and at being lied to. At realizing something important happened without him knowing. His jaw clenches, "You knew." Your vision immediately blurs, "Jack—"
"You knew." The repetition is softer, devastated. You feel your tears threatening already.
"Don't." Your voice cracks. "Don't look at me like that." Something flashes across his face—pain, but then anger returns to cover it. "So what was the plan?" His words come out sharp.
"Jack—"
"What?" His voice rises, years of confusion finally boiling over. "What were you doing?"
You flinch, and Jack immediately hates himself for it, but he can't stop, not now. "Were you just waiting?" The accusation hangs between you, ugly, unfair, and born entirely from hurt. "Were you waiting for your chance?"
Your eyes widen as the tears come instantly, and suddenly you're angry too. Years of restraint snap all at once.
"No." The word echoes off the walls. "No." You step toward him, furious, heartbroken, and shaking.
"I buried it." Your voice breaks. "I buried every part of it." Jack freezes as you keep going, "You don't get to stand there and act like I wanted this." The tears are falling freely now. It’s hot and humiliating. "I buried every chance of loving you so deep I could barely breathe around it."
The room goes silent as Jack stares while you choke on the next words, because they're true, every single one. "I buried my wanting for you." Your voice cracks again. "And don't you dare accuse me of waiting." The anger disappears, leaving only raw, ancient grief. "You don't get to accuse me of that when I respected it."
Jack's face changes back to confusion and regret. But you're not finished, "I respected her." The words nearly destroy you while you wipe at your face, failing miserably. "I respected both of you."
A photograph flashes through your mind. Then she laughed in the department, bringing Jack lunch, loving him. Being loved by him, the woman you'd genuinely cared about. The woman who had never done anything except be kind to you.
"She was brilliant." You laugh bitterly as another tear slips free. "Beautiful. And I knew I'd never measure up."
Jack physically recoils, as if you'd struck him. "What?" The word comes out strangled. You look away because you can't bear seeing his face. "I know that."
"No." Pain flashes across his expression. "No, you don't." You laugh again, broken, "I do." Then quietly, you add, "The first time I saw the end of the string." Jack goes completely still at your admission.
"The first time I saw it unfinished." Your voice drops, barely above a whisper. "I knew I was going to lose you either way."
Silence—absolute silence. Jack feels like the floor has vanished beneath him, because suddenly, he understands. All those years, smiles, retreats, your careful boundaries. How you'd chosen distance instead of possibility. You weren't waiting. You were grieving the entire time.
The supply room door suddenly swings open, and Robby appears, already halfway through speaking. "Abbot, I need—"
Then he stops, immediately, because you're crying, and Jack looks wrecked. The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.
"...Whoa." Robby looks between both of you a few times, then decides he absolutely does not want whatever this is. "What the hell is—"
You move first, past Robby and Jack. Past all of it. Your shoulder brushes the doorframe as you leave. You don't stop, and can’t look back. Because if you do, you'll fall apart. While Jack just stands there, watching you go, understanding too late. For the first time in seven years, understanding exactly how much it must have hurt. Then, somewhere outside the room—an overhead page sounds. The first ambulances are arriving, signaling that the mass casualty has begun. However, the conversation isn't over. Not even close.
7:00 PM
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
All at once, the emergency department is already overflowing. Trauma bays filled, hallways lined with stretchers, and blood smeared across floors that Environmental Services doesn't have time to clean. The overhead speakers haven't stopped paging for nearly twenty minutes. Victims keep coming. Gunshot wounds, shrapnel injuries, and crush injuries from the stampede that followed.
The air feels thick with adrenaline and fear. Every single person in the department is running on instinct, training, and experience.
You haven't looked at Jack since the supply room, not really. You can feel him occasionally, like a gravitational force somewhere at the edge of your awareness. A pull you refuse to acknowledge. Every time your eyes accidentally find his across Central, you immediately look away. You don't have the luxury of falling apart right now, because people are dying, you know that, and so does Jack.
So, whatever happened between you has been shoved aside by necessity.
"Let's go!" Langdon's voice cuts through the noise. Another victim on a gurney in Central. Male, approximately late twenties, multiple injuries, semi-conscious, and blood soaking through his shirt. Samira immediately moves to the stretcher, "Who do you have?"
"Semi-conscious. Responds only to pain. Decent carotid."
"Strip him." Mateo reaches for trauma shears, and so does Tim, "Let's go." The team descends immediately, beginning to cut clothing, assessing injuries, checking his airway, and breathing. Everything is moving with practiced efficiency. Then—something feels wrong. You don't know why, it’s just a feeling. A prickling sensation along the back of your neck.
The patient suddenly jerks, and the nurses yelp. A hand disappears beneath the shredded remains of his shirt. Langdon freezes, then shouts. "Whoa!" Everything happens at once.
"Gun!" The word detonates through Central. "Gun! He's going for his gun!"
Every person in the room reacts instantly; some hit the floor, and others dive behind workstations. The patient somehow manages to yank a handgun free. His eyes are wild, disoriented, and terrified. The muzzle swings wildly across the room and lands directly toward Robby and Jack.
Time slows for you as you watch. Later, you'll never be able to explain why you moved, whether it was instinct, training, love… or something much darker. A part of you wonders if maybe you were simply tired—tired of carrying this, of loving him, maybe of being afraid. You never figure it out, because your body moves before your brain does.
One second, you're standing near Central, the next you're running.
The gun fires, and the sound is deafening. A violent crack that echoes through the department. For one suspended moment—nobody moves or breathes. Then pain explodes through you, white-hot, blinding.
You stagger as your knees immediately buckle while the floor rushes upward. Somewhere nearby, people are screaming while others are shouting for security. The world becomes noise, blurred shapes, blood—too much blood. Then, you hear Jack scream your name, and it tears straight out of him. Raw, animal, nothing like you've ever heard before. The resident beside him barely has time to react before Jack is already moving. He’s running—ignoring everyone and everything. None of it matters, not anymore. Because you're on the floor, and you're bleeding. Suddenly, the worst thing Jack has ever imagined is happening right in front of him.Again.
He drops to his knees beside you, not caring that his stump is aching, hands immediately searching, assessing, locating the wound, trying to stop the bleeding while SWAT restrains the man who shot you. His trauma training takes over automatically, even while the rest of him is breaking apart.
"Pressure!" Somebody throws him gauze, Jack slams it hard against the wound. Too much blood—so much fucking blood, and the sight makes his stomach turn. "No."
Your vision swims, and you can barely focus. But somehow—somehow—Jack is all you see. Always him, maybe it was always going to be him. His face is pale, terrified—more terrified than you've ever seen him, and somehow that hurts worse than the bullet.
You manage a weak laugh, and blood touches your lips. Jack immediately hates the sound, "Don't." Your eyes find his, and for the first time in years, you stop hiding. "It was painful."
Jack freezes, "Lifeline—"
"When you looked at me." Your voice trembles, blood continues soaking through the gauze. "When you smiled at me."
"No." His hands shake, just slightly, but you feel it. "When you believed in me." Tears blur your vision. "It hurt."
Jack's face completely crumples because now he understands all of it.
"It tore me apart." The words barely make it out, and an unfiltered sob escapes him. Because you're dying, and he just found you. He spent seven years standing beside you without seeing it. "No." His voice breaks. "No, no, no."
Someone is calling for Trauma One and bringing a stretcher. The department is moving around him. But Jack doesn't care, because the world has narrowed to you—only you.
"I just got you." The words rip from his throat, his eyes shine, desperate, furious, and every bit terrified. "I just got you." Your breath catches. You love him, you always will. So maybe—maybe honesty won't kill you now. "I love you."
Jack closes his eyes, as if the words physically hurt. You smile weakly, doubling down, "I love you, Jack Abbot."
Silence for a moment, then, firmly, "No." The answer comes instantly, violently, as if he's rejecting reality itself. "No." His forehead presses briefly against yours. "You're not doing this."
Tears slide down his face, but he doesn't even notice. "You hear me?" His voice cracks. "You're not doing this to me."
The stretcher arrives, and Robby appears, blood on his gloves. Panic hidden beneath professionalism. "Jack." Nothing… Jack doesn't move. "Jack." Still nothing.
"Abbot!" Finally, Jack looks up, and Robby immediately understands. Oh. Oh no. "We need Trauma One." Robby's voice softens. "Now."
Jack nods once, then helps lift you onto the stretcher himself. Refuses to let go or step away. He refuses to leave your side as they race down the hallway. Trauma One is already being prepared. Blood products, thoracotomy tray, massive transfusion protocol—Everything and anything. Whatever it takes.
Dana meets them at the door, and one look at Jack's face tells her everything, every awful piece of it. "Oh, honey." Jack doesn't even hear her; his eyes never leave you, not once. Dana steps close, careful. "Jack." No response from him, so she tries again, "You need to let them work."
His jaw tightens, "No."
"Jack."
"No." His voice breaks again. Because he knows—he knows exactly how bad this is. Knows every possible complication, terrible outcome, and statistic. Every nightmare, and he cannot survive another one. Not you, God, please, especially not after all this—after finally finding you.
The trauma team begins crowding around the bed. Voices overlap, orders fly, blood pressure dropping, airway concerns, surgical consult from Garcia, massive transfusion. Yet, Jack refuses to move, standing beside your stretcher, his hand wrapped around yours. As if letting go might somehow allow death to take you, or sheer stubbornness can keep you here.
As if love might finally be enough this time around.
PTMC, ICU — DAY
The surgery lasts hours—too many hours, long enough for the adrenaline to burn away, and for exhaustion to settle into everyone's bones. Long enough for Jack to memorize every crack in the ICU waiting room floor.
The bullet had done catastrophic damage. A through-and-through gunshot wound with massive internal bleeding. Multiple units of blood transfused. Emergency surgery. Complications halfway through that had nearly sent the entire operating room into a panic. At one point, Robby had physically forced Jack to sit down because he looked seconds away from collapsing. Jack couldn't remember most of it afterward, only fragments. Your blood on his hands. Your voice. I love you, Jack Abbot.
The terror of watching your blood pressure disappear from the monitor. The awful realization that he might lose you before he'd ever gotten the chance to tell you—I love you too. But somehow, you survive. The surgeons manage to stop the bleeding and repair the damage. They brought you back. It feels less like medicine and more like a miracle.
Three days later, you're still asleep, intubated, and hooked to enough machines to make the room hum softly around you. But you're alive, and right now, that's enough.
Jack hasn't left at all. Dana, Robby, Lena, and even Whitaker—all of them fail. Because every time someone tells him to go home, he looks at you lying in that hospital bed and refuses. The man is impossible when he decides on something, and he decided he was staying.
So he stays, wearing scrubs more often than not. Surviving almost entirely on hospital coffee and vending machine food, and sleeping in the uncomfortable chair beside your bed. If you could see him, you'd probably yell at him. Tell him he's being ridiculous, and that he should shower. To stop looking like a man who personally lost a fight against a tornado. Unfortunately, you're unconscious, which means nobody can stop him.
The red string remains, that impossible thread winding around his wrist before disappearing into yours, completely visible now. Neither of you is hiding anymore. Sometimes Jack simply stares at it, as if he's afraid it'll disappear—a chance he'll wake up and discover this was some cruel fever dream. Because for years he believed he'd had his soulmate, then he lost her. And now—now the universe has somehow handed him another sacred thing. A second chance he never expected. One he's terrified of losing before it even begins.
The ICU room is quiet that afternoon as sunlight spills through the window. Your face is pale against the white pillow. Your hair is messy, and there's bruising along your neck from procedures, tape securing lines, and dressings. Evidence of how close death came for you. Jack reaches forward, his fingers brushing gently through your hair. The movement reverent, as if touching something precious. Something fragile and almost lost.
His thumb traces softly across your cheek. "You scared the hell out of me." His voice is rough, sleep-deprived, and broken around the edges. You don't answer, but that never stops him.
The door opens quietly as Robby steps inside, coffee in one hand and concern written all over his face. He pauses immediately, taking in the scene. Jack slumped beside your bed, wearing his scrubs, faintly stained with blood—your blood. His hand wrapped around yours, and the red string was visible between them. For a moment, Robby says nothing, simply watches. Understanding settling over him piece by piece. Then finally, he asks, "How's she doing?"
Jack glances up. His eyes are bloodshot and exhausted. "Stable." The word comes out cautious. Because saying it too loudly might somehow jinx everything.
Robby nods, steps closer, looking down at you, at the monitors, then at Jack. A realization flickers across his face. "Is she also..." His voice softens. "...your soulmate?"
The question hangs quietly between them, and Jack's gaze immediately drops to your hand. To the red thread wrapped around both wrists. He can't speak for a little while, then he nods once.
"I think so." The words sound ridiculous even now. "I didn't think..." His voice catches as he looks down at you. At the woman he'd spent seven years loving without understanding why it felt different. Not understanding why losing your friendship hurt more than it should, or why seeing you happy mattered so much. Why he'd kept showing up, again and again. "I didn't think it was possible."
The rRobby remains silent, letting him continue as Jack swallows. "I didn't think it would happen to me." The confession comes out almost embarrassed—he's admitting something shameful. Robby exhales slowly, nods. "There've been a few reports."
Jack glances up.
"A few studies." Robby shrugs. "The theory is that some soulmate bonds don't form immediately." His eyes drift toward the red string, toward your intertwined hands. "Sometimes they form after loss."
The room falls quiet, neither of them says the obvious thing. That his late had been Jack's soulmate too, and loving her had been real, complete, and true. That none of this erased her.
Jack looks back at your sleeping face, the rise and fall of your chest, and the steady rhythm on the monitor. Alive and still here. His fingers slide gently through your hair again, careful not to disturb anything, as his hand cups your cheek. The gesture impossibly tender. Robby immediately looks away, because some moments aren't meant for witnesses.
Jack leans forward, pressing a kiss against your forehead, lingering there for a second, eyes closed and relieved. Terrified and very in love. When he finally pulls back, his thumb brushes across your skin. And for the first time since the shooting, a small smile appears. Fragile, hopeful, like he's allowing himself to believe it. Just a little.
"Come back to me, Lifeline." His voice is barely above a whisper. The red string glows softly between your wrists, and Jack squeezes your hand gently, as if you're already listening. As if somewhere beneath the machines and medications and healing wounds, you can hear him. Maybe, for the first time in a very long time, he isn't asking fate for anything. He's only asking for you.
PTMC, ICU — DAY
The first thing you become aware of is discomfort, not pain, well, not yet anyway, just wrongness. A strange pressure lodged in your throat—something foreign. Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy, as if someone glued them shut. The effort required to open them feels monumental. Slowly, painstakingly—you manage it, and the world arrives in fragments. White ceiling, muted sunlight, the rhythmic beeping of monitors, and the steady hiss of oxygen.
A hospital room—your hospital room, and immediately your nursing brain starts putting pieces together. ICU, you're in the ICU, which means—Oh. Oh no, the shooting. Memory crashes back all at once: the gun, Jack, blood, Trauma One. I love you, Jack Abbot.
Your eyes widen immediately as panic flares. Because there is definitely a tube down your throat, a ventilator tube, and suddenly every survival instinct in your body starts screaming. You try to move—a mistake, as pain explodes through your abdomen. Pain that says somebody has spent several hours trying very hard to keep you alive. A strangled sound leaves you; your heart monitor immediately speeds up.
Then you feel it, a hand, wrapped around yours. You turn your head, slowly, and there he is… Jack. Curled awkwardly in the chair beside your bed, wearing his black scrubs, asleep. His head was resting against folded arms near your mattress, one hand tangled with yours, the red string winding quietly between your wrists. For a moment, you just stare because he looks awful. His curls are a mess, dark circles shadow his eyes, his jaw is covered in stubble, his scrubs are wrinkled because he hasn't slept properly in days, and he hasn't left. This whole time, he stayed. Your fingers twitch, weakly, barely enough movement to count. Then you squeeze his hand.
Jack jerks awake instantly, years of emergency medicine, and years of sleeping lightly. His head snaps upward, disoriented and confused. Then his eyes land on yours, and the entire world stops. For a moment, he doesn't move or breathe. Doesn't seem capable of either. He just stares, afraid you're another dream, or another hallucination born from exhaustion.
"Hey." The word comes out rough, barely audible, and your eyes immediately fill with tears. Because he's crying, relief floods his face so quickly it looks painful. His hand tightens around yours.
"My Lifeline." His voice cracks completely, and suddenly, tears are sliding down his cheeks, unashamed. Jack laughs once, a choked sound halfway between a sob and a prayer. "Oh, my God."
You try to answer, then immediately regret it, because the tube is still there. Panic spikes again.
Jack notices instantly, "Hey." His hand cups the side of your face, gentle and grounding. "Hey, hey." His thumb brushes your cheek, "You're okay." Your breathing becomes faster, the ventilator alarms immediately begin protesting. "You're okay." Jack is already reaching for the call button, never taking his eyes off you. "You're okay."
Within seconds, the room fills with people. Garcia arrives first. Followed by respiratory therapy, a nurse, and half the ICU, apparently. "Well, look at that." Garcia's grin is immediate. "About time."
You want to roll your eyes, but unfortunately, you still have a breathing tube. The respiratory therapist immediately begins assessing and following commands. Checking your neurological status. Making sure you're strong enough for extubation. You squeeze hands, follow fingers with your eyes, nod appropriately. All while Jack hovers nearby. Trying desperately not to interfere, and failing miserably.
"She's ready." The therapist glances toward Garcia, and then Garcia nods. "Let's do it."
Jack immediately moves closer, instinctively. Like he physically cannot help himself. The ventilator disconnects, the securing device is removed, and the respiratory therapist gives instructions. You barely hear any of them; your entire focus is on the tube. Then—it's out. Immediately, you cough violently because your throat burns. Every breath feels strange and uncomfortable, but you're breathing on your own.
Jack is already helping support you upright, one arm behind your shoulders, the other holding a cup with ice chips. "Easy." His voice is impossibly soft. "Slow down."
You cough again, eyes watering. Jack looks ready to fight somebody on your behalf. Possibly the tube or the entire ICU. Eventually, the coughing settles enough for you to breathe comfortably, and the monitors stabilize, everyone visibly relaxing.
Garcia steps forward, professional mode fully activated. "Okay. The surgery went well." She begins carefully. "You sustained a gunshot wound to the abdomen." Jack's jaw tightens visibly as she continues, "There was significant internal bleeding." Garcia continues. "We had to perform an emergency exploratory laparotomy."
Your nurse brain immediately fills in blanks, searching for damage, complications, and probabilities. Garcia notices this and says, "We repaired injuries to your small bowel and controlled several bleeding vessels."
Your stomach drops.
Jesus.
"You required multiple transfusions." Garcia continues. "But you're stable now."
Stable—the most beautiful word in medicine. You glance toward Jack; he's staring at the floor, hearing the details physically hurts. Garcia notices that, too, a tiny smile appears. One that says she understands far more than she's commenting on.
"Recovery's going to suck." You manage a weak laugh; the sound comes out raspy. Garcia points immediately. "There she is. Don't make me regret taking that tube out."
For the first time since waking, you actually smile. Garcia gathers her chart and steps toward the door, then pauses, looking between you. Then Jack, the red string, then back again.
"Oh." A knowing expression crosses her face. "Right."
Jack immediately looks uncomfortable, which is almost impressive considering everything that's happened.
Garcia grins. "Try not to stress her out." Then she points at you. "And try not to get shot again."
The door closes behind her, and the room suddenly feels much quieter. Much smaller and more intimate. Silence settles; neither of you quite knows what to say. Because there are too many things, seven years' worth.
Jack remains seated beside the bed, his hand never leaving yours, not once. He's afraid the second he lets go, you'll disappear again.
Your throat hurts—everything hurts, but somehow none of it matters right now. Because Jack is looking at you, really looking at you, and there are tears still caught in his eyelashes. Evidence of how terrified he'd been, your fingers tighten weakly around his. "Hi." The word comes out hoarse, barely audible. A wet laugh escapes him, disbelieving, and relieved. "Hi."
His thumb brushes across your knuckles, again and again. As if he needs the contact—he needs proof. Then Jack lowers his head, pressing his forehead gently against your joined hands, his eyes closing. Breathing shakily, and in that moment, you realize he was just as afraid of losing you as you'd always been of losing him.
Finally, Jack swallows hard, then asks quietly, "How long?" You know exactly what he means, not the shooting or the string. All of it. You stare down at your intertwined hands. At the red thread winding around both wrists, then back at him, and answer honestly. "Since my first day.”
Jack blinks, once and twice. He genuinely thought he'd misheard you, "Your first day?" You nod, a sad laugh escaping. "Yeah."
His mouth opens, then closes, and opens again. The physician in him is clearly attempting to process impossible information. Unfortunately for him, he's currently operating as a man in love, not a doctor, which means none of this is going well.
"Seven years?" The words come out strangled, and you give a tiny nod. Jack leans back in his chair, looking dizzy. "Jesus Christ."
A weak laugh escapes you. "That was more or less my reaction too." His hand tightens around yours to reassure himself.
"Why didn't you tell me?" The question is quiet, not accusing anymore, only hurt. He’s trying to understand. You look away first, toward the window. Because this part is harder. "You were married." The words are simple, obvious, and true, Jack's expression immediately softens.
"You loved her." You smile sadly. "Of course you did." Because he had, you'd seen it, every day, in every smile or phone call, at the mere mention of her.
"I wasn't going to be the woman who showed up and destroyed that." Your voice trembles. "I couldn't. It's why I never said anything." A tear slips free, and you don't bother wiping it away.
"I respected her too much." Your laugh cracks. "And honestly?" You finally look at him, unwaveringly, you admit, "I loved you too much.” Jack closes his eyes, processing the truth of it all. "I knew you were happy." You smile weakly. "I thought… I thought if I couldn't be the person you loved, then I'd settle for being someone you trusted."
Jack stares at you, completely speechless. Suddenly, every memory makes sense, every retreat or careful boundary. You chose distance over possibility. You weren't waiting. You weren't hoping for his wife to die. Goddamit. The thought makes him sick now. You were protecting him—protecting both of them, at the expense of yourself, for seven years.
"That's insane." The words slip out before he can stop them. You blink, offended. "Excuse me?" Jack actually laughs, a wet, exhausted sound. "You loved me for seven years."
"You make it sound like a disease." You frowned.
"It kind of is."
You point weakly, "I got shot."
"Exactly." For the first time since waking up—you both laugh. The sound fades slowly, leaving only the truth behind. Jack shifts closer, his chair scrapes softly against the floor, until he's sitting right beside the bed, close to you, so that there's nowhere left to hide.
"I need you to understand something." His voice lowers, gentler now, and more vulnerable than you've ever heard it. Jack looks down briefly, then back up. "She was my soulmate." The words settle softly between you, simply true and not at all cruel. You nod, because you know—you've always known.
"I loved her." His eyes shine, "I'll always love her."
You squeeze his hand, "I know." Jack exhales shakily, then continues, "But somewhere along the way..." His voice falters, and you can’t recall if you've ever seen him this scared. His thumb brushes your cheek, the same way it did the night you almost died. "You became my favorite part of the day. The first person I wanted to talk to." Another stroke of his thumb. "The person I looked for first." His eyes never leave yours. "And when you started avoiding me..."
He laughs once, humorless and every bit painful. "It felt like somebody was ripping pieces off me." The confession steals the air from your lungs, and Jack leans forward slightly, and your heart starts racing.
"I thought I was losing my mind." A tiny smile appears at the corners of his mouth. "Turns out I was just in love with you."
Everything disappears—leaving just him and tears blur your vision instantly.
"Oh." It's all you can manage. Jack smiles, soft, beautiful, it’s entirely his. "Yeah."
Suddenly, you're crying. Because after seven years—after all that grief and silence and fear—he chose you. Not because of the string or fate. Or because destiny told him to. But because he loved you.
"You idiot." Your words wobble and Jack laughs, "I know."
"You absolute idiot."
"I've been told."
You laugh through your tears, and somehow, he wipes them away before they can fall. The gentlest touch imaginable, as if you're something precious. Then his forehead rests against yours, and neither of you speaks. You don't need to. The red string glows softly between your wrists, a silent witness, and for the first time—it doesn't feel like a chain. It feels like a beginning.
Jack's gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then immediately back to your eyes. Giving you every opportunity to stop him. Every opportunity to say no. You don't. Not even a little.
So, he kisses you, softly, as if you're something holy. Something he spent seven years searching for without realizing it. His hand cups your cheek, while yours finds his wrist. Right where the string wraps around him, the kiss is gentle and tender. A promise rather than a fire.
When he finally pulls back, neither of you moves very far, foreheads touching, breathing the same air. Jack smiles, the kind of smile you've spent years secretly collecting. "Hi."
A laugh escapes you, "Hi." Then his eyes soften, filled with something warm enough to last a lifetime. "There you are."
After seven years of loving him in silence—you finally get to stay.
End Notes:
Where do I even begin? This idea has been cooking in my head for MONTHS. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how I wanted this story to go. But then you know how things just suddenly click and fall into place? That’s exactly what happened.
It was absolutely euphoric—once I got the plot beats down, I just couldn’t stop writing lol.
I wanted you, the reader, to know how much you respected Jack’s wife and that you weren’t trying to replace her.
Also.. do you get it? Lifeline = Line = String…. Ha ha ha. You are his Line…
Everyone blame Noah Kahan for making me cry to Orbiter.
LOWKEY, wasn’t expecting a lot of people to read this…
Taglist: @gennywennypenny @kneelforloki @unknownhuman102 @thebewitchingvagabond @danah-20 @i-do-not-care-bear @nerdgirljen @silksepia @rathatosy @proudlyvastlake @coconuthoneyandjaguars @acciotwinz @thefemininemystiquee @rei-scorpio @buckystwilight
I—oh fuck. Okay.
It’s been a long time since a piece of angst has made me cry like this. Since a fic has resonated with me so fiercely that it left me completely winded, like it knocked me off my feet and left me disoriented while I tried to gather myself again.
When I first saw the blurb you posted for this story, I already knew it was going to be devastatingly angsty. But more than that, I knew it was going to feel human in its pain. And god, it really did.
I don’t really know how else to describe it, but I was immediately hooked by the idea of someone not being defined by a single Great Love but by multiple great loves. Relationships forged through time, effort, mistakes, grief, and perseverance—people who go through trials and tribulations together and come out the other side irrevocably shaped by all those small moments of trying.
Good lord, I’m rambling at this point, but there were so many moments while reading where I felt viscerally pulled back into my own experiences with grief and trauma through these characters. And somehow, through them, I felt like I understood parts of myself a little better too.
The section about the Zoom funeral absolutely wrecked me. The cold, unfair inhumaneness of it all immediately dragged me back to my own experiences with loss during the pandemic. I remember feeling that same sense of wrongness so vividly. Reading that scene genuinely had me crying hard enough that I had to stop and take a break before continuing.
And then there’s the reader herself—how deeply self-reliant she is after moving across the world. How instinctively she expects herself to handle everything alone, in sickness and in health, because that’s what survival has taught her to do. So watching her slowly realise that she’s actually built roots here, that she has created a support system without fully noticing it? God. That hit hard too.
And beyond the yearning that sits at the forefront of the fic, what really got to me was the growing sense of resignation she carries. That feeling that she has to accept this devastating arrangement as the price of being loved. Like this painful compromise is simply the only way she gets to have the thing everyone else in the world seems entitled to. Yes, “right person, wrong time” is such a strong thread throughout the story, but what really stuck with me was the way the reader keeps trying to move forward with the cards she’s been dealt. Trying to carve out some version of happiness, even if it comes at the cost of herself.
And fuck—Jack’s characterisation.
This is genuinely one of the best portrayals I’ve read of what love lost and love found can look like for a character like him. The way grief has fundamentally reshaped him. The way his life is so clearly divided into a before and after. The care hidden beneath his sarcasm and quips. The way his loyalty turns almost violent the second someone he loves needs him. The fact that he wears his grief openly because he genuinely can’t imagine any other way to continue living with it. These characters are all so deeply shaped by loss, but in completely different ways. They mirror each other while still reacting so differently to the same wounds, the same fears, the same longing.
I’m genuinely obsessed with this entire exploration of the soulmate trope. And honestly? I think you may have ruined future angsty soulmate AUs for me forever 😭
Help—HELP—wait… I’m being perceived 😭
No, but seriously… I don’t even know where to begin. Thank you so much for taking the time to write this. Reading your comment genuinely left me sitting there for a minute just staring at my screen, completely overwhelmed in the best way.
I’m incredibly honored—and honestly so moved—that this story resonated with you the way it did. To have someone read it this closely, to feel it so deeply, and then articulate it with so much care… that means more to me than I can really put into words.
When I started writing this fic, I really wanted to explore the idea of relearning what it means to love—and how love can exist in different forms throughout a lifetime without diminishing what came before.
Very rarely do we get the cinematic version of falling in love at first sight. Maybe if you’re incredibly lucky and the universe is in a generous mood. But for most of us, I think love happens in increments. In passing moments. In repetition. In the quiet accumulation of being known. It builds in the ordinary until one day you wake up and realize it’s become something life-altering.
That was the heart of this story for me—that a person can be shaped not by one singular love, but by many loves across different versions of themselves. Loves that ask different things of us. Loves we carry with us even after they change form.
And you understood the reader exactly as I hoped someone might. She’s someone who learned survival through self-reliance, to the point where needing people feels unfamiliar—even dangerous. So the slow realization that she’s built a life here, that she has roots and people who would show up for her before she even asks… that felt deeply important for me to write.
There’s also this part of her that lives in contradiction—wanting something with her whole heart while convincing herself she can survive without it. Loving someone enough to stay away when every reckless part of her wants to collapse into his orbit like something starving, something holy, something catastrophic. Believing that if she asks for too much, she risks losing everything. So she settles into the ache and tries to make a home out of it.
And the Zoom funeral scene… I’m really grateful you mentioned that, even though I’m sorry it brought up painful memories. That scene was especially difficult to write because I wanted that coldness and surreal cruelty to feel real—the way grief during that time felt interrupted and unfinished somehow. Like loss without ritual. So hearing that it resonated with your own experience means a lot to me. Thank you for trusting me enough to share that.
And Jack… thank you. Truly. Writing him felt delicate because grief lives so visibly in him, and I wanted to honor that without softening the edges of who he is. The humor, the loyalty, the anger, the tenderness, the way love and grief are almost inseparable in him now. He carries both so openly because I don’t think he knows how not to.
More than anything, I’m just really grateful this fic gave something back to you—that it made you feel seen, or helped you understand parts of yourself a little more clearly. That’s one of the most meaningful things a writer can hear.
Thank you for reading. Thank you for feeling it with me. And thank you for leaving a comment/review/reblog I’m probably going to reread an embarrassing number of times ❤️
I’M AN ASTRONAUT, YOU’RE THE MOON
Summary: When you moved halfway across the world to work nights at PTMC, the last thing you expected was for your soulmate string to lead straight to Dr. Jack Abbot—who’s already happily married to his own soulmate. So you bury your feelings beneath friendship, trauma shifts, and years of silence… until tragedy changes everything, and both of you begin to realize that maybe soulmates were never about fate, but choice. Or, the Soulmate AU with Jack Abbot.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader (Can still be read by anyone! It’s not super specific)
Warnings: 18+ Soulmate String AU, Unrequited Love to Requited Love, Age-Gap Romance (Not Specified), Hospitals, ER, ANGST, Fluff, Crush, Blood, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow(ish) Burn, Eventual Hurt-to-Comfort, Longing, YEARNING, Major Character Death, The Pitt AU, Grief, Tragic Heroine, Tragic Hero, Widow!Abbot, Depressed!Abbot, Anger, Crying, GSW, Happily Ever After, COVID-19, Kissing,
Word Count: 22.5k
A/N: We're gonna take a break from Ducky and Robby for a bit. Welcome, Jack Abbot. You are in my domain now >:D ALSO, I HIT THE LIMIT ON SPACING SOOO THE FORMAT MIGHT BE FUCKED IDK. Sorry :(((
Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/keeryscupid. I’m not a doctor or a nurse. I’m dyslexic, and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!
Songs: Orbiter by Noah Kahan, Brush Fire by Gracie Abrams, and If You Let Me by Maisie Peters (with Marcus Mumford)
| Jack Abbot Masterlist | Main Masterlist |
2018
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
The first thing you notice about the Pitt isn’t the noise.
It’s the pace.
Everything moves fast, but no one looks rushed. People pass each other like they’ve done this a thousand times, sliding through narrow spaces without looking, voices overlapping in half-finished sentences, monitors beeping in uneven rhythms that somehow don’t throw anyone off.
Organized disaster is exactly what an emergency department should feel like. You tighten your grip on the strap of your bag as you follow Lena down the hall, trying not to stare at everything like it’s your first day on Earth.
New country, New hospital, New job.
Night shift.
Your body still hasn’t figured out what time zone it’s supposed to be in, but adrenaline is already kicking in, that familiar hum under your skin that always comes when you step into an ER. You tell yourself you’ve handled worse. That you’ve worked typhoon nights, mass casualty drills, and overcrowded government hospitals with half the supplies you needed.
You can handle this.
Lena pushes the double doors open with her shoulder, not even breaking stride. “ER’s through here,” she says. “You said you worked trauma before, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” you answer automatically.
She glances back at you immediately, “Drop the ma’am. You’ll make everyone feel old.”
Heat creeps up your neck, “Sorry. Habit.”
“You’ll fit in,” she mutters, half amused, half distracted as she scans the room.
You step through the doors behind her—and the sound hits all at once. Phones ringing, a monitor alarming somewhere in the back, sharp and insistent. A patient down the hall is yelling that he’s been waiting for three hours and he’s going to sue somebody.
It’s loud and crowded, but very alive and all too familiar. Your shoulders drop just a little, tension you didn’t realize you were holding easing out of your spine.
Lena stops near the central desk, scanning the board, then jerks her chin toward the far side of the room, “That’s Dr. Jack Abbot. He’s on trauma tonight, so you’ll probably be with him most of the shift.”
You follow her gaze without thinking.
He stands near the counter, scrolling through a chart on an iPad, stethoscope hanging loose around his neck like he forgot it was there. Curly salt and pepper hair slightly messy, the kind of tired that comes from too many night shifts in a row.
He looks up when someone calls his name, and the moment your eyes land on him, your wrist burns.
You suck in a small breath, instinctively looking down. There’s a red string looped around your wrist, thin, bright, and impossible to miss.
Your stomach drops so fast it makes you dizzy. Because what the actual fuck? No. Not here. Not now.
At some point, you’d convinced yourself maybe you simply didn’t have one. Maybe the universe skipped you.
The thread pulls slightly, like something on the other end just moved, and your fingers curl around it before you even realize what you’re doing. A voice in your head tells you not to look… but you look anyway. The string stretches across the room, weaving through people and stretchers and equipment like it doesn’t care about physics; it never has.
Your breath gets stuck in your throat as you follow it as it leads straight to him—Jack Abbot.
Your heart stutters hard enough that you feel it in your ears.
No.
No, no, no.
Lena is still talking beside you, something about assignments, but the words blur together. “…good with procedures, just don’t let him skip charting, he tries— Abbot!”
He looks up again, this time, at you. The string pulls tight between your wrists. For a second, neither of you moves. Then he walks over, casual, pumping sanitizer on his hands like this is just another shift, just another new nurse, nothing important happening at all.
He’s taller up close.
Tired-looking in a way that somehow makes him seem softer instead of intimidating. Curly salt-and-pepper hair slightly messy, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stethoscope hanging around his neck like he forgot it was there hours ago.
“You the new one?” he asks. His voice is warm and easy. Maybe a little rough around the edges from too much coffee and too many overnight shifts.
You force your brain to function.
“Yeah,” you manage. “First night.”
He nods once, then holds out his hand.
“Jack Abbot.”
Your hand hesitates for half a second before you take it. The second your skin touches his—the string snaps tight. It feels like something deep in your bones clicks violently into place.
Your pulse jumps hard beneath your skin, and for one horrifying second you think maybe he can feel it too.
But Jack just smiles politely, completely unaffected.
Because he can’t see it, not fully. The thread only loops faintly around his wrist before disappearing, incomplete and one-sided.
You swallow hard, “Nice to meet you.”
“Welcome to the Pitt,” he says. “Try not to run.” You let out a shaky laugh before you can stop yourself, “Too late for that.”
A faint smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, like he likes your answer. By God, that tiny expression alone nearly kills you.
Then he shifts the iPad under his arm—and you see the ring.
A silver band on his left hand.
Your entire body goes cold.
For a second, you genuinely can’t process what you’re looking at. Of course, he’s married. Because, yes, the universe would do something this cruel.
You force yourself to look away before your face gives you away—and that’s when you notice her.
A woman stands near Central holding a paper bag against her hip, looking around the department with the comfortable familiarity of someone who’s been here a hundred times before.
Waiting for him.
Jack notices her immediately, and his whole face changes. It softens enough for you to understand instantly how much he loves her. “Hey,” he says quietly, already walking toward her.
The incomplete thread around his wrist brightens faintly.
She smiles the second he reaches her, “You forgot dinner again.” Jack laughs softly, taking the bag from her, “I was busy.”
“You’re always busy.”
“Occupational hazard.”
She rolls her eyes affectionately, and he leans down automatically to kiss her cheek. It’s absent-minded and natural. The kind of intimacy built over years. Loving her is as easy as breathing. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist feels unbearably tight. Because the universe already chose—it’s not you. Never you.
Lena nudges your shoulder lightly, “You good?”
You blink quickly, forcing your expression back under control before anyone notices the way your soul feels like it’s collapsing inward. “Yeah,” you say, your voice almost sounds steady. “Just jet lag.”
Lena nods distractedly and turns back toward the board.
Across the room, Jack says something under his breath that makes his wife laugh. The warm and happy sound carries across the department.
You look down at the string around your wrist one last time before pulling your sleeve over it completely.
You can do this—you’ve survived harder things than heartbreak.
You square your shoulders, take the iPad Lena hands you, and step fully into the chaos of the Pitt.
So when Jack glances back at you a moment later, smiling like you’re just another coworker starting a shift, you smile back, pretending that your heart didn’t just fall through the floor.
A FEW MONTHS LATER…
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT SHIFT
By the time the Pitt starts feeling familiar, it’s already too late. You know the rhythm of the department now, the same way you know your own breathing. Which monitor is about to alarm before it starts screaming. Which psych patient is one bad interaction away from throwing a urinal at security, or a resident is about to panic during a difficult intubation.
You know the trauma bay doors stick when it rains, and Lena hides the good coffee above the Pyxis because Ellis steals the decent stuff first, and the fluorescent lights over Hallway C flicker around three in the morning like they’re barely holding on, and you know Jack Abbot’s footsteps before you even see him.
Well, to be honest, that part happens slowly. Shift after shift. Trauma after trauma. Somewhere between your first week and your third month, working beside him stops feeling intimidating and starts feeling natural.
You know how he likes his trauma setups organized. You know he taps his pen twice against the desk when he’s thinking too hard. You know he rubs the back of his neck when he’s exhausted and trying not to show it. And worse—he knows you too.
“Lifeline!” Ellis’ voice cuts across the department as you walk out of Trauma Two carrying an empty suture tray. You stop mid-step. “You people are never letting that nickname die, are you?”
Ellis swivels around in her chair with a grin. “Absolutely not.”
The nickname started during your second week after a pediatric code that had gone catastrophically wrong.
A seven-year-old nearly drowned—no pulse on arrival. The room had dissolved into controlled chaos within seconds—respiratory trying to secure the airway while one of the newer residents nearly froze trying to place an IO line.
Shen, still early enough into residency that panic sometimes beat experience, had looked one second away from completely spiraling.
But through all of it, you had stayed calm.
You’d guided Shen through the tibial IO placement while simultaneously pushing epinephrine prep toward Jack and coordinating compression rotations so nobody burned out too early.
At one point, Ellis had looked up from the monitor and muttered, “Jesus Christ. She’s everybody’s lifeline in here.”
Unfortunately for you, the name stuck. Now, half the ED used it more than your actual name.
“Lifeline, Trauma Two,” Lena calls without looking up from the board.
“On my way.”
Jack steps out of the trauma bay at the same time you do, peeling bloody gloves off his hands. “You steal my nurse again?” he asks Lena.
Lena snorts. “You don’t own her, Abbot.”
“That’s not what I said.”
There’s something easy in the exchange that makes warmth spread unexpectedly through you.
Jack falls into step beside you automatically as you head toward Trauma Two.
“You eat yet?” he asks.
You glance at him suspiciously. “Are you asking because you care or because you need me conscious enough to survive this shift?”
“A little of both.”
You huff out a laugh. Because that’s the problem with Jack. He’s kind in ways that sneak up on you, a quiet attentiveness that drives you nuts. He notices when you haven’t sat down in seven hours or when your hands shake after a bad pediatric trauma and when you’re pushing yourself too hard, and casually hands you a granola bar like he didn’t specifically go looking for one because he knew you skipped dinner.
The kind of doctor who stays with family members after delivering bad news instead of disappearing the second the conversation gets uncomfortable, and the kind of man who wears his wedding ring like it means something sacred.
Which somehow makes all of this hurt even more. Because every soft look. Every quiet joke at three in the morning or moment beside him in a trauma bay—belongs to someone else.
And you know that.
The universe reminds you every single day that the red string hidden beneath the cuff of your scrub jacket pulls tight whenever he gets too close.
You’ve gotten good at ignoring it or pretending to.
TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT
Tonight’s MVA is a disaster. Twenty-six-year-old male. Ejected through the windshield. Hypotensive on arrival. The second EMS wheels him through the ambulance bay doors, and the department shifts gears instantly.
“BP seventy over forty,” Ellis says from the monitor. “Heart rate one-forty.”
“Breath sounds diminished on the left,” Shen adds quickly, trying to keep up.
“Alright, let’s move,” Jack says sharply.
You’re already there.
Trauma shears cut through blood-soaked clothing while respiratory preps for intubation. You place oxygen and start hanging fluids while Jack performs the FAST exam. Free fluid in Morrison’s pouch appears on the screen almost immediately. Internal bleeding, most likely splenic rupture.
“Call OR,” Jack says. “He’s going upstairs.”
“Already on it,” you answer, grabbing the phone before he even finishes speaking. Jack glances toward you over the patient. There’s blood smeared across the sleeve of his scrub top, exhaustion pulled deep into the lines around his eyes. Yet still—that small flicker of trust when he looks at you. He knows you’ll catch whatever he misses.
You hate how much that matters to you.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
By four in the morning, the Pitt settles into its strange version of quiet. You’re charting near Central when the elevator doors open.
Jack’s wife walks out carrying six pizza boxes stacked in her arms.
The entire department visibly brightens.
“Oh thank God,” Ellis says dramatically. “An angel sent from heaven.”
“You people are unbelievable,” she laughs.
Ellis immediately takes two boxes from her. “Respectfully, I would die for you.”
“That’s deeply concerning,” Lena mutters.
“You’re just jealous she likes me more.”
“I absolutely am not.”
You can’t help laughing softly under your breath. There it is again— that awful ache in your heart. Because she’s truly, genuinely wonderful. The universe could’ve at least made her cold, cruel, or difficult.
Instead, she remembers everyone’s coffee orders and asks about your family back home, and brings food for the night shift because she knows none of you remember to eat unless somebody forces you.
“You must be Lifeline.”
You blink, startled when you realize she’s suddenly standing beside you.
Up close, her smile is warm and effortless. You force yourself to smile back. “That obvious, huh?”
“Oh, very,” she says easily. “Jack talks about you all the time.”
Your heart stumbles painfully against your ribs.
Before you can recover, she continues casually, “Apparently, you’re the only reason this department functions after midnight.”
You laugh weakly. “That gives me way too much credit. Obviously, Lena holds everything down.”
“Have you met these people?” she asks quietly, glancing around Central. “I’m pretty sure Shen would eat expired yogurt if left unsupervised.”
“That happened one time,” Shen shouts.
“You were hallucinating by hour two,” Ellis replies.
You laugh again before you can stop yourself, and somehow, talking to her is easy. Isn’t that cruel? Because you like her immediately, she asks about the Philippines, about your family, and how you plan on surviving Pittsburgh winters.
You’re halfway through explaining that black ice feels like a personal attack when Jack walks out of Trauma Two. He tosses his gloves into the biohazard bin before sanitizing his hands automatically. His curls are damp with sweat at the temples now, scrub top wrinkled from the shift.
Then he looks up to find the two of you talking and smiles—soft around the edges in a way that makes your eyes water.
“Well,” his wife says immediately, “there he is.”
Jack points toward the pizza boxes. “You bribing my staff again?”
“Your staff?” Lena repeats flatly from across the desk.
Jack ignores her completely.
His wife gestures toward you. “Lifeline and I decided you’re actually the problem in this department.” You blink. “We did?”
“We did now.”
Jack looks genuinely betrayed, “That was fast.”
“She’s nice,” his wife says simply. Jack’s eyes flick toward you for half a second, warm and amused. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “She is.”
Your pulse skips hard enough you nearly miss it. Coward, coward, coward.
You look away first while his wife grins triumphantly. “See? I win.”
“You gang up on me constantly.”
“Because you’re easy to bully,” you say before thinking.
Jack stares at you in mock offense. “Wow. Okay.”
“You walked into that one,” Ellis says.
“You’re all terrible people.”
His wife reaches up automatically to straighten the collar of his scrub shirt. Such a small gesture, absent-minded and intimate. The kind of touch that only exists between people who know each other completely.
Your wrist aches beneath your sleeve as the string pulls tighter. Still connected to him. So very impossible and still wrong. But somehow, standing there laughing with both of them at four in the morning, you realize something infinitely more dangerous than loving him.
You’re becoming part of their lives.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — LATER
The shift slows near dawn as you’re charting near Central when Jack drops into the chair beside you with a tired exhale.
“You ever think about leaving emergency medicine?” he asks suddenly. You glance sideways. “Every shift.”
“That’s healthy.”
“I think about becoming a florist at least twice a week.”
Jack huffs out a tired laugh. “You’d last six days.”
“Rude.”
“You yelled at a surgeon yesterday.”
“He was wrong.” You pointed out.
“He was technically right.”
“He was spiritually wrong.”
That earns a real laugh from him, the low and warm kind. God. You hold onto sounds like that more than you should. Silence settles comfortably between you afterward—the kind that only exists between people who know each other well. Then, almost absentmindedly, Jack asks, “Have you met your soulmate yet?”
Your fingers stop over the keyboard. For one horrible second, your entire body forgets how to function. But your face stays calm, because years in emergency medicine have made you terrifyingly good at composure. You keep typing as you reply, “Nope.”
Jack glances sideways at you. “At all?” You shrug lightly, forcing your voice steady. “Might just not be in the cards for me.”
Something softens in his expression immediately. Jack looks at people like he wants to understand them, not fix them. “I doubt that,” he says quietly. You stare at the chart on the screen because looking at him feels too dangerous. The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly heavy.
“I mean it,” he continues softly. “Whoever ends up with you is gonna be lucky.”
Your throat tightens painfully as you force a laugh under your breath before the emotion can show on your face. “Smooth.”
“I’m serious.”
The worst part is—he means it. You finally risk looking at him. His eyes are tired and honest in that devastating way that makes lying to him feel terrible.
“I hope whoever you love…” he says quietly, almost like he’s thinking out loud, “loves you back just as much.”
The cruel irony nearly splits you open. Because you already know exactly what loving him feels like. It feels like swallowing it down every single day, pretending friendship is enough because it has to be, while standing three feet away from your soulmate, while he talks about his wife with soft eyes and absolute devotion.
Your eyes sting suddenly, and you blink hard before he notices. “Me too, Jack,” you whisper. You mean it so much it hurts.
“Me too.”
2020, COVID PANDEMIC
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
The world changes fast. One week, people are joking about a virus overseas between trauma calls and coffee runs, and then the next week, the Pitt is overflowing.
Then, suddenly, every hallway smells like bleach and sanitizer, strong enough to burn your nose through the mask. Every shift feels like drowning—N95s cutting grooves into your skin, face shields fogging every time you breathe, and isolation gowns crackling every time you move.
The emergency department transforms into something unrecognizable almost overnight. There are no visitors or waiting rooms full of family. Alarms, intubations, oxygen sats dropping, and the sound of ventilators become part of the background noise of your life. Everyone starts looking exhausted, and then everyone starts looking haunted. You stop recognizing your coworkers without PPE. Even you stop recognizing yourself.
Through all of it, Jack keeps working.
You think maybe the entire world could collapse around him and he’d still show up for trauma shift fifteen minutes early with coffee in one hand and exhaustion carved into his face. Some nights, the two of you barely talk beyond patient updates. There isn’t time. Not anymore. Every room is full, and the waiting room looks like a war zone; people are dying faster than you can process. But even through the masks and face shields and layers of plastic, you still know him.
You know the crease between his brows when he’s worried and the exhaustion in his posture. The look in his eyes when a patient reminds him too much of somebody else.
To add to that, around the beginning of the pandemic, his wife dies. Not from COVID, which somehow makes it more merciless.
Pedestrian versus drunk driver—DOA. The call comes in just after midnight. You don’t know it’s her at first. Female in her late thirties. Severe head trauma. Massive internal injuries. CPR in progress.
The paramedics wheel her through the doors while respiratory rushes to clear Trauma One. For one horrible second, before you even see her face, the red string around Jack’s wrist burns.
You freeze, not because you understand yet. Because something deep inside you already does.
Then Jack steps into the trauma room, and everything stops. You watch recognition hit him in real time, the way his body locks up and how color drains from his face beneath the mask.
“No,” he says immediately, as if he says it softly enough, maybe reality will change its mind.
“No.”
Lena moves first.
“Jack—”
“That’s my wife.”
The room goes dead silent. Even with monitors alarming and compressions ongoing, along with Shen asking for another round of epi.
It all disappears under the sound of Jack’s voice breaking.
You’ve seen grief before—you work in emergency medicine, so you see it every day. But nothing prepares you for the sound a person makes when their entire life shatters in front of them. Jack tries to step forward, but Lena catches him immediately. “Jack.”
“No, let me—”
“Jack.”
“She’s still warm—”
His voice cracks apart on the words. The paramedic quietly says they found no pulse on scene. Prolonged downtime. Non-survivable head trauma. You can’t breathe—nobody can.
Jack looks at his wife lying on the trauma bed like he genuinely cannot understand what he’s seeing; his brain refuses to process it. Blood in her hair and on the sheet, with her wedding ring still on her hand. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist pulls painfully tight—before snapping loose.
Jack stares at his own wrist instinctively. The string tied there—gone. His face crumples. All that’s left is a man realizing the universe just took something from him that it can never give back.
COVID restrictions mean none of you are allowed at the funeral. No gathering or reception. No sitting beside him in church or placing a hand on his shoulder in comfort; bringing food to his house while relatives fill the rooms with noise and stories and grief.
Only Zoom.
Fucking Zoom.
You sit alone in your apartment at three in the afternoon after night shift, still in scrubs because you were too tired to change, laptop balanced on your kitchen table.
Everyone’s little squares flicker on-screen. Lena is crying silently, Ellis is muted, while Shen is trying and failing not to cry. Multiple other night shift staff are trying their best to pull themselves together—to be brave for Jack.
While Jack is sitting alone in a black button-down shirt in a house that suddenly looks too empty.
He looks hollow. That’s the only word for it. Hollowed out from the inside. You realize halfway through the service that he hasn’t stopped twisting his wedding ring around his finger once. Maybe he believes that if he keeps touching it, maybe she’s still here somehow.
You cry with your microphone muted.
Afterward, nobody knows what to say. There are no casseroles or hugs. No standing together in shared grief. Only little squares blink off one by one until Jack is the last person left in the call.
You stay after everyone disconnects. “You should sleep,” you say quietly. Jack lets out a humorless laugh, “Yeah.”
But he doesn’t move, and neither do you. Finally, he says, “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
There it is… the unbearable part, because she died instantly—no final words or closure. She was there one second—gone the next.
You press your lips together hard enough that they hurt as you faintly say, “I’m so sorry, Jack.”
He nods once because he’s heard it too many times already. Then his face folds inward suddenly, grief cracking through whatever fragile composure he’s been holding together. You’ve never seen him cry before, not really. Now he looks destroyed by it.
“I keep thinking she’s gonna walk through the door,” he whispers. “I keep forgetting for like… five seconds.”
Your lungs ache so violently that it feels unbearable.
Because despite everything—despite the string and the guilt and all the ways you tried to keep your distance—you love him. And loving someone means you cannot stand there and watch them suffer alone.
Not him.
Never him.
So you stay.
At first casually, then constantly, you start checking on him between shifts. You bring coffee, he forgets to drink, and force him to eat crackers during overnight shifts because grief has hollowed him thin. You sit beside him in the break room when he can’t sleep between traumas.
Some nights he talks, and there are nights he doesn’t. Later on, you learn grief has moods. Some days he’s numb, and some days he’s angry. Or days, a patient wearing the same perfume as his wife nearly sends him spiraling mid-shift. Once, after losing a COVID patient around his wife’s age, Jack locks himself in the stairwell for twenty minutes.
You find him there eventually. Still in PPE with his face shield shoved onto the top of his head, breathing hard like he’s trying not to come apart.
You sit beside him without saying anything. For a long time, neither of you speaks. The stairwell is cold through your scrub pants, concrete hard beneath you. Somewhere beyond the heavy metal door, the hospital keeps moving. Monitors alarming. Phones ringing. Ventilators hissing.
Life continued like his world didn’t just end.
Jack sits one step below you, elbows braced against his knees, surgical cap shoved halfway off his head. His N95 hangs loose around his neck now, leaving angry red pressure marks across his skin. He appears worn out in a manner unrelated to sleep. The type of tiredness that becomes bone-deep.
For a while, all you hear is his controlled breathing, but then, you know, if he lets himself lose control for even a second, he’ll never stop. Then quietly, without looking at you, Jack says, “I don’t know who I am without her.”
You nearly shatter at his confession, because it’s proof he loved her so completely. You saw it every day in small, ordinary ways. In the way his face softened when she walked into the department carrying takeout, or the absent-minded way he leaned toward her without realizing it. In the wedding ring, he twisted whenever he talked about her during quieter shifts. He loved her with the kind of certainty people spend their whole lives searching for, and somehow that only makes you love him more.
You look down at your hands, clasped tightly in your lap.
“At work?” you say softly after a moment. “You’re still Jack.” A weak laugh escapes him, humorless and tired, “Very inspirational speech.”
“I’m serious.”
You glance toward him carefully. Even now, he’s still wearing blood on the sleeve of his isolation gown from the code downstairs. His curls are damp with sweat, exhaustion carved deep into the lines around his eyes.
"When everything hurts," you say carefully, "you don't have to figure out how to survive the next ten years."
Jack finally looks up, with his eyes bloodshot, red-rimmed, and devastatingly tired. "You just find the next thing." His brow furrows slightly as you keep going, "The next cup of coffee that tastes okay."
A faint huff of breath leaves him.
"The next shift." You offer a small smile. "The next stupid joke Shen makes that isn't actually funny."
That earns the ghost of an eye roll—you take it.
"The next hour. The next day." Your throat tightens, but you push through it, "And eventually..." Your voice softens. "Eventually you realize you've made it farther than you thought you could."
Jack stares at you, fully paying attention and listening.
"The pain doesn't disappear," you admit quietly. "Some losses stay with you forever. But one day you wake up, and it isn't the first thing you feel."
The stairwell falls silent again, and you watch as Jack's eyes close briefly as if the possibility of hope hurts. When he opens them again, there's something unbearably raw there—something stripped bare. "You really believe that?" The question comes out almost broken, and you don't hesitate as you reply, "Yes."
Because you have to, for him, for yourself, and for every patient you've ever watched claw their way through impossible things.
"Yes," you repeat softly. Jack studies your face for a long moment—searching for something there. Maybe hope or permission. Or proof that somebody still sees him underneath all the grief. Then he gives one small, fragile nod, because he's trying very hard to believe you, too.
A softer shared silence settles between you again afterward. You remain beside him on the stairwell steps while the hospital hums around you. Two exhausted healthcare workers in the middle of a pandemic. One grieving the loss of the love of his life. The other grieving quietly beside him. Then, after a long time, you speak again.
Your voice barely rises above a whisper, "I don't think there's such a thing as a good goodbye." Jack doesn't look away, but you stare at the concrete floor.
"People say it gets easier. That you find closure. That eventually you make peace with it." Your fingers tighten together. "But I think losing someone just becomes part of you. You learn how to carry it." Your throat burns, "There are days when you think you're okay. Days when you laugh and work and breathe normally." You glance toward him. "And then something happens. A song, a smell, maybe a memory.” Blinking back your tears, you revealed, "The grief finds you again."
Jack's eyes shine slightly as you continue softly, "Not because you failed to move on." Your voice wavers. "But because they mattered."
A long silence follows. Then, quietly—"So what am I supposed to do?" When he asks the question, it sounds incredibly trivial.
You look at Jack—at the man who spent years helping everyone else survive. He stayed with frightened soldiers, and loved his wife so completely that even death couldn't erase her from him.
"Keep loving her," you say softly, and Jack's breath catches. "Just don't let her be the reason you stop living, too."
The silence that follows feels sacred, somewhere beneath your sleeve, hidden from the world, the red string wrapped around your wrist aches. Not because it hurts, but because for the first time since she died, you realize you would carry his grief with him for as long as he needed.
Even if he never knew.
2021
YOUR APARTMENT — NIGHT
By late 2021, you recognize the symptoms almost immediately. The exhaustion first. Not normal exhaustion—the kind every ER nurse carries around like a second heartbeat—but something meaner. The sort that becomes deeply ingrained in your bones and wears you out just by standing straight.
Then the fever, then it’s the cough that follows soon after, and the body aches that feel like somebody took a hammer to every joint you have.
You take the rapid test in your bathroom with trembling hands, already knowing what the result will be before the second line even appears.
Positive.
You stare at it for a long moment anyway, “Fuck.”
You’d been vaccinated months ago. Healthcare workers got priority access early on, one of the very few benefits of spending every shift neck-deep in a pandemic. And thank God for that, because without it, you’re almost certain this would’ve landed you intubated in an ICU somewhere.
Still—it hits you hard.
Your immune system has never exactly been reliable. Too many years of stress, skipped meals, night shifts, and pushing yourself past exhaustion had seen to that long before COVID ever existed.
So you quarantine immediately with no qualms or arguments. Immediately, you text Lena and Dana to tell them that you’ve contracted COVID-19. Then you lock yourself inside your apartment and prepare to wait it out.
The loneliness settles in fast after that. The first day isn’t terrible, but the second day is worse. By the third day, you genuinely feel like you’re losing your mind. Your apartment suddenly feels too small and too quiet. Every surface smells faintly of disinfectant and cough drops. Empty Gatorade bottles and medication wrappers clutter your coffee table because you’re too exhausted to clean properly.
You sleep in fragments. Wake up drenched in sweat. Cough until your ribs ache. Then fall asleep again, only to wake up disoriented an hour later. You try texting your family back home once, but hearing your mother’s worried voice over FaceTime nearly makes you cry, so you stop answering calls after that.
You tell everyone you’re fine. You’re not.
One particularly bad night, you sit on the bathroom floor wrapped in a blanket because the cold tiles feel good against your feverish skin, genuinely debating at what oxygen saturation you’d finally call an ambulance.
Ninety-three? Ninety-two?
You know too much…that’s the problem. You’re aware exactly how quickly patients can crash, and what respiratory distress looks like. You know what COVID sounds like when it starts settling deeper into the lungs. And alone in your apartment at two in the morning, feverish and exhausted and struggling not to spiral, you think: If this gets worse, I’m gonna end up at Presby or PTMC.
By day five, your phone is full of unread texts. Lena is checking in, Shen is sending memes, and Ellis is threatening to physically fight you if you don’t hydrate. But then there’s Jack calling twice… then three times.
You don’t answer any of them. Not intentionally. Your brain feels too foggy to function most of the time. Looking at your phone takes effort you barely have energy for. So when there’s suddenly a knock at your apartment door that evening, you frown from beneath your blanket without moving.
Probably the wrong apartment.
Another knock. Then—your real name, muffled through the door in a voice you’d recognize half-asleep.
“Hey.”
Your stomach drops.
No.
Absolutely not.
You push yourself upright too quickly and immediately regret it when dizziness crashes over you. You stumble toward the door anyway, coughing into your elbow before peeking through the peephole.
And there he is.
Jack Abbot. Standing outside your apartment in full PPE. N95. Face shield. Gloves. Isolation gown. Holding a plastic takeout bag in one hand. You stare at him in complete disbelief before yanking yourself back from the door. “Jack?!”
“Oh, good,” his voice comes through the other side, dry with relief. “You’re alive.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” you hiss through the door. “How did you even find where I live?”
“Lena told me… and Dana.”
Traitors.
You lean your forehead briefly against the door, exhausted. “You can’t be here,” you argue weakly. “You could get sick.” Jack snorts softly from the hallway, “Lifeline, we work in an emergency department.”
“That is not comforting!”
“Also,” he continues, ignoring you completely, “is there a reason you’ve been ignoring my texts and calls?”
You close your eyes briefly. Honestly, you hadn’t even realized how many messages you missed.
“Jack—”
“Open the door.”
You blink as you screech, “Are you fucking insane? No.” His voice lowers slightly then, gentler but firmer somehow. “Lifeline.”
Somewhere behind your ribs, the moniker settles heated and perilous.
“Open the door.”
You stare at the wood for a long moment. Then, against every ounce of common sense you possess, you unlock it. The second the door cracks open, Jack’s eyes immediately scan over you clinically. You can practically see the ER doctor in him assessing your flushed skin, fatigue, and mild shortness of breath. The way you’re subtly bracing yourself against the wall to stay upright. In an instant, his face tightens.
"Oh," he murmurs. Somehow, that soft little sound embarrasses you more than if he’d outright said you looked terrible. You cross your arms defensively, “I look worse than I feel.”
“That’s concerning, because you look awful.”
You let out a tired laugh despite yourself, immediately coughing afterward. Jack’s eyes narrow behind the face shield, “How high’s the fever?”
“It’s fine.”
“Temperature.”
“One-oh-one earlier.”
“And oxygen?”
You hesitate half a second too long, and Jack notices immediately, “Lifeline.”
“Ninety-four. I’ve been checking my Apple Watch.”
His jaw tightens, “Okay.”
You step aside reluctantly. “There’s hand sanitizer and ethyl alcohol everywhere. I’ve been disinfecting the place whenever I can.”
Jack walks inside carefully, setting the takeout bag down near the kitchen counter. Your apartment suddenly feels unbearably small with him standing in it. Messy blankets on the couch. Medications scattered across the coffee table. Laundry you’ve been too sick to fold. You suddenly want the earth to swallow you whole. “Sorry,” you mutter. “It’s kind of a disaster.”
Jack glances around once before looking back at you. “I’ve seen residents cry over missing lab results. This is nothing.” That earns another weak laugh out of you while he pulls out one of the dining chairs and gestures toward it, “Sit down before you fall down.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“You almost passed out opening the door.”
Rude.
You sit anyway because standing suddenly feels impossible, and Jack immediately starts fussing. Taking your temperature again. Checking your pulse ox. Asking when you last ate.
In a manner that hurts your core, it's somehow intimate. After observing him in silence for a while, you gently inquire, "Why are you here?"
Jack pauses before he shrugs one shoulder like the answer should be obvious. “Because I know you.”
“You don’t have family here,” he continues quietly. “No roommates. No neighbors you’re close enough with to help if things go bad.” He leans back slightly in the chair across from you.
“You moved halfway across the world by yourself,” he says. “So yeah. I came to do a welfare check.” Something warm and painful twists in your chest all at once, so you try covering it with humor. “Am I that unlucky or just that special?”
Jack looks at you for a long moment. Then, softly, he replies, “Just that special.” The room goes very still while your pulse stutters painfully against your ribs. Jack clears his throat first, looking away. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.”
He gives you a tired, unimpressed look immediately, “Don’t start with me.” You sigh, shoulders slumping. “I feel…” You swallow hard. “Honestly? Like I got hit by a truck.”
Jack nods once like he expected that answer. “My chest hurts when I cough,” you admit quietly. “And I’m exhausted all the time. Walking to the bathroom feels like running a 10k.”
Jack’s expression softens instantly to concern. “Okay,” he says gently. “That sounds about right for breakthrough COVID.”
You laugh weakly, “Reassuring.”
“You’re vaccinated. Your sats are holding. Fever sucks, but you’re stable.” His voice shifts into that calm doctor cadence you’ve heard him use with terrified patients a hundred times before.
“You’re gonna feel miserable for a little while,” he says softly. “But you’re not dying.”
The ridiculous thing is—you believe him immediately. Maybe because it’s Jack, he always sounds certain even when the world is falling apart. Or maybe because after spending almost a week alone in your apartment feeling terrified and sick and invisible—having somebody show up for you feels dangerously close to relief.
Somewhere beneath the fever and exhaustion and the red string hidden under your sleeve, you realize this is the first time since his wife died that Jack has willingly stepped into somebody else’s home again.
The thought nearly breaks your heart.
Grief has a way of shrinking people's worlds—you'd watched it happen to Jack in real time. After his wife died, he stopped inviting people over. Stopped talking about home or lingering after conversations that might eventually end with someone asking how he was doing outside of work. The walls had gone up slowly. Brick by brick. Most people probably never noticed, but you did. Yet here he is, standing in your cluttered apartment with a stethoscope in one hand and a grocery bag full of electrolyte drinks in the other.
"Drink."
You stare at the bottle he shoves toward you, "You're very bossy outside the hospital."
"Drink." He insists.
"Is this because I ignored your texts?"Jack gives you a look, the one he usually reserves for patients actively making terrible decisions. "Partly."
You sigh dramatically and take the bottle, "Happy?"
"No."
That catches your attention. You look up, and Jack is standing near the kitchen counter, arms folded across his chest. The concern on his face isn't hidden anymore. Hasn't been since he walked through the door. "You should've told somebody you were this sick." Your laugh comes out hoarse, "I did."
"No." Jack shakes his head, "You told people you were fine."
"...I was trying not to worry anyone."
"You had a one-oh-one fever and couldn't walk to your bathroom without getting winded."
You look away because when he says it like that, it sounds bad. "It sounds worse when you say it."
"That's because it is worse."
You can't help smiling, but that only seems to annoy him more.
"Why are you smiling?"
"You care."
Jack stares and then immediately looks away. Your fever-addled brain doesn't miss the faint flush creeping up his neck. "Of course I care."
The answer comes too naturally, and for some reason, that makes something warm settle beneath your body. The television murmurs faintly in the background, forgotten as Jack eventually disappears into your kitchen. You hear cabinets opening and then closing. A frustrated sigh leaves him, "How do you have absolutely no food?"
"I have food."
"You have soy sauce and olive oil."
"That's food-adjacent."
Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. "You work in healthcare."
"So do you."
"I know."
"Have you seen what doctors eat?"
He points at you from across the room, "Deflection."
You grin while Jack shakes his head again, but he opens the takeout containers anyway and pours you soup. Then make sure you actually eat it and wait until you're halfway through before finally sitting down. The quiet and unexpected realization sneaks up on him that somehow—he likes taking care of you. Because it shouldn't feel this good. It shouldn't feel this natural to be here. To fuss over your fever, refill your water glass, and check your pulse ox every twenty minutes because he doesn't trust you not to lie about your symptoms.
Yet every time he glances up and sees you curled beneath a blanket on the couch, alive and stubborn and complaining—something in his heart eases. The same feeling he gets when a trauma patient finally stabilizes. When someone he was worried about turns out okay. Only different. This time, it’s more personal and complicated.
You cough suddenly, and Jack is moving before he even realizes it, quickly handing you water. Waiting until the coughing fit passes. Your eyes lift toward him over the rim of the glass. It’s soft and sleepy. "Thank you." Your words are quiet and sincere.
And God help him—that does something to him. Something he doesn't examine too closely.
Because if he does—he might have to ask himself questions he's not ready to answer. Questions like why spending an afternoon taking care of you feels better than spending it anywhere else, or why your apartment already feels strangely familiar. Why did the idea of you being here alone all week bother him so much?
Instead, he focuses on something safer—annoyance. "You know," he says, sitting back in his chair, "your soulmate's doing a terrible job."
You blink at that, frowning, "What?" Jack shrugs, "If they're out there somewhere, they're slacking." A surprised laugh escapes you. "What does that even mean?"
"It means," he says, gesturing vaguely toward your blanket burrito state, "you're sick. Alone. Living on cough drops and spite."
"I had soup."
"You had olive oil."
"That was one time."
Jack rolls his eyes, "My point stands." A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "They should've shown up by now." The joke is spoken carelessly, and he doesn't know it nearly stops your heart.
You look away first, toward the rain-streaked window, literally anywhere but him. Because if you look at Jack right now—if you look at the man sitting in your apartment, taking care of you, worrying over you, complaining about a soulmate who never appeared—you might break.
The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly burdensome. But Jack doesn't notice, he's too busy opening another bottle of water and making sure your fever isn't climbing again. Somewhere in the quiet warmth of your apartment, he doesn’t realize the irony. Jack is sitting exactly where he should be. Doing exactly what he was supposed to do, and somehow, he can’t see it yet.
2023
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
Five years ago, you were the new nurse from the Philippines. Now you're simply part of the Pitt. Nobody really introduces you anymore. You're just there, part of the machinery. You know where everything is and everyone's habits. Or when Ellis is pretending to chart and is actually looking for the next best place to nap for her double. You know when Shen is about to spiral before he even realizes it himself. By now, you have memorized Lena's "I'm not mad, I'm disappointed" face is significantly more terrifying than actual anger.
Somewhere along the way—you became one of the safest places in Jack's life. Neither of you meant for that to happen.
It just did.
There are hundreds of tiny moments, none of which seem important on their own. But together, they're devastating. A patient's husband is screaming in the hallway after a failed resuscitation. Security is trying to de-escalate, family members are crying, and the entire department feels tense. Then, appearing devastated, Jack leaves the room but not in a noticeable way. Most people wouldn't recognize it, but you do.
You don't say anything; instead, you simply hand him a cup of coffee. Exactly how he takes it. He looks down at it, then at you. "Mind reader?" You shrug, "You looked like you needed caffeine." The corner of his mouth twitches, "Thanks."
Somehow, that small smile stays with him the rest of the shift.
Another night, it’s three in the morning. Everyone's fucking exhausted. You're sitting on the floor of the supply room because it's the only place nobody can find you for five minutes. Jack opens the door and stops. He finds you sitting there cross-legged, eating stale vending machine pretzels. "You hiding?"
"No."
"You are literally hiding."
You hold up a pretzel, defensive, "This is self-care." Jack stares at you, then, to your horror, he sits beside you on the floor. Like it's completely normal. "You know we're adults, right?" he asks.
"Says the man eating peanut butter crackers for dinner." Jack looks offended; he scoffs, "I had a protein bar." You roll your eyes at that, "Oh. Well, that's different."
His laugh echoes through the tiny room. It’s warm and unrestrained. The sound settles somewhere dangerous inside your chest. Then the days keep passing by, and then the days turn into months, then it’s another shift, another trauma.
Another impossible night.
A frightened little girl refuses to let go of your hand while waiting for stitches. You're sitting beside her bed, explaining every step of the procedure. Making balloon animals out of gloves while telling ridiculous stories.
By the time you're finished, she's laughing. You don't notice Jack standing in the doorway watching or the expression on his face either. The one that lingers long after he walks away. Because somewhere over the years, admiration has quietly become affection.
Affection has started becoming something else—something he doesn't have a name for yet. Jack's issue is that he doesn't immediately feel things. Without thinking, he simply begins searching for you first.
A difficult trauma comes in? His eyes automatically find yours. A bad shift? He looks for you at Central. A joke occurs to him? He wants to tell you. A patient reminds him of something sad? Somehow, you're the person he ends up talking to.
It happens gradually enough that neither of you notices.
Until everyone else does.
"You know Abbot's gonna have a breakdown if Lifeline ever leaves, right?" Ellis says it casually while charting. You nearly choke on your coffee, "What?" Across the desk, Shen immediately nods. "Oh, absolutely."
"Parker."
"I'm serious."
You point threateningly, "Stop." Parker raises both hands. "Hey, I don't make the rules."
You refuse to acknowledge the strange warmth crawling up your neck. Because if you acknowledge it—you'll have to acknowledge the way your heart still skips whenever Jack smiles at you. After all these years, that feels pathetic.
2024
PTMC, MAIN ENTRANCE — DAY
The rain starts sometime around six in the morning. Not a drizzle—a proper Pittsburgh downpour. The kind that turns streets silver and pounds against windows hard enough to drown out conversation.
After twelve hours of chaos, the entire department begins filtering out toward the parking garage and bus stops. You finally clock out around seven—exhausted and half-awake, absolutely ready for sleep.
When you step outside, you immediately spot Jack standing beneath the small emergency department awning.
Watching the rain… alone with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. Looking at him, you pause, "You're still here?"
Jack glances over, "My car's in the shop."
That explains it.
"How'd you get here?"
"Rideshare."
You look out toward the street, and the rain is somehow worse now. Jack follows your gaze, "Trying to decide how miserable walking home is gonna be." You glance over, "What happened to your ride?"
Jack lets out a tired breath, "Canceled."
"What?"
"Driver got stuck downtown." You wince at that, and he pulls his phone from his pocket and turns the screen toward you. The rideshare app is a disaster—surge pricing, long wait times. One estimate says thirty-eight minutes, while another says unavailable. Apparently, every exhausted healthcare worker in Pittsburgh had the same idea after shift. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Yeah." Jack stuffs his phone away again. "I've been refreshing it for ten minutes."
You look back toward the rain, then down at the umbrella dangling from your wrist, and then back at him. You ask, "No umbrella?"
"Nope."
You stare at him, then at the rain… and then at the very obvious lack of any workable plan. So, without thinking twice, you hold the umbrella out. Jack blinks, looks at the umbrella, and then at you. Then back at the umbrella. It's baby pink and covered in tiny Miffy rabbits. The ears are even printed around the trim—the thing looks aggressively cheerful.
"You serious?"
"Very."
A laugh escapes him, a real one. Low and surprised and completely unguarded. It's probably the first genuine laugh you've heard from him all shift, maybe longer. You feel absurdly proud of yourself as you snort, "Sorry about the color."
Jack studies the umbrella again, "I think I'll survive."
"You sure? Might destroy your reputation."
"My reputation was already questionable."
"Fair."
You press the handle into his hand without hesitation, because that's just who you are. Someone needs help, so you help; it's that simple. Jack looks genuinely baffled. "Wait."
You pause.
"What about you?" He asks, concerned. You shrug. The rain is cold, and the morning is gray. You've worked twelve hours, and your back hurts, along with your feet. But somehow none of that feels important. "I live closer than you do."
"Lifeline."
"Jack."
"You'll get soaked."
You smile, bright and softly. The same smile you've given frightened patients, overwhelmed residents, and grieving family members. You shrug, "It's rain."
His brow furrows, "You say that like hypothermia isn't a thing." You laugh at that, "I'm from the Philippines. Rain and I have a long-standing relationship."
"That's not remotely reassuring."
"It shouldn't be."
Jack shakes his head, but he's smiling now, which gives you a bit of peace. His eyes linger on you a second too long. Or maybe you're imagining it. You probably are—you usually are. Then you add quietly, "Besides, sometimes life is easier when you stop trying to avoid every uncomfortable thing."
Jack's expression softens, and you glance toward the rain. "Sometimes you just accept you're gonna get soaked and go home anyway." Neither of you says anything for a little bit. Because you both know that your words aren't really about the rain, neither of you acknowledges it. A laugh escapes him again, and he shakes his head, "You always have an answer for everything."
"No." You step backward toward the edge of the awning, and the cold rain immediately spatters against your scrub pants while you grin. "You just have to trust you'll be okay once you get there."
That gets another laugh out of him, the kind that reaches his eyes. You would do almost anything to keep hearing that sound. The umbrella remains clutched in his hand. Pink, ridiculous, and entirely yours. But for some reason, he can't stop staring at it. Or at you, standing in the rain, completely unapologetically yourself. No performance or hidden agenda. Only your kindness offered freely, as if giving away the only thing keeping you dry is the most natural decision in the world.
The thing is—Jack has spent years watching people take. Watching grief take, life and death take. And you...You are always giving… your time, your patience, and your terrible vending machine snacks. Your heart, if someone needed it badly enough. Now, it’s your umbrella.
Something warm twists unexpectedly inside of him, and he feels tingling all over his skin, as well as his mouth begins to dry. You lift a hand in farewell, "See you tomorrow, Dr. Abbot."
Then you turn and jog into the rain, water immediately drenches your hair, and you laugh when your shoe splashes into a puddle. You keep running anyway. While Jack just stands there—watching, until you disappear around the corner. Long after you're gone, he remains beneath the awning with your pink umbrella still hanging from his hand.
The rideshare app was forgotten entirely, and the rain pounded against the pavement as the morning traffic crawled by. For the first time in a very long time—the thought of going home doesn't feel quite as lonely. He looks down at the ridiculous little umbrella again. Then, despite himself, he smiles. Because somehow the damn thing feels exactly like you.
2025
NIGHTCLUB, PITTSBURGH — NIGHT
The music is loud enough to vibrate through your ribs. Honestly, you're having fun, a rare occurrence these days. Between night shifts and overtime and trying to maintain some semblance of a social life outside of the Pitt, opportunities to be a normal twenty-something are increasingly rare.
So when a few friends invited you out, you said yes. You danced, drank, and laughed. You let yourself forget about work for a few hours, and somewhere between your second drink and the realization that your feet hurt, you discovered a very important problem.
Your apartment keys were gone—completely vanished, you checked your purse three times. Your jacket pockets twice, then the bathroom counter, next the bar, and still nothing. Which is how you found yourself sitting in a booth near the back of the club with your phone pressed to your ear.
Waiting for Jack to answer.
He picks up on the second ring, "Everything okay?" You immediately relax, which is probably a problem. "Maybe."
Jack sighs, the sound of a man who has known you far too long, "What happened?" You look mournfully into your drink, "I lost my keys." A pause on the other end, and then, "You what?"
"They're gone."
"Lifeline."
"They disappeared."
"Keys don't disappear."
"They absolutely do."
The music swells around you, and someone screams happily near the dance floor. Through the phone, Jack suddenly goes quiet. He asks, "Where are you?"
You blink, "Huh?"
"Where are you?"
You frown, then glance up at the neon sign hanging over the bar, "Oh." You tell him the club's name. The silence on the other end lasts approximately two seconds before you hear him ask, "How are you getting home?"
You wave a hand vaguely despite the fact he can't see you, "M'gonna Uber." The words come out more slurred than intended. Silence... a long silence, then you hear him sigh, "Jesus Christ."
"It’s not that bad—"
"No."
You open your mouth to argue, but Jack beats you to it. "I'm picking you up." You immediately sober, exclaiming, "What?"
"Do not leave with anybody."
"Jack—"
"Do not get into a stranger's car."
"That's literally what Uber is." You throw back in response.
"Lifeline." The warning in his voice makes you sit up straighter. "I'm serious. Stay where you are."
"Jack—"
"I'm already grabbing my keys."
Your stomach flips unexpectedly as you point out, "You're working tomorrow."
"So are you."
"Jack."
His voice drops lower, gentler as he begs, "Please." And that ends the argument before it starts. You stare at your drink and reluctantly reply, "...Okay."
"Good." A beat and then you hear, "Don't hang up."
Twenty-five minutes later, Jack walks into the club and promptly forgets how to breathe, because he has never seen you like this before. At work, you're always in scrubs, with your hair pulled back, minimal makeup, and practical shoes.
Tonight—tonight you look nothing like the nurse who steals his coffee and argues with surgeons. Your hair is down, and your makeup catches the flashing lights every time you move. The outfit you're wearing should probably be illegal—at least that's what his traitorous brain immediately decides. Far too much skin and too beautiful—too distracting.
Jack stares for half a second too long, but then immediately hates himself for it. Because he's Jack and you're you. You're his friend, and he's forty-something years old and should absolutely know better. But the sudden realization that other people are staring at you, too, fills him with an entirely unreasonable amount of irritation. There are multiple reasons he hates that realization—none of them are good. You spot him immediately, and relief floods your face, "Jack!"
Somehow that's worse—because you're happy to see him, you always are. Jack pushes through the crowd toward your booth. He asks, "You okay?"
You grin, a little tipsy and a little tired, "Hi."
"That's not an answer."
"I lost my keys."
"You mentioned."
You immediately point at him, "I looked."
"I believe you."
"I looked everywhere."
Jack softens despite himself, "I know."
Just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The amount of trust you've placed in him over the years—it sneaks up on him sometimes, along with the amount he's placed in you. Neither of you ever talks about it—it's just simply there.
"Where are your friends?"
You blink.
"Oh."
You glance toward the dance floor, where your group has completely disappeared into the crowd. One of them is standing on a platform dancing with a stranger. Another appears to be attempting karaoke despite there being no karaoke machine. Honestly, nobody looks remotely concerned about your whereabouts. You point vaguely, "Over there." Jack follows your finger, and immediately regrets it. "Jesus."
You laugh, "They're having fun."
"They look like a liability."
"They are." A pause, then you smile warmly at him. The kind of smile that's become increasingly difficult for him to ignore lately.
"You ready to head home?" The question comes out gentler than he intended. Your expression softens immediately. "Mhm."
There’s no argument because the answer was always going to be yes. After all, it's him asking. Something in Jack's chest tightens unexpectedly. You climb out of the booth and wobble slightly when your heel catches on the edge of the floor. His hand is on your elbow before either of you thinks about it. It’s steady and instinctive—the contact lasts barely a second, but you both notice. Your eyes flick down to his hand, then back up to his face. Neither of you says anything, and Jack clears his throat first before he lets go, "You good?"
You nod immediately, "Mhm. Yep." Then point at him. "I need to go tell them I'm not being kidnapped by you."
The laugh that escapes him is helpless, "You go do that."
You grin, "Okay.” Before turning toward the dance floor, you lightly tap his arm. It’s a small gesture, mindless and affectionate. The kind of touch friends make without thinking. Yet Jack feels it long after you've disappeared into the crowd. He watches you weave through the dancers. Watch you throw your arms around one of your friends.
You laugh at something that makes your whole face light up, and standing there in the middle of a crowded nightclub, surrounded by strangers and flashing lights and music loud enough to shake the floor—Jack suddenly realizes he's smiling. He's smiling because you're happy and somewhere deep down, in a place he has been carefully avoiding for a very long time—he knows that's becoming a problem.
You weave your way through the crowd, dodging dancers and spilled drinks, until you finally find your friends near the center of the dance floor. One of them immediately grabs your arm, "There you are!" You laugh, "Apparently, I'm leaving."
"What?" another groans theatrically. "Already?"
You point toward the edge of the club—toward Jack. Standing near the entrance with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, waiting. The second your friends spot him, several heads swivel at once. Then all of them turn suspiciously slowly back toward you.
"Ohhh."
You immediately know that tone, you shake your head, "No."
"That's the doctor."
"No."
"The hot doctor."
You cover your face, "Oh my God." One of them leans closer, asking, "Is he your boyfriend?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Very."
"Because he definitely looks like he's here to pick up his girlfriend." Heat floods your face instantly, "No, he does not."
Across the room, Jack glances over, as if sensing he's being talked about. But when he spots you, his expression visibly relaxes. And unfortunately, your friends see that too. "Oh my God."
You groan, "Stop."
"He likes you."
"He does not."
"He drove here to rescue you from yourself."
"That's called friendship."
"That's called middle-aged pining." You nearly choke, "Please never say those words again."
Laughter follows you all the way back toward the entrance, and Jack looks mildly concerned the closer you get. "You okay?"
"Apparently not."
He narrows his eyes at your response, "What happened?"
"My friends are terrible people."
"Fair."
You point at him, "Don't encourage them."
"I'm not encouraging anybody."
"Liar."
The corner of his mouth twitches, and just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The simple fact that he's here has solved half the problem already. Then you take two steps toward the exit, but Jack is moving before he even thinks about it. One hand catches your elbow, and the other settles briefly at your waist, steadying you. The contact is innocent, but your breath catches anyway. It’s practical and necessary, at least that's what both of you tell yourselves.
"Whoa there." Jack says, and you blink up at him, then immediately start laughing, "I think the floor moved."
"The floor did not move."
"It absolutely moved."
"Lifeline."
"I'm just saying." Jack shakes his head, and his hand doesn't immediately leave your waist. Neither of you seems to notice. Or maybe both of you notice too much. "Come on."
You allow him to guide you outside, and the cool night air hits immediately. Rain lingers on the pavement, turning the streets into rivers of reflected neon. You inhale deeply, then sway again. Jack catches you before it becomes a problem. His hand settles more firmly against your side this time, and your body immediately relaxes into the contact like it's familiar.
Jack notices that too. "You good?" He asked, and you nod, "Mhm." A beat, and then you add, "The ground's still suspicious."
That earns a real laugh out of him, and you love that sound.
The parking lot isn't far, but Jack keeps his hand on your waist the entire walk there. Just in case… well, at least that's what he tells himself. Not because he likes the feeling of you beside him or how perfectly you fit there.
Just in case. That's all…. at least for tonight.
Jack sighs. The long-suffering sigh of a man who spends his life dealing with stubborn people. "Come on."
You allow him to guide you… well. at least until you nearly walk directly into a group of people entering the club. Jack catches your shoulder and redirects you gently, "Okay."
"What?"
His hand settles more firmly against your back, "Maybe we're graduating from independent walking." You gasp dramatically, "I am fully capable." But your words come out slightly slurred.
Jack raises an eyebrow, "You just tried to walk through three people."
"They were in my way."
A laugh escapes him. God. You're something truly special.
Now he has a new problem. Namely, getting you safely into his truck before you attempt something stupid.
The passenger-side door swings open, and you stare at it, then back at the seat. Jack immediately knows what's happening. "Need help?"
"No." A pause as you squint at the truck suspiciously. "Maybe."
"It's higher than it looked five seconds ago, isn't it?"
"It definitely wasn't this tall before."
Jack bites the inside of his cheek, hard, trying not to laugh.
"Okay."
Before you can protest, his firm hands settle at your waist, and suddenly you're being lifted just enough to get into the passenger seat. The whole thing takes maybe two seconds, except neither of you feels normal afterward. You freeze, and Jack also freezes. His hands are still on your waist, and you're looking directly at each other—far too close.
For a brief, dangerous moment, neither of you moves. Then Jack clears his throat, immediately stepping back. "Seatbelt."
Your brain takes several seconds to reboot, "What?"
"Seatbelt."
"Oh."
Of course, duh. You fumble with it and miss the buckle twice before Jack reaches over and clicks it into place. His face is suddenly very near again. Near enough to see the tiny scar near his jaw, and that your heart starts doing things it absolutely should not be doing. "There." His voice comes out lower than usual. You swallow, "Thanks."
Neither of you acknowledges how strange the moment felt and the warmth lingering where his hands had been. Or the way Jack has to grip the steering wheel a little tighter once he's behind it. Because some things are easier left alone. At least for now.
JACK ABBOT’S APARTMENT — NIGHT
The drive back to your apartment is quieter than the nightclub. The city has settled into that strange hour between night and morning, when the roads are mostly empty, and the traffic lights seem to change for no one. Rain taps softly against the windshield as Jack drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. You are attempting to stay awake. Attempting being the important word here. Every few minutes, your head tips toward the window before jerking upright again.
Jack notices every single time, "You can sleep."
"I'm not sleeping."
"You were asleep thirty seconds ago."
"I was thinking."
"You were drooling."
You gasp in offense, and Jack doesn't even look at you as he commands, "Go to sleep."
"You're mean." A laugh escapes him at your comment. He realizes that he’s been doing it a lot when he’s around you.
By the time you arrive at your apartment, you’re humming a song, trying to stay awake. Then Jack pats his pocket, and freezes when he realizes, "...Shit."
You blink, "What?" He closes his eyes, "I forgot your spare key." You stare, then immediately start laughing.
Jack groans, "Oh my God."
"You drove all the way there."
“Don’t.”
"You forgot the whole reason you picked me up."
"Don't."
Your laughter gets worse, and for the first time in years, Jack lets out a full belly laugh too. He begins to drive to his apartment, and since it’s late, he offers for you to crash at his place.
By the time he pulls into his apartment complex, you're visibly losing the fight against exhaustion and alcohol—mostly alcohol. The second you step through the front door, you kick your heels off exaggeratedly. One lands near the couch, and the other somehow ends up halfway down the hallway. Jack silently watches this happen. Then watches you attempt to unbuckle whatever complicated contraption is keeping your outfit together. "Okay," he says immediately.
"What?"
"Maybe let's not do that."
You frown at him, "Why?"
Because you're drunk—very drunk, and apparently completely unaware that you're standing in the middle of his apartment trying to peel yourself out of an outfit that has occupied far too much of his attention already. Jack suddenly finds the ceiling fascinating, the wall too. Actually, maybe the floor. Anywhere except you.
"Because," he says carefully, "you need pajamas."
"Oh." You consider this, then nod solemnly. "Pajamas are smart."
"Thank you."
"I am smart."
"You are." He nods, and you point at him, "I knew you'd agree."
Jack presses his lips together. God help him. Somehow, over the years, you've become one of his favorite people. A few minutes later, after much negotiation and several failed attempts to convince you that sleeping in sequins is a terrible idea, Jack disappears into his bedroom closet. He returns holding an old Army shirt—worn soft with age, the fabric faded from years of washing, along with a pair of boxers. You stare, then grin. "These yours?" Jack immediately regrets everything, "Yes."
"Cool."
Then, before he can stop you—you start changing.
"Jesus Christ."
You blink, "What?"
Jack is staring firmly at the opposite wall. "You could've warned me."
"Why?"
Because you're still drunk enough that embarrassment hasn't caught up with you yet. Meanwhile, Jack is discovering entirely new levels of self-control.
"Bathroom," he says.
"Right." You pause, then gesture wildly. "The bathroom."
"Correct."
Five minutes later, you emerge wearing the oversized shirt. The hem brushes your thighs while sleeves hang past your hands. The sight nearly kills him, because you look comfortable—like you belong here. Which is a thought he immediately shoves into a locked box and throws into the ocean. Nope. Not touching that. Absolutely not. That’s reserved for a future therapy session. Boy, is his therapist going to love that.
"Sit."
You immediately sit on the edge of his bed.
"Drink."
You obediently accept the water bottle, and Jack blinks, "That's new."
"What?"
"You listened."
You point at him, "You're bossy."
"Drink the water."
You drink the water, then he hands you a spare toothbrush and makes sure you actually use it. Then spends several minutes making certain you don't accidentally fall asleep face-first into the sink. By the time he's satisfied you're hydrated and functional enough not to accidentally die overnight, you're sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed, wrapped in one of his old shirts and looking increasingly sleepy.
You dig through your purse. "There are makeup wipes in here."
Jack pauses, asks, "You carry those around?"
"My eyeliner smudges." You shrug. "My mascara too."
Jack shakes his head, "Prepared for everything."
"It's literally why we carry purses."
"Pretty sure that's not why."
"It absolutely is."
He finds the packet eventually and pulls one free, then gestures to you, "Come here." You blink, dazed, "What?"
"Your mascara's halfway down your face."
Well, that’s fucking mortifying—immediately you cover your face, "Oh my God." Jack laughs softly; the sound is low and warm. "You're fine."
"No, I'm not."
"You really are."
Gently, he pulls your hand away and carefully brushes the wipe across your cheek. His touch is light, patient, and unhurried. The same hands that place chest tubes and suture wounds and perform procedures under pressure somehow become impossibly gentle. They always do around people he cares about. You go strangely still, and the room suddenly feels too quiet and small. Jack is close enough that the details become impossible to ignore. The silver was woven through his hair. The exhaustion that never quite leaves his eyes. The traces of loss he carries with him even now. And still, despite all of it—or maybe because of it—he remains devastatingly, painfully beautiful.
"You've done this before." The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.
Jack's hand stills briefly, then resumes. "Mmm." His voice is soft, a little distant. "She hated taking her makeup off."
The ache arrives instantly—it’s deep and familiar.
"She'd fall asleep on the couch." A small smile touches his mouth. "Every time." His gaze drops to the wipe in his hand, "Eventually, it was easier to do it myself."
A tender silence settles over the room, and suddenly your eyes sting. Because even now—all these years later—he still misses her. Of course he does, he always will.
"Jack." He looks up, and you swallow hard. "I'm sorry."
His hand pauses, and he asks, "For what?"
Your throat tightens painfully, "I know you miss her." The words come out small, but completely honest, and are barely above a whisper. Jack looks at you, and what he sees nearly unravels him. Because you're crying for him—not for yourself, or because you're drunk. You're crying because his pain hurts you. Because somehow you've always carried pieces of everyone else's heartbreak as if it belongs to you too.
A tear slips down your cheek, and before you can wipe it away, Jack reaches up, his thumb tenderly brushes gently across your skin.
The touch lingers slightly.
"Hey." His voice is impossibly soft, "Don't cry, honey."
The endearment slips out before he can stop it. The second it does, the room changes. Your breath catches, and Jack freezes. Neither of you moves. For one suspended second, the entire world narrows to that single point of contact. His hand against your cheek, your eyes locked on his. The silence between you is suddenly filled with things neither of you knows how to say. Then Jack does the only thing he can think of—he opens his arms, and you go willingly. The hug is immediate, warm, and safe. Your forehead presses against his shoulder, and his strong arms wrap around you while you melt into him without hesitation. Trusting him completely, the way you always have. Fuck—that might be the most dangerous thing of all. For a moment, neither of you lets go, because none of you wants to. Jack can feel your heartbeat through the thin cotton of his shirt and feel your breathing gradually slowing. He can feel himself becoming far too aware of how perfectly you fit against him.
He closes his eyes for a second.
A mistake.
Because the truth waits for him there—the truth that somewhere along the way, you stopped being just his friend and just his favorite nurse. Stopped being just the person he trusted most and became something he doesn't know what to do with.
Eventually, your breathing evens out. Then slows….then slows again. Jack glances down and realizes you've fallen asleep curled against him. Carefully, he shifts and lowers you onto the bed, pulls the blanket over you, and tucks it beneath your shoulder. The motion is automatic, and for a moment, guilt rises sharp and sudden. Not because you remind him of his late wife. You don't, and you never have. You never will. But somehow that realization doesn't hurt. It simply feels true. You are different—entirely your own person. Entirely your own place in his life. Jack stands there for a long moment, watching you sleep peacefully. Then quietly, he reaches for his crutches resting beside the nightstand.
The apartment is dark now, silent, as he pauses at the doorway, looks back one last time, at you sleeping in his bed. Wrapped in his shirt, breathing softly against his pillow, and despite every effort not to—Jack smiles. Then he switches off the light and heads toward the couch. Completely unaware that he's already fallen far deeper than he ever intended to.
JACK ABBOT'S APARTMENT — MORNING
The first thing you notice when you wake up is that you're comfortable. Suspiciously comfortable. Wrapped in sheets that smell faintly of clean laundry and something familiar you can't quite place. For a few blissful seconds, you remain exactly where you are, half-buried beneath the blankets, eyes still closed. Then your brain starts working slowly… like an old computer booting up. Your mouth is dry, your head hurts, and you have absolutely no idea where the hell you are.
You crack one eye open, and a ceiling you don't recognize stares back. Your stomach immediately drops. "Oh no."
Then the memories start returning. The nightclub, losing your keys, calling Jack… Jack picking you up. The drive to his apartment, the makeup wipes, and the hug. Oh God. The hug.
Your eyes fly open, fully awake now. Mortification floods your entire body with terrifying speed. "No, no, no, no..."
You immediately bury your face in your hands. Maybe if you stay here long enough, you'll evaporate, and the earth will open up and swallow you whole. Maybe cardiac arrest—you'd accept cardiac arrest. Slowly, you peek out from between your fingers, and a glass of water sits on the nightstand. Beside it is a bottle of ibuprofen and a neatly folded note in Jack's handwriting.
Drink water before standing up.
Your heart does something deeply unhelpful as you groan, "Oh, my God."
Because that's such a Jack thing to do, he’s practical, thoughtful, and annoyingly sweet. You whimper and flop backward onto the pillow.
Unfortunately, reality remains—and reality is that you are currently in Jack Abbot's bed. His bed—his actual bed, the place where he sleeps. The place where—You immediately shove that thought into a dumpster and set it on fire. Nope. Absolutely not. Not going there.
You drag yourself upright before your imagination can make things worse. The oversized Army shirt hanging off your shoulders shifts as you move. Your eyes immediately drop. Jack's shirt. You are wearing Jack's shirt. You consider throwing yourself out of the nearest window.
The bathroom is somehow worse. Because now you're sober, fully sober. Which means you remember everything… mostly. You splash cold water onto your face repeatedly. Trying to wash away the embarrassment and the memory of crying. The image of him calling you honey and you falling asleep against him.
"Oh, I'm never recovering from this." You groan into the sink before you force yourself to look in the mirror. You survive trauma shifts and twelve-hour nights. You went through fucking COVID. So… you can survive breakfast. Probably.
After one final pep talk that accomplishes absolutely nothing, you step out of the bathroom and immediately stop. A framed photograph sits atop the dresser, Jack and his wife, both smiling. The picture looks old, well-loved, the edges slightly worn. Guilt arrives like a punch to the ribs. Because no matter how much time has passed, she's still here. In photographs, memories, and the quiet spaces, he doesn't talk about. You stare at the picture for a moment longer, then look away. The guilt lingers anyway.
The smell hits you before you reach the living room. Coffee, eggs, and toast, along with something frying in a pan. Your stomach growls traitorously, then you turn the corner, and nearly walk directly into a wall. Because Jack is standing at the stove, shirtless. You stop functioning completely. Gone. No thoughts. Head empty. Just panic. Because somehow, in all the years you've known him, you've never actually seen him like this.
At work, he's always covered by scrubs, layers, a jacket, and PPE. Now—now he's standing barefoot in his kitchen wearing nothing but athletic shorts and his prosthetic. Morning sunlight spills through the apartment windows. Across broad shoulders, freckled skin, and muscle earned through years of physical therapy, stubbornness, and sheer determination. The prosthetic is already attached as part of him, as familiar and unremarkable as breathing. You know the story and what happened, and understand now the work it takes to live with it.
Still—seeing him outside the hospital feels strangely intimate, and very human. Your jaw nearly hits the floor as Jack turns. He immediately catches your expression, and to his eternal satisfaction, you look horrified. Not by him, but by being caught staring. His mouth twitches, "Morning."
You blink once, then twice, and you begin rapidly looking anywhere else.
"Morning." Your voice cracks. Well, that’s spectacular. Jack's eyebrow rises, "Rough landing?" You clear your throat. "Oh, absolutely."
His smile grows slightly. "There are worse hangovers."
"Don't."
"You called me at midnight because you lost your keys."
"Jack."
"You accused the floor of moving."
"Jack."
"You tried to negotiate with a coat rack."
Your eyes widen as you sputter, "I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"Oh my fucking God."
Jack laughs—there it is again, a little lighter than it used to be. "Come eat." You hesitate, still standing awkwardly in his shirt, and painfully aware you're in his apartment—his space. Then Jack glances over his shoulder, "You need food before your headache gets worse."
There it is. His doctor voice—the one that brooks absolutely no argument. You sigh dramatically and obey. Because apparently that's become a habit. Jack places a plate in front of you. Eggs, toast, fruit, and a giant glass of water.
You stare, and then at him, then back at the plate, "You made breakfast."
"You sound surprised."
"You made breakfast."
"You were hungover." You blink because he says it so simply, as if taking care of you is the most natural thing in the world, and maybe that's what gets you. It's how easy it seems for him—the quiet way he shows up. Again, and again. So instead of saying any of that, you pick up a piece of toast. "Thanks." Jack glances up from his coffee, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. "Anytime, Lifeline."
You lower your gaze quickly and focus on your breakfast instead. Unfortunately, that only makes things worse because now you're sitting at Jack's dining table, in Jack's apartment—wearing Jack's shirt.
Eating breakfast, he made for you. The domesticity of it settles wrong inside your conscience. Not because you or him have done anything wrong. But because it feels like you're standing in a place that once belonged to someone else. Your eyes drift toward the bookshelf across the room. A framed photograph sits among the books, showing Jack and his late wife. They’re smiling and happy.
The familiar guilt immediately curls around your throat. You look away, and your appetite suddenly harder to find. Jack notices and asks, "You okay?"
You force a smile, "Mhm." Jack raises an eyebrow. The same look he gives patients who claim their pain is a three out of ten while actively dying. "Lifeline."
You sigh at being caught, again. "It's stupid."
"If you're saying that, it probably isn't."
The concern in his voice makes the guilt worse. You stare down at your plate, picking apart a piece of toast. "You've done so much for me."
Jack frowns immediately, "Okay."
"And I kind of crashed into your life last night."
His confusion visibly increases as he points out the obvious, "You lost your keys."
"I know."
"You called me."
"I know."
Jack waits as you groan softly because this sounds ridiculous out loud. "It just feels like I'm imposing."
Jack's expression softens as he says, "Lifeline." You hate it when he says your nickname like that—as if he's trying to talk you down from something.
"You are not imposing."
You look away, stubbornly mutter, "Still."
"No." His answer comes immediately.
You glance up, and Jack is looking directly at you now. Completely serious. "You called because you needed help. That's what people do."
"But—"
"It's not a burden."
You open your mouth; however, Jack cuts you off again. "You would've done the same thing for me."
And unfortunately—he's right. You would've, without hesitation. At three in the morning, or in the middle of a thunderstorm. Without a second thought.
Jack sees the realization cross your face. A faint smile touches the corner of his mouth.
"Exactly."
You look back down at your plate, suddenly embarrassed. Because he's making it sound so simple. Meanwhile, your brain is spiraling. You risk a glance upward and immediately regret it. Because Jack is leaning against the counter. Coffee mug in hand. Morning sunlight spilling through the kitchen windows behind him. Now that you're sober, you're trying very hard not to notice things. Like the freckles scattered across his shoulders. Or the way years of physical therapy and hospital shifts have built quiet strength into him. Maybe the fact that he looks unfairly good for someone standing barefoot in his kitchen at eight in the morning. Your eyes immediately dart back to your eggs because you’re a coward.
"So." Jack takes another sip of coffee. The amusement in his voice is impossible to miss. "You gonna keep staring at your breakfast like it’s inedible?"
You nearly choke, "What?"
"The eggs."
"Oh." Your face feels suspiciously warm. "They're intimidating."
Jack stares at you, then laughs.
Somehow and somewhere along the way, Jack stopped being your soulmate, the impossible person at the end of a red string, and became Jack. The man who remembers your coffee order, and the one who checked on you when you had COVID, who keeps spare electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at taking care of yourself. The man who made you breakfast because you were hungover, and the man who still loves his wife. The guilt returns instantly. You glance toward the photograph again. Jack follows your gaze this time. His expression changes subtly. The smile faded into something quieter, more thoughtful. Neither of you says anything for a moment. The apartment settles into a small, comfortable, sad silence. The kind that comes from old grief that never fully disappears. Finally, you clear your throat. "I'm sorry."
Jack immediately looks confused. "For what?" You gesture vaguely around the apartment. "Sleeping in your room." His expression somehow becomes even more confused. "Lifeline."
"I'm serious."
"Why?"
You stare at him, "Because it's your room."
"Correct."
"And your bed."
"Also correct."
You narrow your eyes because Jack is enjoying this. The asshole. "Jack."
"What?"
"I feel bad."
His expression softens immediately into a quiet gentleness. "It's fine." He replied. You shake your head, "But—"
"No." His voice is calm. "I wasn't going to wake you up so you could sleep on the couch." You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. You try to rebut, "But—" Jack points toward your coffee, "You would've fallen asleep sitting upright."
"That's not true."
"It absolutely is."
"It happened one time."
"It happened three times."
"Allegedly."
Jack laughs into his coffee, and for a moment, just a moment, the guilt eases. Because he's looking at you like you're welcome here. As if your presence isn't an intrusion or that helping you wasn't an obligation. It was just something he wanted to do. That realization follows you for the rest of breakfast. Maybe that's why loving him has always felt so dangerous. It's the spare apartment key he keeps on his keyring. The electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at remembering to drink water. The bottle of ibuprofen is waiting on the nightstand before you even wake up. The way he remembers—he doesn't even realize he's doing it.
Eventually, breakfast ends, and you help carry plates to the sink despite Jack's protests. "I'm perfectly capable of washing a plate."
"I know."
"You sounded doubtful."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
Jack rolls his eyes, and you grin.
For a moment, it feels normal. As if this is something the two of you do all the time. Then Jack glances toward the hallway. "I should shower."
Your eyes immediately dart away.
Why are you suddenly embarrassed? You've seen this man covered in blood during trauma activations, and somehow, showering is what's awkward.
"Okay." Jack nods, then pauses, a small frown appearing. "You don't have clothes."
You blink, "Oh." You hadn't actually thought that far ahead. Your club outfit is currently somewhere in the apartment and likely smells like spilled alcohol, perfume, and poor decisions.
Jack disappears down the hallway before you can offer a solution. A moment later he returns carrying a pair of gray sweatpants and another shirt. You immediately recognize the Army logo faded across the front. "Here."
You stare at him, then back at the clothes. "I can't take your clothes."
"You're already wearing my clothes." Unfortunately, he has a point. You glance down at the oversized shirt hanging off your shoulders. Jack's mouth twitches, "The sweats have a drawstring."
"Oh, good."
"They should fit."
"Should?"
"Mostly." You narrow your eyes, but Jack looks entirely unapologetic. "You can keep the shirt." Your heart immediately forgets how to function, breathless, "What?" Jack casually shrugs, "It's old." You can’t fucking breathe, so you settle for, "Oh."
The thought of keeping it, taking it home, and sleeping in it. Smelling his laundry detergent every time you wear it is incredibly intimate. "Thanks."
Across his expression is as soft as his response, "You're welcome." Then he gestures toward the hallway. "I'm gonna shower."
You nod, "Okay."
"The shower chair's in my bathroom, so I'll be in there awhile." The statement is matter-of-fact and unremarkable. The same way he always talks about it. Not because it doesn't matter. But because Jack long ago learned there was no point treating every accommodation like a tragedy. It's simply part of his life—part of him. You nod again, "Take your time."
Jack studies you for a second; he's checking for lingering hangover symptoms. Then apparently decides you'll survive. "I'll drive you home after."
"Sounds good." You agree. There’s a pause before Jack says, "Try not to break anything while I'm gone." Your gasp is immediate, "Rude."
"I know you."
"You wound me."
Jack laughs, then walks down the hallway. A few moments later, you hear the bathroom door close. The apartment becomes quiet—the one that only exists in the homes of people who live alone. You wander slowly—absolutely not snooping. You were observing, there's a difference. The apartment itself feels like Jack. Comfortable, practical, and unpretentious. Bookshelves line one wall of the living room. Medical textbooks, military history, and novels with dog-eared pages. A few framed photographs scattered throughout the apartment—friends, coworkers, and people who matter.
You pause near one shelf. A photograph sits there. Jack and his late wife, when they were younger, were laughing. The picture caught in the middle of a moment rather than a pose. She has her head tipped toward him, and Jack is looking at her like she hung the moon.
Your stomach lurches. Because even now—years later—she still belongs here. Of course she does. This was their home, their life. You gently set the frame back exactly where you found it. Suddenly feeling like an intruder again, your gaze drifts around the apartment. There are signs of her everywhere if you know where to look. It isn’t overwhelming or frozen in time. There’s a photograph, a ceramic mug, and a framed postcard tucked between books. Evidence that she existed, and you hate yourself a little. Because standing here, wrapped in Jack's clothes, waiting for him to finish showering, part of you wishes things were different. Part of you wishes you weren't standing in the aftermath of someone else's great love story. The guilt settles heavily, along with the red string hidden beneath your sleeve. You glance toward the hallway, and the sound of running water. Toward the man you've loved for years. Because no matter how badly you want him—you've never wanted to replace her. Not for a second. Never. You just...wanted him to be happy, even if it was never with you.
The drive back to your apartment is quiet, but not uncomfortable. You sit curled into the passenger seat, your folded dress resting on your lap alongside your heels. The sleeves of Jack's old Army shirt hang past your wrists, and the sweatpants are too big with the drawstring pulled tight enough to keep them from falling. You feel ridiculous, like a child playing dress-up. Outside the window, Pittsburgh drifts by in shades of gray. You keep your eyes fixed on it. Because every time you glance at Jack, your heart hurts. Especially after last night… the makeup wipes, the hug, his hand on your face, honey. You don't trust yourself anymore, not even a little. Beside you, Jack steals another glance. You're unusually quiet, and that alone is enough to make him nervous. Normally, even hungover, you'd be talking, making terrible jokes, or complaining about your headache.
Instead, you're staring out the window like you're already somewhere else. His fingers tighten slightly on the steering wheel as he asks, "You okay?" You nod immediately, humming, "Mhm."
A lie that Jack recognizes instantly, but he lets it go for now. When he finally pulls up in front of your apartment building, neither of you moves immediately. The truck idles softly as silence stretches, then you suddenly unbuckle. Before Jack can process what's happening, you lean across the center console and wrap your arms around him. The hug catches him completely off guard, and for a moment, he freezes. Then instinct takes over. His arms come around you automatically. Your face presses briefly against his shoulder. Jack's heart does something strange and painful. Because it feels like goodbye, and he has absolutely no idea why.
"Hey." His voice comes out softer than intended. You squeeze him once before you let go, because if you hold on any longer, you won't be able to leave.
"Thanks," you whisper. Your eyes sting immediately, but you force a smile anyway. "For everything." The words shouldn't sound final, but they do. "Anytime, honey." The endearment slips out effortlessly and naturally now. Neither of you acknowledges it. Jack studies your face, trying to figure out what's wrong, to understand why you suddenly look like you're trying not to cry. So he asks carefully, "I'll see you later at work, yeah?"
Your throat tightens while you nod. "Mhm." It's not technically a lie. The second you step out of the truck, you don't look back. You can't. Because if you do, you'll stay. So you practically run inside your apartment building.
Leaving Jack staring after you, confused, worried, and somehow strangely unsettled.
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — DAY
Dana and Lena listen quietly. The three of you sit in an empty conference room before shift change. You make it approximately halfway through your explanation before you start crying. Not graceful tears, pretty tears, but the ugly kind. The tears you've spent years swallowing, "I'm sorry."
Dana immediately reaches for you, "Hey." You shake your head, "I'm sorry."
"Hon." Dana rubs circles against your back, her voice gentle, maternal. "Why are you apologizing?" You laugh through your tears because the answer feels obvious and impossible. "Because I'm in love with him."
The room falls silent as Lena and Dana exchange a glance. A look. One that says they already knew. Everyone always knows except the people involved. "It's just for a little while," you whisper while you wipe furiously at your face. "I just need some space." Dana's expression softens. She asks, "And what about your heart?"
That's the problem, isn't it? Your heart—your stupid, stubborn heart. You stare down at your hands, "Until it relearns how to stop beating for him." Then quietly you hear Lena ask, "So you're not gonna tell him?" You shake your head immediately, "I can't."
Because how do you tell someone that you've been tethered to them for seven years? That you've loved them through a marriage, grief, and loss. Through healing. How do you tell someone that? Especially when he never chose you. So you don't.
THREE DAYS LATER…
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
Three days later, Jack notices immediately, the second he walks into the ED, you're gone. No coffee sitting beside your workstation and sarcastic comments from Central—there’s no you. He finds Lena first and asks, "Where is she?" Lena doesn't even look up from her charting, "Where's who?” Jack stares, "Lifeline."
"Oh." She clicks something on her computer. "Day shift." His stomach drops, "What?"
"She switched."
"When?" Lena shrugs at him, "A few days ago."
Jack blinks slowly. "Why?"
"Ask Dana." Suddenly, Lena becomes very interested in her chart.
A week passes, then two, and Jack begins losing his mind. Because you are avoiding him, deliberately and aggressively. You leave before he arrives, or arrive before he leaves. You disappear down hallways and take lunch at different times. Find literally any excuse not to be alone with him. The few times he manages to catch sight of you—you smile and wave.
Then vanish again, like smoke, as if you're afraid of him, and that hurts. Because Jack keeps replaying that night. The club, his apartment, the hug, and the morning after. What did he miss? What did he do? Did he cross a line? Did he make you uncomfortable? Did he somehow ruin the one friendship he can't bear to lose? Every answer leads nowhere, and every day you drift a little farther away. Three weeks later, during shift change, Jack finally spots you. Walking quickly through the corridor, badge swinging from the clip of your scrub pocket, and iced coffee in hand.
He immediately changes direction. "Lifeline." You freeze for a second, then keep walking. Fuck. Jack follows and calls after you, "Lifeline." Your pace somehow gets faster, and now he's genuinely irritated and hurt. "Hey."
Finally, you stop, turning around, with a careful smile already in place, too careful. But not him, never him, not until now. "Hi, Jack." The distance between you feels enormous as he asks, "What is going on?" Nothing. Everything. You force a shrug, "Nothing."
That’s bullshit, and Jack knows it's bullshit. You know he knows, but neither of you says it. Then somebody calls your name from down the hallway, and relief floods your face at escaping him. The realization dawns on him like a punch.
"I gotta go."
"Lifeline—"
"See you around." Then you're gone, again. Practically running.
That's when it happens—Jack stares after you, heart pounding, confused, angry, and hurt. Suddenly—pain flares around his wrist. It’s sharp and hot. He physically flinches, "What the—"
A red thread appears beneath his skin, bright and impossible, but all too real. Jack freezes as the world tilts. No. No. No. The string winds itself slowly around his wrist. As it has always belonged there, it was simply waiting.
His breath catches because he knows what it is; everybody knows what it is. His pulse begins hammering. The thread stretches down the hallway, past nurses, residents, and stretchers, straight toward—You. Jack stumbles, his hand slamming against the wall to keep himself upright as the hallway blurs and his vision tunnels.
No. No, that's impossible. His heart pounds so hard it hurts. The red string glows softly between his wrist and yours, unbroken. Years… all these years. Every conversation, every shift, every cup of coffee, and every moment. Every time you'd looked at him and then looked away, or when you'd disappeared when things became too close. All the times you'd chosen distance. The truth crashes into him all at once. You knew. Oh God. You knew, and somewhere down the hallway—completely unfazed—you kept walking.
While Jack stands frozen in place, one hand braced against the wall, staring at the impossible thread connecting him to the woman he's been desperately trying not to admit he's fallen in love with.
2025
6:00 PM
PTMC, CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY
The emergency department shifts from busy to catastrophic in less than thirty seconds. One moment, people are charting the next—every television screen in the department lights up with breaking news.
There’s an active shooter at PittFest—mass casualty incident. Every healthcare worker in the room recognizes it instantly. The moment before impact… before disaster arrives.
"Hey, what's going on?" McKay asks.
Robby strides into Central, already moving and planning. Carrying the weight of what is coming. "Mass casualty at PittFest."
Samira looks up sharply, "How many victims?"
"We don't know." Robby's face is grim. "Expect the worst.” A terrible silence settles, while someone else immediately reaches for a phone. "Did the police find David?" McKay asks. Robby shakes his head, then raises his voice, "Okay, everybody, listen up."
Every head turns to pay attention to Robby.
"There is an active shooter at PittFest. As the nearest trauma center, we are going to be getting the majority of the victims." The room goes completely still. "We don't know yet how many we're getting, but we are instituting hospital-wide emergency protocols. We need to move every patient out of here. Either home, upstairs, or Family Medicine. Call your loved ones now if you need to."
Robby glances toward the windows, toward the city. Towards the disaster unfolding somewhere beyond it. "I can guarantee cell service will soon be overwhelmed. Eat something. Stay hydrated. Use the bathroom while there's time and meet back here for a full briefing in five minutes."
Then his gaze lands on someone entering through the ambulance bay doors, relief flashes across his face.
"Brother." Robby exhales. "I'm so fucking glad to see you." Jack, carrying his backpack and wearing his black scrubs, briefly hugs Robby, "Heard it on the scanner."
Jack drops his bag onto a workstation. "How many are we expecting?"
"I don't know." Robby's expression darkens. "But it doesn't sound good."
After placing his things down, Jack looks up directly at you. The breath leaves your lungs. Already focused entirely on you.
Your stomach drops. Oh no. No. No. No. He knows. The realization slams into you so hard it feels physical. You don't know how or when. But something in his expression tells you immediately.
He knows about the string—your secret. The thing you've spent seven years burying. Your pulse begins hammering, and blood rushes up to your ears. Across Central, Jack doesn't look away; his jaw flexes, hard, angry. You know that look—you've seen it directed at negligent parents, reckless drivers, people who made choices that hurt others.
Five minutes. That's all you have before the briefing. Before the entire hospital erupts into chaos. Apparently five minutes is all Jack needs. The second he catches you alone, a hand closes firmly around your elbow. "Lifeline." You freeze, your heart immediately dropping into your stomach. "Jack—"
"We need to talk." The words come out low and controlled. He steers you toward an empty supply room. A narrow space lined with IV fluids and sterile procedure kits. The door swings shut behind you, and the silence is deafening.
You turn toward him, trying to keep your face neutral, and completely fall apart. "What's going on?" The question sounds pathetic even to your own ears. Jack stares, and for a moment, he says nothing. Which makes everything worse, because his eyes are furious.
Furious at being hurt and at being lied to. At realizing something important happened without him knowing. His jaw clenches, "You knew." Your vision immediately blurs, "Jack—"
"You knew." The repetition is softer, devastated. You feel your tears threatening already.
"Don't." Your voice cracks. "Don't look at me like that." Something flashes across his face—pain, but then anger returns to cover it. "So what was the plan?" His words come out sharp.
"Jack—"
"What?" His voice rises, years of confusion finally boiling over. "What were you doing?"
You flinch, and Jack immediately hates himself for it, but he can't stop, not now. "Were you just waiting?" The accusation hangs between you, ugly, unfair, and born entirely from hurt. "Were you waiting for your chance?"
Your eyes widen as the tears come instantly, and suddenly you're angry too. Years of restraint snap all at once.
"No." The word echoes off the walls. "No." You step toward him, furious, heartbroken, and shaking.
"I buried it." Your voice breaks. "I buried every part of it." Jack freezes as you keep going, "You don't get to stand there and act like I wanted this." The tears are falling freely now. It’s hot and humiliating. "I buried every chance of loving you so deep I could barely breathe around it."
The room goes silent as Jack stares while you choke on the next words, because they're true, every single one. "I buried my wanting for you." Your voice cracks again. "And don't you dare accuse me of waiting." The anger disappears, leaving only raw, ancient grief. "You don't get to accuse me of that when I respected it."
Jack's face changes back to confusion and regret. But you're not finished, "I respected her." The words nearly destroy you while you wipe at your face, failing miserably. "I respected both of you."
A photograph flashes through your mind. Then she laughed in the department, bringing Jack lunch, loving him. Being loved by him, the woman you'd genuinely cared about. The woman who had never done anything except be kind to you.
"She was brilliant." You laugh bitterly as another tear slips free. "Beautiful. And I knew I'd never measure up."
Jack physically recoils, as if you'd struck him. "What?" The word comes out strangled. You look away because you can't bear seeing his face. "I know that."
"No." Pain flashes across his expression. "No, you don't." You laugh again, broken, "I do." Then quietly, you add, "The first time I saw the end of the string." Jack goes completely still at your admission.
"The first time I saw it unfinished." Your voice drops, barely above a whisper. "I knew I was going to lose you either way."
Silence—absolute silence. Jack feels like the floor has vanished beneath him, because suddenly, he understands. All those years, smiles, retreats, your careful boundaries. How you'd chosen distance instead of possibility. You weren't waiting. You were grieving the entire time.
The supply room door suddenly swings open, and Robby appears, already halfway through speaking. "Abbot, I need—"
Then he stops, immediately, because you're crying, and Jack looks wrecked. The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.
"...Whoa." Robby looks between both of you a few times, then decides he absolutely does not want whatever this is. "What the hell is—"
You move first, past Robby and Jack. Past all of it. Your shoulder brushes the doorframe as you leave. You don't stop, and can’t look back. Because if you do, you'll fall apart. While Jack just stands there, watching you go, understanding too late. For the first time in seven years, understanding exactly how much it must have hurt. Then, somewhere outside the room—an overhead page sounds. The first ambulances are arriving, signaling that the mass casualty has begun. However, the conversation isn't over. Not even close.
7:00 PM
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
All at once, the emergency department is already overflowing. Trauma bays filled, hallways lined with stretchers, and blood smeared across floors that Environmental Services doesn't have time to clean. The overhead speakers haven't stopped paging for nearly twenty minutes. Victims keep coming. Gunshot wounds, shrapnel injuries, and crush injuries from the stampede that followed.
The air feels thick with adrenaline and fear. Every single person in the department is running on instinct, training, and experience.
You haven't looked at Jack since the supply room, not really. You can feel him occasionally, like a gravitational force somewhere at the edge of your awareness. A pull you refuse to acknowledge. Every time your eyes accidentally find his across Central, you immediately look away. You don't have the luxury of falling apart right now, because people are dying, you know that, and so does Jack.
So, whatever happened between you has been shoved aside by necessity.
"Let's go!" Langdon's voice cuts through the noise. Another victim on a gurney in Central. Male, approximately late twenties, multiple injuries, semi-conscious, and blood soaking through his shirt. Samira immediately moves to the stretcher, "Who do you have?"
"Semi-conscious. Responds only to pain. Decent carotid."
"Strip him." Mateo reaches for trauma shears, and so does Tim, "Let's go." The team descends immediately, beginning to cut clothing, assessing injuries, checking his airway, and breathing. Everything is moving with practiced efficiency. Then—something feels wrong. You don't know why, it’s just a feeling. A prickling sensation along the back of your neck.
The patient suddenly jerks, and the nurses yelp. A hand disappears beneath the shredded remains of his shirt. Langdon freezes, then shouts. "Whoa!" Everything happens at once.
"Gun!" The word detonates through Central. "Gun! He's going for his gun!"
Every person in the room reacts instantly; some hit the floor, and others dive behind workstations. The patient somehow manages to yank a handgun free. His eyes are wild, disoriented, and terrified. The muzzle swings wildly across the room and lands directly toward Robby and Jack.
Time slows for you as you watch. Later, you'll never be able to explain why you moved, whether it was instinct, training, love… or something much darker. A part of you wonders if maybe you were simply tired—tired of carrying this, of loving him, maybe of being afraid. You never figure it out, because your body moves before your brain does.
One second, you're standing near Central, the next you're running.
The gun fires, and the sound is deafening. A violent crack that echoes through the department. For one suspended moment—nobody moves or breathes. Then pain explodes through you, white-hot, blinding.
You stagger as your knees immediately buckle while the floor rushes upward. Somewhere nearby, people are screaming while others are shouting for security. The world becomes noise, blurred shapes, blood—too much blood. Then, you hear Jack scream your name, and it tears straight out of him. Raw, animal, nothing like you've ever heard before. The resident beside him barely has time to react before Jack is already moving. He’s running—ignoring everyone and everything. None of it matters, not anymore. Because you're on the floor, and you're bleeding. Suddenly, the worst thing Jack has ever imagined is happening right in front of him.Again.
He drops to his knees beside you, not caring that his stump is aching, hands immediately searching, assessing, locating the wound, trying to stop the bleeding while SWAT restrains the man who shot you. His trauma training takes over automatically, even while the rest of him is breaking apart.
"Pressure!" Somebody throws him gauze, Jack slams it hard against the wound. Too much blood—so much fucking blood, and the sight makes his stomach turn. "No."
Your vision swims, and you can barely focus. But somehow—somehow—Jack is all you see. Always him, maybe it was always going to be him. His face is pale, terrified—more terrified than you've ever seen him, and somehow that hurts worse than the bullet.
You manage a weak laugh, and blood touches your lips. Jack immediately hates the sound, "Don't." Your eyes find his, and for the first time in years, you stop hiding. "It was painful."
Jack freezes, "Lifeline—"
"When you looked at me." Your voice trembles, blood continues soaking through the gauze. "When you smiled at me."
"No." His hands shake, just slightly, but you feel it. "When you believed in me." Tears blur your vision. "It hurt."
Jack's face completely crumples because now he understands all of it.
"It tore me apart." The words barely make it out, and an unfiltered sob escapes him. Because you're dying, and he just found you. He spent seven years standing beside you without seeing it. "No." His voice breaks. "No, no, no."
Someone is calling for Trauma One and bringing a stretcher. The department is moving around him. But Jack doesn't care, because the world has narrowed to you—only you.
"I just got you." The words rip from his throat, his eyes shine, desperate, furious, and every bit terrified. "I just got you." Your breath catches. You love him, you always will. So maybe—maybe honesty won't kill you now. "I love you."
Jack closes his eyes, as if the words physically hurt. You smile weakly, doubling down, "I love you, Jack Abbot."
Silence for a moment, then, firmly, "No." The answer comes instantly, violently, as if he's rejecting reality itself. "No." His forehead presses briefly against yours. "You're not doing this."
Tears slide down his face, but he doesn't even notice. "You hear me?" His voice cracks. "You're not doing this to me."
The stretcher arrives, and Robby appears, blood on his gloves. Panic hidden beneath professionalism. "Jack." Nothing… Jack doesn't move. "Jack." Still nothing.
"Abbot!" Finally, Jack looks up, and Robby immediately understands. Oh. Oh no. "We need Trauma One." Robby's voice softens. "Now."
Jack nods once, then helps lift you onto the stretcher himself. Refuses to let go or step away. He refuses to leave your side as they race down the hallway. Trauma One is already being prepared. Blood products, thoracotomy tray, massive transfusion protocol—Everything and anything. Whatever it takes.
Dana meets them at the door, and one look at Jack's face tells her everything, every awful piece of it. "Oh, honey." Jack doesn't even hear her; his eyes never leave you, not once. Dana steps close, careful. "Jack." No response from him, so she tries again, "You need to let them work."
His jaw tightens, "No."
"Jack."
"No." His voice breaks again. Because he knows—he knows exactly how bad this is. Knows every possible complication, terrible outcome, and statistic. Every nightmare, and he cannot survive another one. Not you, God, please, especially not after all this—after finally finding you.
The trauma team begins crowding around the bed. Voices overlap, orders fly, blood pressure dropping, airway concerns, surgical consult from Garcia, massive transfusion. Yet, Jack refuses to move, standing beside your stretcher, his hand wrapped around yours. As if letting go might somehow allow death to take you, or sheer stubbornness can keep you here.
As if love might finally be enough this time around.
PTMC, ICU — DAY
The surgery lasts hours—too many hours, long enough for the adrenaline to burn away, and for exhaustion to settle into everyone's bones. Long enough for Jack to memorize every crack in the ICU waiting room floor.
The bullet had done catastrophic damage. A through-and-through gunshot wound with massive internal bleeding. Multiple units of blood transfused. Emergency surgery. Complications halfway through that had nearly sent the entire operating room into a panic. At one point, Robby had physically forced Jack to sit down because he looked seconds away from collapsing. Jack couldn't remember most of it afterward, only fragments. Your blood on his hands. Your voice. I love you, Jack Abbot.
The terror of watching your blood pressure disappear from the monitor. The awful realization that he might lose you before he'd ever gotten the chance to tell you—I love you too. But somehow, you survive. The surgeons manage to stop the bleeding and repair the damage. They brought you back. It feels less like medicine and more like a miracle.
Three days later, you're still asleep, intubated, and hooked to enough machines to make the room hum softly around you. But you're alive, and right now, that's enough.
Jack hasn't left at all. Dana, Robby, Lena, and even Whitaker—all of them fail. Because every time someone tells him to go home, he looks at you lying in that hospital bed and refuses. The man is impossible when he decides on something, and he decided he was staying.
So he stays, wearing scrubs more often than not. Surviving almost entirely on hospital coffee and vending machine food, and sleeping in the uncomfortable chair beside your bed. If you could see him, you'd probably yell at him. Tell him he's being ridiculous, and that he should shower. To stop looking like a man who personally lost a fight against a tornado. Unfortunately, you're unconscious, which means nobody can stop him.
The red string remains, that impossible thread winding around his wrist before disappearing into yours, completely visible now. Neither of you is hiding anymore. Sometimes Jack simply stares at it, as if he's afraid it'll disappear—a chance he'll wake up and discover this was some cruel fever dream. Because for years he believed he'd had his soulmate, then he lost her. And now—now the universe has somehow handed him another sacred thing. A second chance he never expected. One he's terrified of losing before it even begins.
The ICU room is quiet that afternoon as sunlight spills through the window. Your face is pale against the white pillow. Your hair is messy, and there's bruising along your neck from procedures, tape securing lines, and dressings. Evidence of how close death came for you. Jack reaches forward, his fingers brushing gently through your hair. The movement reverent, as if touching something precious. Something fragile and almost lost.
His thumb traces softly across your cheek. "You scared the hell out of me." His voice is rough, sleep-deprived, and broken around the edges. You don't answer, but that never stops him.
The door opens quietly as Robby steps inside, coffee in one hand and concern written all over his face. He pauses immediately, taking in the scene. Jack slumped beside your bed, wearing his scrubs, faintly stained with blood—your blood. His hand wrapped around yours, and the red string was visible between them. For a moment, Robby says nothing, simply watches. Understanding settling over him piece by piece. Then finally, he asks, "How's she doing?"
Jack glances up. His eyes are bloodshot and exhausted. "Stable." The word comes out cautious. Because saying it too loudly might somehow jinx everything.
Robby nods, steps closer, looking down at you, at the monitors, then at Jack. A realization flickers across his face. "Is she also..." His voice softens. "...your soulmate?"
The question hangs quietly between them, and Jack's gaze immediately drops to your hand. To the red thread wrapped around both wrists. He can't speak for a little while, then he nods once.
"I think so." The words sound ridiculous even now. "I didn't think..." His voice catches as he looks down at you. At the woman he'd spent seven years loving without understanding why it felt different. Not understanding why losing your friendship hurt more than it should, or why seeing you happy mattered so much. Why he'd kept showing up, again and again. "I didn't think it was possible."
The rRobby remains silent, letting him continue as Jack swallows. "I didn't think it would happen to me." The confession comes out almost embarrassed—he's admitting something shameful. Robby exhales slowly, nods. "There've been a few reports."
Jack glances up.
"A few studies." Robby shrugs. "The theory is that some soulmate bonds don't form immediately." His eyes drift toward the red string, toward your intertwined hands. "Sometimes they form after loss."
The room falls quiet, neither of them says the obvious thing. That his late had been Jack's soulmate too, and loving her had been real, complete, and true. That none of this erased her.
Jack looks back at your sleeping face, the rise and fall of your chest, and the steady rhythm on the monitor. Alive and still here. His fingers slide gently through your hair again, careful not to disturb anything, as his hand cups your cheek. The gesture impossibly tender. Robby immediately looks away, because some moments aren't meant for witnesses.
Jack leans forward, pressing a kiss against your forehead, lingering there for a second, eyes closed and relieved. Terrified and very in love. When he finally pulls back, his thumb brushes across your skin. And for the first time since the shooting, a small smile appears. Fragile, hopeful, like he's allowing himself to believe it. Just a little.
"Come back to me, Lifeline." His voice is barely above a whisper. The red string glows softly between your wrists, and Jack squeezes your hand gently, as if you're already listening. As if somewhere beneath the machines and medications and healing wounds, you can hear him. Maybe, for the first time in a very long time, he isn't asking fate for anything. He's only asking for you.
PTMC, ICU — DAY
The first thing you become aware of is discomfort, not pain, well, not yet anyway, just wrongness. A strange pressure lodged in your throat—something foreign. Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy, as if someone glued them shut. The effort required to open them feels monumental. Slowly, painstakingly—you manage it, and the world arrives in fragments. White ceiling, muted sunlight, the rhythmic beeping of monitors, and the steady hiss of oxygen.
A hospital room—your hospital room, and immediately your nursing brain starts putting pieces together. ICU, you're in the ICU, which means—Oh. Oh no, the shooting. Memory crashes back all at once: the gun, Jack, blood, Trauma One. I love you, Jack Abbot.
Your eyes widen immediately as panic flares. Because there is definitely a tube down your throat, a ventilator tube, and suddenly every survival instinct in your body starts screaming. You try to move—a mistake, as pain explodes through your abdomen. Pain that says somebody has spent several hours trying very hard to keep you alive. A strangled sound leaves you; your heart monitor immediately speeds up.
Then you feel it, a hand, wrapped around yours. You turn your head, slowly, and there he is… Jack. Curled awkwardly in the chair beside your bed, wearing his black scrubs, asleep. His head was resting against folded arms near your mattress, one hand tangled with yours, the red string winding quietly between your wrists. For a moment, you just stare because he looks awful. His curls are a mess, dark circles shadow his eyes, his jaw is covered in stubble, his scrubs are wrinkled because he hasn't slept properly in days, and he hasn't left. This whole time, he stayed. Your fingers twitch, weakly, barely enough movement to count. Then you squeeze his hand.
Jack jerks awake instantly, years of emergency medicine, and years of sleeping lightly. His head snaps upward, disoriented and confused. Then his eyes land on yours, and the entire world stops. For a moment, he doesn't move or breathe. Doesn't seem capable of either. He just stares, afraid you're another dream, or another hallucination born from exhaustion.
"Hey." The word comes out rough, barely audible, and your eyes immediately fill with tears. Because he's crying, relief floods his face so quickly it looks painful. His hand tightens around yours.
"My Lifeline." His voice cracks completely, and suddenly, tears are sliding down his cheeks, unashamed. Jack laughs once, a choked sound halfway between a sob and a prayer. "Oh, my God."
You try to answer, then immediately regret it, because the tube is still there. Panic spikes again.
Jack notices instantly, "Hey." His hand cups the side of your face, gentle and grounding. "Hey, hey." His thumb brushes your cheek, "You're okay." Your breathing becomes faster, the ventilator alarms immediately begin protesting. "You're okay." Jack is already reaching for the call button, never taking his eyes off you. "You're okay."
Within seconds, the room fills with people. Garcia arrives first. Followed by respiratory therapy, a nurse, and half the ICU, apparently. "Well, look at that." Garcia's grin is immediate. "About time."
You want to roll your eyes, but unfortunately, you still have a breathing tube. The respiratory therapist immediately begins assessing and following commands. Checking your neurological status. Making sure you're strong enough for extubation. You squeeze hands, follow fingers with your eyes, nod appropriately. All while Jack hovers nearby. Trying desperately not to interfere, and failing miserably.
"She's ready." The therapist glances toward Garcia, and then Garcia nods. "Let's do it."
Jack immediately moves closer, instinctively. Like he physically cannot help himself. The ventilator disconnects, the securing device is removed, and the respiratory therapist gives instructions. You barely hear any of them; your entire focus is on the tube. Then—it's out. Immediately, you cough violently because your throat burns. Every breath feels strange and uncomfortable, but you're breathing on your own.
Jack is already helping support you upright, one arm behind your shoulders, the other holding a cup with ice chips. "Easy." His voice is impossibly soft. "Slow down."
You cough again, eyes watering. Jack looks ready to fight somebody on your behalf. Possibly the tube or the entire ICU. Eventually, the coughing settles enough for you to breathe comfortably, and the monitors stabilize, everyone visibly relaxing.
Garcia steps forward, professional mode fully activated. "Okay. The surgery went well." She begins carefully. "You sustained a gunshot wound to the abdomen." Jack's jaw tightens visibly as she continues, "There was significant internal bleeding." Garcia continues. "We had to perform an emergency exploratory laparotomy."
Your nurse brain immediately fills in blanks, searching for damage, complications, and probabilities. Garcia notices this and says, "We repaired injuries to your small bowel and controlled several bleeding vessels."
Your stomach drops.
Jesus.
"You required multiple transfusions." Garcia continues. "But you're stable now."
Stable—the most beautiful word in medicine. You glance toward Jack; he's staring at the floor, hearing the details physically hurts. Garcia notices that, too, a tiny smile appears. One that says she understands far more than she's commenting on.
"Recovery's going to suck." You manage a weak laugh; the sound comes out raspy. Garcia points immediately. "There she is. Don't make me regret taking that tube out."
For the first time since waking, you actually smile. Garcia gathers her chart and steps toward the door, then pauses, looking between you. Then Jack, the red string, then back again.
"Oh." A knowing expression crosses her face. "Right."
Jack immediately looks uncomfortable, which is almost impressive considering everything that's happened.
Garcia grins. "Try not to stress her out." Then she points at you. "And try not to get shot again."
The door closes behind her, and the room suddenly feels much quieter. Much smaller and more intimate. Silence settles; neither of you quite knows what to say. Because there are too many things, seven years' worth.
Jack remains seated beside the bed, his hand never leaving yours, not once. He's afraid the second he lets go, you'll disappear again.
Your throat hurts—everything hurts, but somehow none of it matters right now. Because Jack is looking at you, really looking at you, and there are tears still caught in his eyelashes. Evidence of how terrified he'd been, your fingers tighten weakly around his. "Hi." The word comes out hoarse, barely audible. A wet laugh escapes him, disbelieving, and relieved. "Hi."
His thumb brushes across your knuckles, again and again. As if he needs the contact—he needs proof. Then Jack lowers his head, pressing his forehead gently against your joined hands, his eyes closing. Breathing shakily, and in that moment, you realize he was just as afraid of losing you as you'd always been of losing him.
Finally, Jack swallows hard, then asks quietly, "How long?" You know exactly what he means, not the shooting or the string. All of it. You stare down at your intertwined hands. At the red thread winding around both wrists, then back at him, and answer honestly. "Since my first day.”
Jack blinks, once and twice. He genuinely thought he'd misheard you, "Your first day?" You nod, a sad laugh escaping. "Yeah."
His mouth opens, then closes, and opens again. The physician in him is clearly attempting to process impossible information. Unfortunately for him, he's currently operating as a man in love, not a doctor, which means none of this is going well.
"Seven years?" The words come out strangled, and you give a tiny nod. Jack leans back in his chair, looking dizzy. "Jesus Christ."
A weak laugh escapes you. "That was more or less my reaction too." His hand tightens around yours to reassure himself.
"Why didn't you tell me?" The question is quiet, not accusing anymore, only hurt. He’s trying to understand. You look away first, toward the window. Because this part is harder. "You were married." The words are simple, obvious, and true, Jack's expression immediately softens.
"You loved her." You smile sadly. "Of course you did." Because he had, you'd seen it, every day, in every smile or phone call, at the mere mention of her.
"I wasn't going to be the woman who showed up and destroyed that." Your voice trembles. "I couldn't. It's why I never said anything." A tear slips free, and you don't bother wiping it away.
"I respected her too much." Your laugh cracks. "And honestly?" You finally look at him, unwaveringly, you admit, "I loved you too much.” Jack closes his eyes, processing the truth of it all. "I knew you were happy." You smile weakly. "I thought… I thought if I couldn't be the person you loved, then I'd settle for being someone you trusted."
Jack stares at you, completely speechless. Suddenly, every memory makes sense, every retreat or careful boundary. You chose distance over possibility. You weren't waiting. You weren't hoping for his wife to die. Goddamit. The thought makes him sick now. You were protecting him—protecting both of them, at the expense of yourself, for seven years.
"That's insane." The words slip out before he can stop them. You blink, offended. "Excuse me?" Jack actually laughs, a wet, exhausted sound. "You loved me for seven years."
"You make it sound like a disease." You frowned.
"It kind of is."
You point weakly, "I got shot."
"Exactly." For the first time since waking up—you both laugh. The sound fades slowly, leaving only the truth behind. Jack shifts closer, his chair scrapes softly against the floor, until he's sitting right beside the bed, close to you, so that there's nowhere left to hide.
"I need you to understand something." His voice lowers, gentler now, and more vulnerable than you've ever heard it. Jack looks down briefly, then back up. "She was my soulmate." The words settle softly between you, simply true and not at all cruel. You nod, because you know—you've always known.
"I loved her." His eyes shine, "I'll always love her."
You squeeze his hand, "I know." Jack exhales shakily, then continues, "But somewhere along the way..." His voice falters, and you can’t recall if you've ever seen him this scared. His thumb brushes your cheek, the same way it did the night you almost died. "You became my favorite part of the day. The first person I wanted to talk to." Another stroke of his thumb. "The person I looked for first." His eyes never leave yours. "And when you started avoiding me..."
He laughs once, humorless and every bit painful. "It felt like somebody was ripping pieces off me." The confession steals the air from your lungs, and Jack leans forward slightly, and your heart starts racing.
"I thought I was losing my mind." A tiny smile appears at the corners of his mouth. "Turns out I was just in love with you."
Everything disappears—leaving just him and tears blur your vision instantly.
"Oh." It's all you can manage. Jack smiles, soft, beautiful, it’s entirely his. "Yeah."
Suddenly, you're crying. Because after seven years—after all that grief and silence and fear—he chose you. Not because of the string or fate. Or because destiny told him to. But because he loved you.
"You idiot." Your words wobble and Jack laughs, "I know."
"You absolute idiot."
"I've been told."
You laugh through your tears, and somehow, he wipes them away before they can fall. The gentlest touch imaginable, as if you're something precious. Then his forehead rests against yours, and neither of you speaks. You don't need to. The red string glows softly between your wrists, a silent witness, and for the first time—it doesn't feel like a chain. It feels like a beginning.
Jack's gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then immediately back to your eyes. Giving you every opportunity to stop him. Every opportunity to say no. You don't. Not even a little.
So, he kisses you, softly, as if you're something holy. Something he spent seven years searching for without realizing it. His hand cups your cheek, while yours finds his wrist. Right where the string wraps around him, the kiss is gentle and tender. A promise rather than a fire.
When he finally pulls back, neither of you moves very far, foreheads touching, breathing the same air. Jack smiles, the kind of smile you've spent years secretly collecting. "Hi."
A laugh escapes you, "Hi." Then his eyes soften, filled with something warm enough to last a lifetime. "There you are."
After seven years of loving him in silence—you finally get to stay.
End Notes:
Where do I even begin? This idea has been cooking in my head for MONTHS. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how I wanted this story to go. But then you know how things just suddenly click and fall into place? That’s exactly what happened.
It was absolutely euphoric—once I got the plot beats down, I just couldn’t stop writing lol.
I wanted you, the reader, to know how much you respected Jack’s wife and that you weren’t trying to replace her.
Also.. do you get it? Lifeline = Line = String…. Ha ha ha. You are his Line…
Everyone blame Noah Kahan for making me cry to Orbiter.
LOWKEY, wasn’t expecting a lot of people to read this…
Taglist: @gennywennypenny @kneelforloki @unknownhuman102 @thebewitchingvagabond @danah-20 @i-do-not-care-bear @nerdgirljen @silksepia @rathatosy @proudlyvastlake @coconuthoneyandjaguars @acciotwinz @thefemininemystiquee @rei-scorpio @buckystwilight
I'm fine. Completely fine. This totally did NOT rip out my heart and turned it into confetti, nope.
I don't even know where to start with this, I wish I could pinpoint my favorite quote or anything really, but the fact remains this entire fic is my favorite bc WOW
You really did that, and I'm so proud of you, Internet stranger 💖 this is brilliantly painful and lovely and hopeful and devastating in the best way, and it's going straight into my brain to stay there forever.
Not a fan of you making me cry right before I go to sleep, though 😂😭
HIII!!
UHHH, do all I do on this website is make other people cry? (Perchance…)
I’m also beginning to realize that I keep writing about grief and loss… whoops. Guys, I SWEAR I'M FINE—- Jack and Robby are just a bunch of sad lil guys grieving bruh… I must stay true to their character 😭
I’m truly honored and grateful for your kind words and feedback! This fic might be one of my favorite ones I've written thus far. I'm just glad my word vomit became somewhat coherent and had that much of an impact!
Thank you sososososo much! I SEND HUGS!
I’M AN ASTRONAUT, YOU’RE THE MOON
Summary: When you moved halfway across the world to work nights at PTMC, the last thing you expected was for your soulmate string to lead straight to Dr. Jack Abbot—who’s already happily married to his own soulmate. So you bury your feelings beneath friendship, trauma shifts, and years of silence… until tragedy changes everything, and both of you begin to realize that maybe soulmates were never about fate, but choice. Or, the Soulmate AU with Jack Abbot.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader (Can still be read by anyone! It’s not super specific)
Warnings: 18+ Soulmate String AU, Unrequited Love to Requited Love, Age-Gap Romance (Not Specified), Hospitals, ER, ANGST, Fluff, Crush, Blood, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow(ish) Burn, Eventual Hurt-to-Comfort, Longing, YEARNING, Major Character Death, The Pitt AU, Grief, Tragic Heroine, Tragic Hero, Widow!Abbot, Depressed!Abbot, Anger, Crying, GSW, Happily Ever After, COVID-19, Kissing,
Word Count: 22.5k
A/N: We're gonna take a break from Ducky and Robby for a bit. Welcome, Jack Abbot. You are in my domain now >:D ALSO, I HIT THE LIMIT ON SPACING SOOO THE FORMAT MIGHT BE FUCKED IDK. Sorry :(((
Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/keeryscupid. I’m not a doctor or a nurse. I’m dyslexic, and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!
Songs: Orbiter by Noah Kahan, Brush Fire by Gracie Abrams, and If You Let Me by Maisie Peters (with Marcus Mumford)
| Jack Abbot Masterlist | Main Masterlist |
2018
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
The first thing you notice about the Pitt isn’t the noise.
It’s the pace.
Everything moves fast, but no one looks rushed. People pass each other like they’ve done this a thousand times, sliding through narrow spaces without looking, voices overlapping in half-finished sentences, monitors beeping in uneven rhythms that somehow don’t throw anyone off.
Organized disaster is exactly what an emergency department should feel like. You tighten your grip on the strap of your bag as you follow Lena down the hall, trying not to stare at everything like it’s your first day on Earth.
New country, New hospital, New job.
Night shift.
Your body still hasn’t figured out what time zone it’s supposed to be in, but adrenaline is already kicking in, that familiar hum under your skin that always comes when you step into an ER. You tell yourself you’ve handled worse. That you’ve worked typhoon nights, mass casualty drills, and overcrowded government hospitals with half the supplies you needed.
You can handle this.
Lena pushes the double doors open with her shoulder, not even breaking stride. “ER’s through here,” she says. “You said you worked trauma before, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” you answer automatically.
She glances back at you immediately, “Drop the ma’am. You’ll make everyone feel old.”
Heat creeps up your neck, “Sorry. Habit.”
“You’ll fit in,” she mutters, half amused, half distracted as she scans the room.
You step through the doors behind her—and the sound hits all at once. Phones ringing, a monitor alarming somewhere in the back, sharp and insistent. A patient down the hall is yelling that he’s been waiting for three hours and he’s going to sue somebody.
It’s loud and crowded, but very alive and all too familiar. Your shoulders drop just a little, tension you didn’t realize you were holding easing out of your spine.
Lena stops near the central desk, scanning the board, then jerks her chin toward the far side of the room, “That’s Dr. Jack Abbot. He’s on trauma tonight, so you’ll probably be with him most of the shift.”
You follow her gaze without thinking.
He stands near the counter, scrolling through a chart on an iPad, stethoscope hanging loose around his neck like he forgot it was there. Curly salt and pepper hair slightly messy, the kind of tired that comes from too many night shifts in a row.
He looks up when someone calls his name, and the moment your eyes land on him, your wrist burns.
You suck in a small breath, instinctively looking down. There’s a red string looped around your wrist, thin, bright, and impossible to miss.
Your stomach drops so fast it makes you dizzy. Because what the actual fuck? No. Not here. Not now.
At some point, you’d convinced yourself maybe you simply didn’t have one. Maybe the universe skipped you.
The thread pulls slightly, like something on the other end just moved, and your fingers curl around it before you even realize what you’re doing. A voice in your head tells you not to look… but you look anyway. The string stretches across the room, weaving through people and stretchers and equipment like it doesn’t care about physics; it never has.
Your breath gets stuck in your throat as you follow it as it leads straight to him—Jack Abbot.
Your heart stutters hard enough that you feel it in your ears.
No.
No, no, no.
Lena is still talking beside you, something about assignments, but the words blur together. “…good with procedures, just don’t let him skip charting, he tries— Abbot!”
He looks up again, this time, at you. The string pulls tight between your wrists. For a second, neither of you moves. Then he walks over, casual, pumping sanitizer on his hands like this is just another shift, just another new nurse, nothing important happening at all.
He’s taller up close.
Tired-looking in a way that somehow makes him seem softer instead of intimidating. Curly salt-and-pepper hair slightly messy, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stethoscope hanging around his neck like he forgot it was there hours ago.
“You the new one?” he asks. His voice is warm and easy. Maybe a little rough around the edges from too much coffee and too many overnight shifts.
You force your brain to function.
“Yeah,” you manage. “First night.”
He nods once, then holds out his hand.
“Jack Abbot.”
Your hand hesitates for half a second before you take it. The second your skin touches his—the string snaps tight. It feels like something deep in your bones clicks violently into place.
Your pulse jumps hard beneath your skin, and for one horrifying second you think maybe he can feel it too.
But Jack just smiles politely, completely unaffected.
Because he can’t see it, not fully. The thread only loops faintly around his wrist before disappearing, incomplete and one-sided.
You swallow hard, “Nice to meet you.”
“Welcome to the Pitt,” he says. “Try not to run.” You let out a shaky laugh before you can stop yourself, “Too late for that.”
A faint smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, like he likes your answer. By God, that tiny expression alone nearly kills you.
Then he shifts the iPad under his arm—and you see the ring.
A silver band on his left hand.
Your entire body goes cold.
For a second, you genuinely can’t process what you’re looking at. Of course, he’s married. Because, yes, the universe would do something this cruel.
You force yourself to look away before your face gives you away—and that’s when you notice her.
A woman stands near Central holding a paper bag against her hip, looking around the department with the comfortable familiarity of someone who’s been here a hundred times before.
Waiting for him.
Jack notices her immediately, and his whole face changes. It softens enough for you to understand instantly how much he loves her. “Hey,” he says quietly, already walking toward her.
The incomplete thread around his wrist brightens faintly.
She smiles the second he reaches her, “You forgot dinner again.” Jack laughs softly, taking the bag from her, “I was busy.”
“You’re always busy.”
“Occupational hazard.”
She rolls her eyes affectionately, and he leans down automatically to kiss her cheek. It’s absent-minded and natural. The kind of intimacy built over years. Loving her is as easy as breathing. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist feels unbearably tight. Because the universe already chose—it’s not you. Never you.
Lena nudges your shoulder lightly, “You good?”
You blink quickly, forcing your expression back under control before anyone notices the way your soul feels like it’s collapsing inward. “Yeah,” you say, your voice almost sounds steady. “Just jet lag.”
Lena nods distractedly and turns back toward the board.
Across the room, Jack says something under his breath that makes his wife laugh. The warm and happy sound carries across the department.
You look down at the string around your wrist one last time before pulling your sleeve over it completely.
You can do this—you’ve survived harder things than heartbreak.
You square your shoulders, take the iPad Lena hands you, and step fully into the chaos of the Pitt.
So when Jack glances back at you a moment later, smiling like you’re just another coworker starting a shift, you smile back, pretending that your heart didn’t just fall through the floor.
A FEW MONTHS LATER…
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT SHIFT
By the time the Pitt starts feeling familiar, it’s already too late. You know the rhythm of the department now, the same way you know your own breathing. Which monitor is about to alarm before it starts screaming. Which psych patient is one bad interaction away from throwing a urinal at security, or a resident is about to panic during a difficult intubation.
You know the trauma bay doors stick when it rains, and Lena hides the good coffee above the Pyxis because Ellis steals the decent stuff first, and the fluorescent lights over Hallway C flicker around three in the morning like they’re barely holding on, and you know Jack Abbot’s footsteps before you even see him.
Well, to be honest, that part happens slowly. Shift after shift. Trauma after trauma. Somewhere between your first week and your third month, working beside him stops feeling intimidating and starts feeling natural.
You know how he likes his trauma setups organized. You know he taps his pen twice against the desk when he’s thinking too hard. You know he rubs the back of his neck when he’s exhausted and trying not to show it. And worse—he knows you too.
“Lifeline!” Ellis’ voice cuts across the department as you walk out of Trauma Two carrying an empty suture tray. You stop mid-step. “You people are never letting that nickname die, are you?”
Ellis swivels around in her chair with a grin. “Absolutely not.”
The nickname started during your second week after a pediatric code that had gone catastrophically wrong.
A seven-year-old nearly drowned—no pulse on arrival. The room had dissolved into controlled chaos within seconds—respiratory trying to secure the airway while one of the newer residents nearly froze trying to place an IO line.
Shen, still early enough into residency that panic sometimes beat experience, had looked one second away from completely spiraling.
But through all of it, you had stayed calm.
You’d guided Shen through the tibial IO placement while simultaneously pushing epinephrine prep toward Jack and coordinating compression rotations so nobody burned out too early.
At one point, Ellis had looked up from the monitor and muttered, “Jesus Christ. She’s everybody’s lifeline in here.”
Unfortunately for you, the name stuck. Now, half the ED used it more than your actual name.
“Lifeline, Trauma Two,” Lena calls without looking up from the board.
“On my way.”
Jack steps out of the trauma bay at the same time you do, peeling bloody gloves off his hands. “You steal my nurse again?” he asks Lena.
Lena snorts. “You don’t own her, Abbot.”
“That’s not what I said.”
There’s something easy in the exchange that makes warmth spread unexpectedly through you.
Jack falls into step beside you automatically as you head toward Trauma Two.
“You eat yet?” he asks.
You glance at him suspiciously. “Are you asking because you care or because you need me conscious enough to survive this shift?”
“A little of both.”
You huff out a laugh. Because that’s the problem with Jack. He’s kind in ways that sneak up on you, a quiet attentiveness that drives you nuts. He notices when you haven’t sat down in seven hours or when your hands shake after a bad pediatric trauma and when you’re pushing yourself too hard, and casually hands you a granola bar like he didn’t specifically go looking for one because he knew you skipped dinner.
The kind of doctor who stays with family members after delivering bad news instead of disappearing the second the conversation gets uncomfortable, and the kind of man who wears his wedding ring like it means something sacred.
Which somehow makes all of this hurt even more. Because every soft look. Every quiet joke at three in the morning or moment beside him in a trauma bay—belongs to someone else.
And you know that.
The universe reminds you every single day that the red string hidden beneath the cuff of your scrub jacket pulls tight whenever he gets too close.
You’ve gotten good at ignoring it or pretending to.
TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT
Tonight’s MVA is a disaster. Twenty-six-year-old male. Ejected through the windshield. Hypotensive on arrival. The second EMS wheels him through the ambulance bay doors, and the department shifts gears instantly.
“BP seventy over forty,” Ellis says from the monitor. “Heart rate one-forty.”
“Breath sounds diminished on the left,” Shen adds quickly, trying to keep up.
“Alright, let’s move,” Jack says sharply.
You’re already there.
Trauma shears cut through blood-soaked clothing while respiratory preps for intubation. You place oxygen and start hanging fluids while Jack performs the FAST exam. Free fluid in Morrison’s pouch appears on the screen almost immediately. Internal bleeding, most likely splenic rupture.
“Call OR,” Jack says. “He’s going upstairs.”
“Already on it,” you answer, grabbing the phone before he even finishes speaking. Jack glances toward you over the patient. There’s blood smeared across the sleeve of his scrub top, exhaustion pulled deep into the lines around his eyes. Yet still—that small flicker of trust when he looks at you. He knows you’ll catch whatever he misses.
You hate how much that matters to you.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
By four in the morning, the Pitt settles into its strange version of quiet. You’re charting near Central when the elevator doors open.
Jack’s wife walks out carrying six pizza boxes stacked in her arms.
The entire department visibly brightens.
“Oh thank God,” Ellis says dramatically. “An angel sent from heaven.”
“You people are unbelievable,” she laughs.
Ellis immediately takes two boxes from her. “Respectfully, I would die for you.”
“That’s deeply concerning,” Lena mutters.
“You’re just jealous she likes me more.”
“I absolutely am not.”
You can’t help laughing softly under your breath. There it is again— that awful ache in your heart. Because she’s truly, genuinely wonderful. The universe could’ve at least made her cold, cruel, or difficult.
Instead, she remembers everyone’s coffee orders and asks about your family back home, and brings food for the night shift because she knows none of you remember to eat unless somebody forces you.
“You must be Lifeline.”
You blink, startled when you realize she’s suddenly standing beside you.
Up close, her smile is warm and effortless. You force yourself to smile back. “That obvious, huh?”
“Oh, very,” she says easily. “Jack talks about you all the time.”
Your heart stumbles painfully against your ribs.
Before you can recover, she continues casually, “Apparently, you’re the only reason this department functions after midnight.”
You laugh weakly. “That gives me way too much credit. Obviously, Lena holds everything down.”
“Have you met these people?” she asks quietly, glancing around Central. “I’m pretty sure Shen would eat expired yogurt if left unsupervised.”
“That happened one time,” Shen shouts.
“You were hallucinating by hour two,” Ellis replies.
You laugh again before you can stop yourself, and somehow, talking to her is easy. Isn’t that cruel? Because you like her immediately, she asks about the Philippines, about your family, and how you plan on surviving Pittsburgh winters.
You’re halfway through explaining that black ice feels like a personal attack when Jack walks out of Trauma Two. He tosses his gloves into the biohazard bin before sanitizing his hands automatically. His curls are damp with sweat at the temples now, scrub top wrinkled from the shift.
Then he looks up to find the two of you talking and smiles—soft around the edges in a way that makes your eyes water.
“Well,” his wife says immediately, “there he is.”
Jack points toward the pizza boxes. “You bribing my staff again?”
“Your staff?” Lena repeats flatly from across the desk.
Jack ignores her completely.
His wife gestures toward you. “Lifeline and I decided you’re actually the problem in this department.” You blink. “We did?”
“We did now.”
Jack looks genuinely betrayed, “That was fast.”
“She’s nice,” his wife says simply. Jack’s eyes flick toward you for half a second, warm and amused. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “She is.”
Your pulse skips hard enough you nearly miss it. Coward, coward, coward.
You look away first while his wife grins triumphantly. “See? I win.”
“You gang up on me constantly.”
“Because you’re easy to bully,” you say before thinking.
Jack stares at you in mock offense. “Wow. Okay.”
“You walked into that one,” Ellis says.
“You’re all terrible people.”
His wife reaches up automatically to straighten the collar of his scrub shirt. Such a small gesture, absent-minded and intimate. The kind of touch that only exists between people who know each other completely.
Your wrist aches beneath your sleeve as the string pulls tighter. Still connected to him. So very impossible and still wrong. But somehow, standing there laughing with both of them at four in the morning, you realize something infinitely more dangerous than loving him.
You’re becoming part of their lives.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — LATER
The shift slows near dawn as you’re charting near Central when Jack drops into the chair beside you with a tired exhale.
“You ever think about leaving emergency medicine?” he asks suddenly. You glance sideways. “Every shift.”
“That’s healthy.”
“I think about becoming a florist at least twice a week.”
Jack huffs out a tired laugh. “You’d last six days.”
“Rude.”
“You yelled at a surgeon yesterday.”
“He was wrong.” You pointed out.
“He was technically right.”
“He was spiritually wrong.”
That earns a real laugh from him, the low and warm kind. God. You hold onto sounds like that more than you should. Silence settles comfortably between you afterward—the kind that only exists between people who know each other well. Then, almost absentmindedly, Jack asks, “Have you met your soulmate yet?”
Your fingers stop over the keyboard. For one horrible second, your entire body forgets how to function. But your face stays calm, because years in emergency medicine have made you terrifyingly good at composure. You keep typing as you reply, “Nope.”
Jack glances sideways at you. “At all?” You shrug lightly, forcing your voice steady. “Might just not be in the cards for me.”
Something softens in his expression immediately. Jack looks at people like he wants to understand them, not fix them. “I doubt that,” he says quietly. You stare at the chart on the screen because looking at him feels too dangerous. The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly heavy.
“I mean it,” he continues softly. “Whoever ends up with you is gonna be lucky.”
Your throat tightens painfully as you force a laugh under your breath before the emotion can show on your face. “Smooth.”
“I’m serious.”
The worst part is—he means it. You finally risk looking at him. His eyes are tired and honest in that devastating way that makes lying to him feel terrible.
“I hope whoever you love…” he says quietly, almost like he’s thinking out loud, “loves you back just as much.”
The cruel irony nearly splits you open. Because you already know exactly what loving him feels like. It feels like swallowing it down every single day, pretending friendship is enough because it has to be, while standing three feet away from your soulmate, while he talks about his wife with soft eyes and absolute devotion.
Your eyes sting suddenly, and you blink hard before he notices. “Me too, Jack,” you whisper. You mean it so much it hurts.
“Me too.”
2020, COVID PANDEMIC
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
The world changes fast. One week, people are joking about a virus overseas between trauma calls and coffee runs, and then the next week, the Pitt is overflowing.
Then, suddenly, every hallway smells like bleach and sanitizer, strong enough to burn your nose through the mask. Every shift feels like drowning—N95s cutting grooves into your skin, face shields fogging every time you breathe, and isolation gowns crackling every time you move.
The emergency department transforms into something unrecognizable almost overnight. There are no visitors or waiting rooms full of family. Alarms, intubations, oxygen sats dropping, and the sound of ventilators become part of the background noise of your life. Everyone starts looking exhausted, and then everyone starts looking haunted. You stop recognizing your coworkers without PPE. Even you stop recognizing yourself.
Through all of it, Jack keeps working.
You think maybe the entire world could collapse around him and he’d still show up for trauma shift fifteen minutes early with coffee in one hand and exhaustion carved into his face. Some nights, the two of you barely talk beyond patient updates. There isn’t time. Not anymore. Every room is full, and the waiting room looks like a war zone; people are dying faster than you can process. But even through the masks and face shields and layers of plastic, you still know him.
You know the crease between his brows when he’s worried and the exhaustion in his posture. The look in his eyes when a patient reminds him too much of somebody else.
To add to that, around the beginning of the pandemic, his wife dies. Not from COVID, which somehow makes it more merciless.
Pedestrian versus drunk driver—DOA. The call comes in just after midnight. You don’t know it’s her at first. Female in her late thirties. Severe head trauma. Massive internal injuries. CPR in progress.
The paramedics wheel her through the doors while respiratory rushes to clear Trauma One. For one horrible second, before you even see her face, the red string around Jack’s wrist burns.
You freeze, not because you understand yet. Because something deep inside you already does.
Then Jack steps into the trauma room, and everything stops. You watch recognition hit him in real time, the way his body locks up and how color drains from his face beneath the mask.
“No,” he says immediately, as if he says it softly enough, maybe reality will change its mind.
“No.”
Lena moves first.
“Jack—”
“That’s my wife.”
The room goes dead silent. Even with monitors alarming and compressions ongoing, along with Shen asking for another round of epi.
It all disappears under the sound of Jack’s voice breaking.
You’ve seen grief before—you work in emergency medicine, so you see it every day. But nothing prepares you for the sound a person makes when their entire life shatters in front of them. Jack tries to step forward, but Lena catches him immediately. “Jack.”
“No, let me—”
“Jack.”
“She’s still warm—”
His voice cracks apart on the words. The paramedic quietly says they found no pulse on scene. Prolonged downtime. Non-survivable head trauma. You can’t breathe—nobody can.
Jack looks at his wife lying on the trauma bed like he genuinely cannot understand what he’s seeing; his brain refuses to process it. Blood in her hair and on the sheet, with her wedding ring still on her hand. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist pulls painfully tight—before snapping loose.
Jack stares at his own wrist instinctively. The string tied there—gone. His face crumples. All that’s left is a man realizing the universe just took something from him that it can never give back.
COVID restrictions mean none of you are allowed at the funeral. No gathering or reception. No sitting beside him in church or placing a hand on his shoulder in comfort; bringing food to his house while relatives fill the rooms with noise and stories and grief.
Only Zoom.
Fucking Zoom.
You sit alone in your apartment at three in the afternoon after night shift, still in scrubs because you were too tired to change, laptop balanced on your kitchen table.
Everyone’s little squares flicker on-screen. Lena is crying silently, Ellis is muted, while Shen is trying and failing not to cry. Multiple other night shift staff are trying their best to pull themselves together—to be brave for Jack.
While Jack is sitting alone in a black button-down shirt in a house that suddenly looks too empty.
He looks hollow. That’s the only word for it. Hollowed out from the inside. You realize halfway through the service that he hasn’t stopped twisting his wedding ring around his finger once. Maybe he believes that if he keeps touching it, maybe she’s still here somehow.
You cry with your microphone muted.
Afterward, nobody knows what to say. There are no casseroles or hugs. No standing together in shared grief. Only little squares blink off one by one until Jack is the last person left in the call.
You stay after everyone disconnects. “You should sleep,” you say quietly. Jack lets out a humorless laugh, “Yeah.”
But he doesn’t move, and neither do you. Finally, he says, “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
There it is… the unbearable part, because she died instantly—no final words or closure. She was there one second—gone the next.
You press your lips together hard enough that they hurt as you faintly say, “I’m so sorry, Jack.”
He nods once because he’s heard it too many times already. Then his face folds inward suddenly, grief cracking through whatever fragile composure he’s been holding together. You’ve never seen him cry before, not really. Now he looks destroyed by it.
“I keep thinking she’s gonna walk through the door,” he whispers. “I keep forgetting for like… five seconds.”
Your lungs ache so violently that it feels unbearable.
Because despite everything—despite the string and the guilt and all the ways you tried to keep your distance—you love him. And loving someone means you cannot stand there and watch them suffer alone.
Not him.
Never him.
So you stay.
At first casually, then constantly, you start checking on him between shifts. You bring coffee, he forgets to drink, and force him to eat crackers during overnight shifts because grief has hollowed him thin. You sit beside him in the break room when he can’t sleep between traumas.
Some nights he talks, and there are nights he doesn’t. Later on, you learn grief has moods. Some days he’s numb, and some days he’s angry. Or days, a patient wearing the same perfume as his wife nearly sends him spiraling mid-shift. Once, after losing a COVID patient around his wife’s age, Jack locks himself in the stairwell for twenty minutes.
You find him there eventually. Still in PPE with his face shield shoved onto the top of his head, breathing hard like he’s trying not to come apart.
You sit beside him without saying anything. For a long time, neither of you speaks. The stairwell is cold through your scrub pants, concrete hard beneath you. Somewhere beyond the heavy metal door, the hospital keeps moving. Monitors alarming. Phones ringing. Ventilators hissing.
Life continued like his world didn’t just end.
Jack sits one step below you, elbows braced against his knees, surgical cap shoved halfway off his head. His N95 hangs loose around his neck now, leaving angry red pressure marks across his skin. He appears worn out in a manner unrelated to sleep. The type of tiredness that becomes bone-deep.
For a while, all you hear is his controlled breathing, but then, you know, if he lets himself lose control for even a second, he’ll never stop. Then quietly, without looking at you, Jack says, “I don’t know who I am without her.”
You nearly shatter at his confession, because it’s proof he loved her so completely. You saw it every day in small, ordinary ways. In the way his face softened when she walked into the department carrying takeout, or the absent-minded way he leaned toward her without realizing it. In the wedding ring, he twisted whenever he talked about her during quieter shifts. He loved her with the kind of certainty people spend their whole lives searching for, and somehow that only makes you love him more.
You look down at your hands, clasped tightly in your lap.
“At work?” you say softly after a moment. “You’re still Jack.” A weak laugh escapes him, humorless and tired, “Very inspirational speech.”
“I’m serious.”
You glance toward him carefully. Even now, he’s still wearing blood on the sleeve of his isolation gown from the code downstairs. His curls are damp with sweat, exhaustion carved deep into the lines around his eyes.
"When everything hurts," you say carefully, "you don't have to figure out how to survive the next ten years."
Jack finally looks up, with his eyes bloodshot, red-rimmed, and devastatingly tired. "You just find the next thing." His brow furrows slightly as you keep going, "The next cup of coffee that tastes okay."
A faint huff of breath leaves him.
"The next shift." You offer a small smile. "The next stupid joke Shen makes that isn't actually funny."
That earns the ghost of an eye roll—you take it.
"The next hour. The next day." Your throat tightens, but you push through it, "And eventually..." Your voice softens. "Eventually you realize you've made it farther than you thought you could."
Jack stares at you, fully paying attention and listening.
"The pain doesn't disappear," you admit quietly. "Some losses stay with you forever. But one day you wake up, and it isn't the first thing you feel."
The stairwell falls silent again, and you watch as Jack's eyes close briefly as if the possibility of hope hurts. When he opens them again, there's something unbearably raw there—something stripped bare. "You really believe that?" The question comes out almost broken, and you don't hesitate as you reply, "Yes."
Because you have to, for him, for yourself, and for every patient you've ever watched claw their way through impossible things.
"Yes," you repeat softly. Jack studies your face for a long moment—searching for something there. Maybe hope or permission. Or proof that somebody still sees him underneath all the grief. Then he gives one small, fragile nod, because he's trying very hard to believe you, too.
A softer shared silence settles between you again afterward. You remain beside him on the stairwell steps while the hospital hums around you. Two exhausted healthcare workers in the middle of a pandemic. One grieving the loss of the love of his life. The other grieving quietly beside him. Then, after a long time, you speak again.
Your voice barely rises above a whisper, "I don't think there's such a thing as a good goodbye." Jack doesn't look away, but you stare at the concrete floor.
"People say it gets easier. That you find closure. That eventually you make peace with it." Your fingers tighten together. "But I think losing someone just becomes part of you. You learn how to carry it." Your throat burns, "There are days when you think you're okay. Days when you laugh and work and breathe normally." You glance toward him. "And then something happens. A song, a smell, maybe a memory.” Blinking back your tears, you revealed, "The grief finds you again."
Jack's eyes shine slightly as you continue softly, "Not because you failed to move on." Your voice wavers. "But because they mattered."
A long silence follows. Then, quietly—"So what am I supposed to do?" When he asks the question, it sounds incredibly trivial.
You look at Jack—at the man who spent years helping everyone else survive. He stayed with frightened soldiers, and loved his wife so completely that even death couldn't erase her from him.
"Keep loving her," you say softly, and Jack's breath catches. "Just don't let her be the reason you stop living, too."
The silence that follows feels sacred, somewhere beneath your sleeve, hidden from the world, the red string wrapped around your wrist aches. Not because it hurts, but because for the first time since she died, you realize you would carry his grief with him for as long as he needed.
Even if he never knew.
2021
YOUR APARTMENT — NIGHT
By late 2021, you recognize the symptoms almost immediately. The exhaustion first. Not normal exhaustion—the kind every ER nurse carries around like a second heartbeat—but something meaner. The sort that becomes deeply ingrained in your bones and wears you out just by standing straight.
Then the fever, then it’s the cough that follows soon after, and the body aches that feel like somebody took a hammer to every joint you have.
You take the rapid test in your bathroom with trembling hands, already knowing what the result will be before the second line even appears.
Positive.
You stare at it for a long moment anyway, “Fuck.”
You’d been vaccinated months ago. Healthcare workers got priority access early on, one of the very few benefits of spending every shift neck-deep in a pandemic. And thank God for that, because without it, you’re almost certain this would’ve landed you intubated in an ICU somewhere.
Still—it hits you hard.
Your immune system has never exactly been reliable. Too many years of stress, skipped meals, night shifts, and pushing yourself past exhaustion had seen to that long before COVID ever existed.
So you quarantine immediately with no qualms or arguments. Immediately, you text Lena and Dana to tell them that you’ve contracted COVID-19. Then you lock yourself inside your apartment and prepare to wait it out.
The loneliness settles in fast after that. The first day isn’t terrible, but the second day is worse. By the third day, you genuinely feel like you’re losing your mind. Your apartment suddenly feels too small and too quiet. Every surface smells faintly of disinfectant and cough drops. Empty Gatorade bottles and medication wrappers clutter your coffee table because you’re too exhausted to clean properly.
You sleep in fragments. Wake up drenched in sweat. Cough until your ribs ache. Then fall asleep again, only to wake up disoriented an hour later. You try texting your family back home once, but hearing your mother’s worried voice over FaceTime nearly makes you cry, so you stop answering calls after that.
You tell everyone you’re fine. You’re not.
One particularly bad night, you sit on the bathroom floor wrapped in a blanket because the cold tiles feel good against your feverish skin, genuinely debating at what oxygen saturation you’d finally call an ambulance.
Ninety-three? Ninety-two?
You know too much…that’s the problem. You’re aware exactly how quickly patients can crash, and what respiratory distress looks like. You know what COVID sounds like when it starts settling deeper into the lungs. And alone in your apartment at two in the morning, feverish and exhausted and struggling not to spiral, you think: If this gets worse, I’m gonna end up at Presby or PTMC.
By day five, your phone is full of unread texts. Lena is checking in, Shen is sending memes, and Ellis is threatening to physically fight you if you don’t hydrate. But then there’s Jack calling twice… then three times.
You don’t answer any of them. Not intentionally. Your brain feels too foggy to function most of the time. Looking at your phone takes effort you barely have energy for. So when there’s suddenly a knock at your apartment door that evening, you frown from beneath your blanket without moving.
Probably the wrong apartment.
Another knock. Then—your real name, muffled through the door in a voice you’d recognize half-asleep.
“Hey.”
Your stomach drops.
No.
Absolutely not.
You push yourself upright too quickly and immediately regret it when dizziness crashes over you. You stumble toward the door anyway, coughing into your elbow before peeking through the peephole.
And there he is.
Jack Abbot. Standing outside your apartment in full PPE. N95. Face shield. Gloves. Isolation gown. Holding a plastic takeout bag in one hand. You stare at him in complete disbelief before yanking yourself back from the door. “Jack?!”
“Oh, good,” his voice comes through the other side, dry with relief. “You’re alive.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” you hiss through the door. “How did you even find where I live?”
“Lena told me… and Dana.”
Traitors.
You lean your forehead briefly against the door, exhausted. “You can’t be here,” you argue weakly. “You could get sick.” Jack snorts softly from the hallway, “Lifeline, we work in an emergency department.”
“That is not comforting!”
“Also,” he continues, ignoring you completely, “is there a reason you’ve been ignoring my texts and calls?”
You close your eyes briefly. Honestly, you hadn’t even realized how many messages you missed.
“Jack—”
“Open the door.”
You blink as you screech, “Are you fucking insane? No.” His voice lowers slightly then, gentler but firmer somehow. “Lifeline.”
Somewhere behind your ribs, the moniker settles heated and perilous.
“Open the door.”
You stare at the wood for a long moment. Then, against every ounce of common sense you possess, you unlock it. The second the door cracks open, Jack’s eyes immediately scan over you clinically. You can practically see the ER doctor in him assessing your flushed skin, fatigue, and mild shortness of breath. The way you’re subtly bracing yourself against the wall to stay upright. In an instant, his face tightens.
"Oh," he murmurs. Somehow, that soft little sound embarrasses you more than if he’d outright said you looked terrible. You cross your arms defensively, “I look worse than I feel.”
“That’s concerning, because you look awful.”
You let out a tired laugh despite yourself, immediately coughing afterward. Jack’s eyes narrow behind the face shield, “How high’s the fever?”
“It’s fine.”
“Temperature.”
“One-oh-one earlier.”
“And oxygen?”
You hesitate half a second too long, and Jack notices immediately, “Lifeline.”
“Ninety-four. I’ve been checking my Apple Watch.”
His jaw tightens, “Okay.”
You step aside reluctantly. “There’s hand sanitizer and ethyl alcohol everywhere. I’ve been disinfecting the place whenever I can.”
Jack walks inside carefully, setting the takeout bag down near the kitchen counter. Your apartment suddenly feels unbearably small with him standing in it. Messy blankets on the couch. Medications scattered across the coffee table. Laundry you’ve been too sick to fold. You suddenly want the earth to swallow you whole. “Sorry,” you mutter. “It’s kind of a disaster.”
Jack glances around once before looking back at you. “I’ve seen residents cry over missing lab results. This is nothing.” That earns another weak laugh out of you while he pulls out one of the dining chairs and gestures toward it, “Sit down before you fall down.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“You almost passed out opening the door.”
Rude.
You sit anyway because standing suddenly feels impossible, and Jack immediately starts fussing. Taking your temperature again. Checking your pulse ox. Asking when you last ate.
In a manner that hurts your core, it's somehow intimate. After observing him in silence for a while, you gently inquire, "Why are you here?"
Jack pauses before he shrugs one shoulder like the answer should be obvious. “Because I know you.”
“You don’t have family here,” he continues quietly. “No roommates. No neighbors you’re close enough with to help if things go bad.” He leans back slightly in the chair across from you.
“You moved halfway across the world by yourself,” he says. “So yeah. I came to do a welfare check.” Something warm and painful twists in your chest all at once, so you try covering it with humor. “Am I that unlucky or just that special?”
Jack looks at you for a long moment. Then, softly, he replies, “Just that special.” The room goes very still while your pulse stutters painfully against your ribs. Jack clears his throat first, looking away. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.”
He gives you a tired, unimpressed look immediately, “Don’t start with me.” You sigh, shoulders slumping. “I feel…” You swallow hard. “Honestly? Like I got hit by a truck.”
Jack nods once like he expected that answer. “My chest hurts when I cough,” you admit quietly. “And I’m exhausted all the time. Walking to the bathroom feels like running a 10k.”
Jack’s expression softens instantly to concern. “Okay,” he says gently. “That sounds about right for breakthrough COVID.”
You laugh weakly, “Reassuring.”
“You’re vaccinated. Your sats are holding. Fever sucks, but you’re stable.” His voice shifts into that calm doctor cadence you’ve heard him use with terrified patients a hundred times before.
“You’re gonna feel miserable for a little while,” he says softly. “But you’re not dying.”
The ridiculous thing is—you believe him immediately. Maybe because it’s Jack, he always sounds certain even when the world is falling apart. Or maybe because after spending almost a week alone in your apartment feeling terrified and sick and invisible—having somebody show up for you feels dangerously close to relief.
Somewhere beneath the fever and exhaustion and the red string hidden under your sleeve, you realize this is the first time since his wife died that Jack has willingly stepped into somebody else’s home again.
The thought nearly breaks your heart.
Grief has a way of shrinking people's worlds—you'd watched it happen to Jack in real time. After his wife died, he stopped inviting people over. Stopped talking about home or lingering after conversations that might eventually end with someone asking how he was doing outside of work. The walls had gone up slowly. Brick by brick. Most people probably never noticed, but you did. Yet here he is, standing in your cluttered apartment with a stethoscope in one hand and a grocery bag full of electrolyte drinks in the other.
"Drink."
You stare at the bottle he shoves toward you, "You're very bossy outside the hospital."
"Drink." He insists.
"Is this because I ignored your texts?"Jack gives you a look, the one he usually reserves for patients actively making terrible decisions. "Partly."
You sigh dramatically and take the bottle, "Happy?"
"No."
That catches your attention. You look up, and Jack is standing near the kitchen counter, arms folded across his chest. The concern on his face isn't hidden anymore. Hasn't been since he walked through the door. "You should've told somebody you were this sick." Your laugh comes out hoarse, "I did."
"No." Jack shakes his head, "You told people you were fine."
"...I was trying not to worry anyone."
"You had a one-oh-one fever and couldn't walk to your bathroom without getting winded."
You look away because when he says it like that, it sounds bad. "It sounds worse when you say it."
"That's because it is worse."
You can't help smiling, but that only seems to annoy him more.
"Why are you smiling?"
"You care."
Jack stares and then immediately looks away. Your fever-addled brain doesn't miss the faint flush creeping up his neck. "Of course I care."
The answer comes too naturally, and for some reason, that makes something warm settle beneath your body. The television murmurs faintly in the background, forgotten as Jack eventually disappears into your kitchen. You hear cabinets opening and then closing. A frustrated sigh leaves him, "How do you have absolutely no food?"
"I have food."
"You have soy sauce and olive oil."
"That's food-adjacent."
Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. "You work in healthcare."
"So do you."
"I know."
"Have you seen what doctors eat?"
He points at you from across the room, "Deflection."
You grin while Jack shakes his head again, but he opens the takeout containers anyway and pours you soup. Then make sure you actually eat it and wait until you're halfway through before finally sitting down. The quiet and unexpected realization sneaks up on him that somehow—he likes taking care of you. Because it shouldn't feel this good. It shouldn't feel this natural to be here. To fuss over your fever, refill your water glass, and check your pulse ox every twenty minutes because he doesn't trust you not to lie about your symptoms.
Yet every time he glances up and sees you curled beneath a blanket on the couch, alive and stubborn and complaining—something in his heart eases. The same feeling he gets when a trauma patient finally stabilizes. When someone he was worried about turns out okay. Only different. This time, it’s more personal and complicated.
You cough suddenly, and Jack is moving before he even realizes it, quickly handing you water. Waiting until the coughing fit passes. Your eyes lift toward him over the rim of the glass. It’s soft and sleepy. "Thank you." Your words are quiet and sincere.
And God help him—that does something to him. Something he doesn't examine too closely.
Because if he does—he might have to ask himself questions he's not ready to answer. Questions like why spending an afternoon taking care of you feels better than spending it anywhere else, or why your apartment already feels strangely familiar. Why did the idea of you being here alone all week bother him so much?
Instead, he focuses on something safer—annoyance. "You know," he says, sitting back in his chair, "your soulmate's doing a terrible job."
You blink at that, frowning, "What?" Jack shrugs, "If they're out there somewhere, they're slacking." A surprised laugh escapes you. "What does that even mean?"
"It means," he says, gesturing vaguely toward your blanket burrito state, "you're sick. Alone. Living on cough drops and spite."
"I had soup."
"You had olive oil."
"That was one time."
Jack rolls his eyes, "My point stands." A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "They should've shown up by now." The joke is spoken carelessly, and he doesn't know it nearly stops your heart.
You look away first, toward the rain-streaked window, literally anywhere but him. Because if you look at Jack right now—if you look at the man sitting in your apartment, taking care of you, worrying over you, complaining about a soulmate who never appeared—you might break.
The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly burdensome. But Jack doesn't notice, he's too busy opening another bottle of water and making sure your fever isn't climbing again. Somewhere in the quiet warmth of your apartment, he doesn’t realize the irony. Jack is sitting exactly where he should be. Doing exactly what he was supposed to do, and somehow, he can’t see it yet.
2023
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
Five years ago, you were the new nurse from the Philippines. Now you're simply part of the Pitt. Nobody really introduces you anymore. You're just there, part of the machinery. You know where everything is and everyone's habits. Or when Ellis is pretending to chart and is actually looking for the next best place to nap for her double. You know when Shen is about to spiral before he even realizes it himself. By now, you have memorized Lena's "I'm not mad, I'm disappointed" face is significantly more terrifying than actual anger.
Somewhere along the way—you became one of the safest places in Jack's life. Neither of you meant for that to happen.
It just did.
There are hundreds of tiny moments, none of which seem important on their own. But together, they're devastating. A patient's husband is screaming in the hallway after a failed resuscitation. Security is trying to de-escalate, family members are crying, and the entire department feels tense. Then, appearing devastated, Jack leaves the room but not in a noticeable way. Most people wouldn't recognize it, but you do.
You don't say anything; instead, you simply hand him a cup of coffee. Exactly how he takes it. He looks down at it, then at you. "Mind reader?" You shrug, "You looked like you needed caffeine." The corner of his mouth twitches, "Thanks."
Somehow, that small smile stays with him the rest of the shift.
Another night, it’s three in the morning. Everyone's fucking exhausted. You're sitting on the floor of the supply room because it's the only place nobody can find you for five minutes. Jack opens the door and stops. He finds you sitting there cross-legged, eating stale vending machine pretzels. "You hiding?"
"No."
"You are literally hiding."
You hold up a pretzel, defensive, "This is self-care." Jack stares at you, then, to your horror, he sits beside you on the floor. Like it's completely normal. "You know we're adults, right?" he asks.
"Says the man eating peanut butter crackers for dinner." Jack looks offended; he scoffs, "I had a protein bar." You roll your eyes at that, "Oh. Well, that's different."
His laugh echoes through the tiny room. It’s warm and unrestrained. The sound settles somewhere dangerous inside your chest. Then the days keep passing by, and then the days turn into months, then it’s another shift, another trauma.
Another impossible night.
A frightened little girl refuses to let go of your hand while waiting for stitches. You're sitting beside her bed, explaining every step of the procedure. Making balloon animals out of gloves while telling ridiculous stories.
By the time you're finished, she's laughing. You don't notice Jack standing in the doorway watching or the expression on his face either. The one that lingers long after he walks away. Because somewhere over the years, admiration has quietly become affection.
Affection has started becoming something else—something he doesn't have a name for yet. Jack's issue is that he doesn't immediately feel things. Without thinking, he simply begins searching for you first.
A difficult trauma comes in? His eyes automatically find yours. A bad shift? He looks for you at Central. A joke occurs to him? He wants to tell you. A patient reminds him of something sad? Somehow, you're the person he ends up talking to.
It happens gradually enough that neither of you notices.
Until everyone else does.
"You know Abbot's gonna have a breakdown if Lifeline ever leaves, right?" Ellis says it casually while charting. You nearly choke on your coffee, "What?" Across the desk, Shen immediately nods. "Oh, absolutely."
"Parker."
"I'm serious."
You point threateningly, "Stop." Parker raises both hands. "Hey, I don't make the rules."
You refuse to acknowledge the strange warmth crawling up your neck. Because if you acknowledge it—you'll have to acknowledge the way your heart still skips whenever Jack smiles at you. After all these years, that feels pathetic.
2024
PTMC, MAIN ENTRANCE — DAY
The rain starts sometime around six in the morning. Not a drizzle—a proper Pittsburgh downpour. The kind that turns streets silver and pounds against windows hard enough to drown out conversation.
After twelve hours of chaos, the entire department begins filtering out toward the parking garage and bus stops. You finally clock out around seven—exhausted and half-awake, absolutely ready for sleep.
When you step outside, you immediately spot Jack standing beneath the small emergency department awning.
Watching the rain… alone with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. Looking at him, you pause, "You're still here?"
Jack glances over, "My car's in the shop."
That explains it.
"How'd you get here?"
"Rideshare."
You look out toward the street, and the rain is somehow worse now. Jack follows your gaze, "Trying to decide how miserable walking home is gonna be." You glance over, "What happened to your ride?"
Jack lets out a tired breath, "Canceled."
"What?"
"Driver got stuck downtown." You wince at that, and he pulls his phone from his pocket and turns the screen toward you. The rideshare app is a disaster—surge pricing, long wait times. One estimate says thirty-eight minutes, while another says unavailable. Apparently, every exhausted healthcare worker in Pittsburgh had the same idea after shift. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Yeah." Jack stuffs his phone away again. "I've been refreshing it for ten minutes."
You look back toward the rain, then down at the umbrella dangling from your wrist, and then back at him. You ask, "No umbrella?"
"Nope."
You stare at him, then at the rain… and then at the very obvious lack of any workable plan. So, without thinking twice, you hold the umbrella out. Jack blinks, looks at the umbrella, and then at you. Then back at the umbrella. It's baby pink and covered in tiny Miffy rabbits. The ears are even printed around the trim—the thing looks aggressively cheerful.
"You serious?"
"Very."
A laugh escapes him, a real one. Low and surprised and completely unguarded. It's probably the first genuine laugh you've heard from him all shift, maybe longer. You feel absurdly proud of yourself as you snort, "Sorry about the color."
Jack studies the umbrella again, "I think I'll survive."
"You sure? Might destroy your reputation."
"My reputation was already questionable."
"Fair."
You press the handle into his hand without hesitation, because that's just who you are. Someone needs help, so you help; it's that simple. Jack looks genuinely baffled. "Wait."
You pause.
"What about you?" He asks, concerned. You shrug. The rain is cold, and the morning is gray. You've worked twelve hours, and your back hurts, along with your feet. But somehow none of that feels important. "I live closer than you do."
"Lifeline."
"Jack."
"You'll get soaked."
You smile, bright and softly. The same smile you've given frightened patients, overwhelmed residents, and grieving family members. You shrug, "It's rain."
His brow furrows, "You say that like hypothermia isn't a thing." You laugh at that, "I'm from the Philippines. Rain and I have a long-standing relationship."
"That's not remotely reassuring."
"It shouldn't be."
Jack shakes his head, but he's smiling now, which gives you a bit of peace. His eyes linger on you a second too long. Or maybe you're imagining it. You probably are—you usually are. Then you add quietly, "Besides, sometimes life is easier when you stop trying to avoid every uncomfortable thing."
Jack's expression softens, and you glance toward the rain. "Sometimes you just accept you're gonna get soaked and go home anyway." Neither of you says anything for a little bit. Because you both know that your words aren't really about the rain, neither of you acknowledges it. A laugh escapes him again, and he shakes his head, "You always have an answer for everything."
"No." You step backward toward the edge of the awning, and the cold rain immediately spatters against your scrub pants while you grin. "You just have to trust you'll be okay once you get there."
That gets another laugh out of him, the kind that reaches his eyes. You would do almost anything to keep hearing that sound. The umbrella remains clutched in his hand. Pink, ridiculous, and entirely yours. But for some reason, he can't stop staring at it. Or at you, standing in the rain, completely unapologetically yourself. No performance or hidden agenda. Only your kindness offered freely, as if giving away the only thing keeping you dry is the most natural decision in the world.
The thing is—Jack has spent years watching people take. Watching grief take, life and death take. And you...You are always giving… your time, your patience, and your terrible vending machine snacks. Your heart, if someone needed it badly enough. Now, it’s your umbrella.
Something warm twists unexpectedly inside of him, and he feels tingling all over his skin, as well as his mouth begins to dry. You lift a hand in farewell, "See you tomorrow, Dr. Abbot."
Then you turn and jog into the rain, water immediately drenches your hair, and you laugh when your shoe splashes into a puddle. You keep running anyway. While Jack just stands there—watching, until you disappear around the corner. Long after you're gone, he remains beneath the awning with your pink umbrella still hanging from his hand.
The rideshare app was forgotten entirely, and the rain pounded against the pavement as the morning traffic crawled by. For the first time in a very long time—the thought of going home doesn't feel quite as lonely. He looks down at the ridiculous little umbrella again. Then, despite himself, he smiles. Because somehow the damn thing feels exactly like you.
2025
NIGHTCLUB, PITTSBURGH — NIGHT
The music is loud enough to vibrate through your ribs. Honestly, you're having fun, a rare occurrence these days. Between night shifts and overtime and trying to maintain some semblance of a social life outside of the Pitt, opportunities to be a normal twenty-something are increasingly rare.
So when a few friends invited you out, you said yes. You danced, drank, and laughed. You let yourself forget about work for a few hours, and somewhere between your second drink and the realization that your feet hurt, you discovered a very important problem.
Your apartment keys were gone—completely vanished, you checked your purse three times. Your jacket pockets twice, then the bathroom counter, next the bar, and still nothing. Which is how you found yourself sitting in a booth near the back of the club with your phone pressed to your ear.
Waiting for Jack to answer.
He picks up on the second ring, "Everything okay?" You immediately relax, which is probably a problem. "Maybe."
Jack sighs, the sound of a man who has known you far too long, "What happened?" You look mournfully into your drink, "I lost my keys." A pause on the other end, and then, "You what?"
"They're gone."
"Lifeline."
"They disappeared."
"Keys don't disappear."
"They absolutely do."
The music swells around you, and someone screams happily near the dance floor. Through the phone, Jack suddenly goes quiet. He asks, "Where are you?"
You blink, "Huh?"
"Where are you?"
You frown, then glance up at the neon sign hanging over the bar, "Oh." You tell him the club's name. The silence on the other end lasts approximately two seconds before you hear him ask, "How are you getting home?"
You wave a hand vaguely despite the fact he can't see you, "M'gonna Uber." The words come out more slurred than intended. Silence... a long silence, then you hear him sigh, "Jesus Christ."
"It’s not that bad—"
"No."
You open your mouth to argue, but Jack beats you to it. "I'm picking you up." You immediately sober, exclaiming, "What?"
"Do not leave with anybody."
"Jack—"
"Do not get into a stranger's car."
"That's literally what Uber is." You throw back in response.
"Lifeline." The warning in his voice makes you sit up straighter. "I'm serious. Stay where you are."
"Jack—"
"I'm already grabbing my keys."
Your stomach flips unexpectedly as you point out, "You're working tomorrow."
"So are you."
"Jack."
His voice drops lower, gentler as he begs, "Please." And that ends the argument before it starts. You stare at your drink and reluctantly reply, "...Okay."
"Good." A beat and then you hear, "Don't hang up."
Twenty-five minutes later, Jack walks into the club and promptly forgets how to breathe, because he has never seen you like this before. At work, you're always in scrubs, with your hair pulled back, minimal makeup, and practical shoes.
Tonight—tonight you look nothing like the nurse who steals his coffee and argues with surgeons. Your hair is down, and your makeup catches the flashing lights every time you move. The outfit you're wearing should probably be illegal—at least that's what his traitorous brain immediately decides. Far too much skin and too beautiful—too distracting.
Jack stares for half a second too long, but then immediately hates himself for it. Because he's Jack and you're you. You're his friend, and he's forty-something years old and should absolutely know better. But the sudden realization that other people are staring at you, too, fills him with an entirely unreasonable amount of irritation. There are multiple reasons he hates that realization—none of them are good. You spot him immediately, and relief floods your face, "Jack!"
Somehow that's worse—because you're happy to see him, you always are. Jack pushes through the crowd toward your booth. He asks, "You okay?"
You grin, a little tipsy and a little tired, "Hi."
"That's not an answer."
"I lost my keys."
"You mentioned."
You immediately point at him, "I looked."
"I believe you."
"I looked everywhere."
Jack softens despite himself, "I know."
Just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The amount of trust you've placed in him over the years—it sneaks up on him sometimes, along with the amount he's placed in you. Neither of you ever talks about it—it's just simply there.
"Where are your friends?"
You blink.
"Oh."
You glance toward the dance floor, where your group has completely disappeared into the crowd. One of them is standing on a platform dancing with a stranger. Another appears to be attempting karaoke despite there being no karaoke machine. Honestly, nobody looks remotely concerned about your whereabouts. You point vaguely, "Over there." Jack follows your finger, and immediately regrets it. "Jesus."
You laugh, "They're having fun."
"They look like a liability."
"They are." A pause, then you smile warmly at him. The kind of smile that's become increasingly difficult for him to ignore lately.
"You ready to head home?" The question comes out gentler than he intended. Your expression softens immediately. "Mhm."
There’s no argument because the answer was always going to be yes. After all, it's him asking. Something in Jack's chest tightens unexpectedly. You climb out of the booth and wobble slightly when your heel catches on the edge of the floor. His hand is on your elbow before either of you thinks about it. It’s steady and instinctive—the contact lasts barely a second, but you both notice. Your eyes flick down to his hand, then back up to his face. Neither of you says anything, and Jack clears his throat first before he lets go, "You good?"
You nod immediately, "Mhm. Yep." Then point at him. "I need to go tell them I'm not being kidnapped by you."
The laugh that escapes him is helpless, "You go do that."
You grin, "Okay.” Before turning toward the dance floor, you lightly tap his arm. It’s a small gesture, mindless and affectionate. The kind of touch friends make without thinking. Yet Jack feels it long after you've disappeared into the crowd. He watches you weave through the dancers. Watch you throw your arms around one of your friends.
You laugh at something that makes your whole face light up, and standing there in the middle of a crowded nightclub, surrounded by strangers and flashing lights and music loud enough to shake the floor—Jack suddenly realizes he's smiling. He's smiling because you're happy and somewhere deep down, in a place he has been carefully avoiding for a very long time—he knows that's becoming a problem.
You weave your way through the crowd, dodging dancers and spilled drinks, until you finally find your friends near the center of the dance floor. One of them immediately grabs your arm, "There you are!" You laugh, "Apparently, I'm leaving."
"What?" another groans theatrically. "Already?"
You point toward the edge of the club—toward Jack. Standing near the entrance with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, waiting. The second your friends spot him, several heads swivel at once. Then all of them turn suspiciously slowly back toward you.
"Ohhh."
You immediately know that tone, you shake your head, "No."
"That's the doctor."
"No."
"The hot doctor."
You cover your face, "Oh my God." One of them leans closer, asking, "Is he your boyfriend?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Very."
"Because he definitely looks like he's here to pick up his girlfriend." Heat floods your face instantly, "No, he does not."
Across the room, Jack glances over, as if sensing he's being talked about. But when he spots you, his expression visibly relaxes. And unfortunately, your friends see that too. "Oh my God."
You groan, "Stop."
"He likes you."
"He does not."
"He drove here to rescue you from yourself."
"That's called friendship."
"That's called middle-aged pining." You nearly choke, "Please never say those words again."
Laughter follows you all the way back toward the entrance, and Jack looks mildly concerned the closer you get. "You okay?"
"Apparently not."
He narrows his eyes at your response, "What happened?"
"My friends are terrible people."
"Fair."
You point at him, "Don't encourage them."
"I'm not encouraging anybody."
"Liar."
The corner of his mouth twitches, and just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The simple fact that he's here has solved half the problem already. Then you take two steps toward the exit, but Jack is moving before he even thinks about it. One hand catches your elbow, and the other settles briefly at your waist, steadying you. The contact is innocent, but your breath catches anyway. It’s practical and necessary, at least that's what both of you tell yourselves.
"Whoa there." Jack says, and you blink up at him, then immediately start laughing, "I think the floor moved."
"The floor did not move."
"It absolutely moved."
"Lifeline."
"I'm just saying." Jack shakes his head, and his hand doesn't immediately leave your waist. Neither of you seems to notice. Or maybe both of you notice too much. "Come on."
You allow him to guide you outside, and the cool night air hits immediately. Rain lingers on the pavement, turning the streets into rivers of reflected neon. You inhale deeply, then sway again. Jack catches you before it becomes a problem. His hand settles more firmly against your side this time, and your body immediately relaxes into the contact like it's familiar.
Jack notices that too. "You good?" He asked, and you nod, "Mhm." A beat, and then you add, "The ground's still suspicious."
That earns a real laugh out of him, and you love that sound.
The parking lot isn't far, but Jack keeps his hand on your waist the entire walk there. Just in case… well, at least that's what he tells himself. Not because he likes the feeling of you beside him or how perfectly you fit there.
Just in case. That's all…. at least for tonight.
Jack sighs. The long-suffering sigh of a man who spends his life dealing with stubborn people. "Come on."
You allow him to guide you… well. at least until you nearly walk directly into a group of people entering the club. Jack catches your shoulder and redirects you gently, "Okay."
"What?"
His hand settles more firmly against your back, "Maybe we're graduating from independent walking." You gasp dramatically, "I am fully capable." But your words come out slightly slurred.
Jack raises an eyebrow, "You just tried to walk through three people."
"They were in my way."
A laugh escapes him. God. You're something truly special.
Now he has a new problem. Namely, getting you safely into his truck before you attempt something stupid.
The passenger-side door swings open, and you stare at it, then back at the seat. Jack immediately knows what's happening. "Need help?"
"No." A pause as you squint at the truck suspiciously. "Maybe."
"It's higher than it looked five seconds ago, isn't it?"
"It definitely wasn't this tall before."
Jack bites the inside of his cheek, hard, trying not to laugh.
"Okay."
Before you can protest, his firm hands settle at your waist, and suddenly you're being lifted just enough to get into the passenger seat. The whole thing takes maybe two seconds, except neither of you feels normal afterward. You freeze, and Jack also freezes. His hands are still on your waist, and you're looking directly at each other—far too close.
For a brief, dangerous moment, neither of you moves. Then Jack clears his throat, immediately stepping back. "Seatbelt."
Your brain takes several seconds to reboot, "What?"
"Seatbelt."
"Oh."
Of course, duh. You fumble with it and miss the buckle twice before Jack reaches over and clicks it into place. His face is suddenly very near again. Near enough to see the tiny scar near his jaw, and that your heart starts doing things it absolutely should not be doing. "There." His voice comes out lower than usual. You swallow, "Thanks."
Neither of you acknowledges how strange the moment felt and the warmth lingering where his hands had been. Or the way Jack has to grip the steering wheel a little tighter once he's behind it. Because some things are easier left alone. At least for now.
JACK ABBOT’S APARTMENT — NIGHT
The drive back to your apartment is quieter than the nightclub. The city has settled into that strange hour between night and morning, when the roads are mostly empty, and the traffic lights seem to change for no one. Rain taps softly against the windshield as Jack drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. You are attempting to stay awake. Attempting being the important word here. Every few minutes, your head tips toward the window before jerking upright again.
Jack notices every single time, "You can sleep."
"I'm not sleeping."
"You were asleep thirty seconds ago."
"I was thinking."
"You were drooling."
You gasp in offense, and Jack doesn't even look at you as he commands, "Go to sleep."
"You're mean." A laugh escapes him at your comment. He realizes that he’s been doing it a lot when he’s around you.
By the time you arrive at your apartment, you’re humming a song, trying to stay awake. Then Jack pats his pocket, and freezes when he realizes, "...Shit."
You blink, "What?" He closes his eyes, "I forgot your spare key." You stare, then immediately start laughing.
Jack groans, "Oh my God."
"You drove all the way there."
“Don’t.”
"You forgot the whole reason you picked me up."
"Don't."
Your laughter gets worse, and for the first time in years, Jack lets out a full belly laugh too. He begins to drive to his apartment, and since it’s late, he offers for you to crash at his place.
By the time he pulls into his apartment complex, you're visibly losing the fight against exhaustion and alcohol—mostly alcohol. The second you step through the front door, you kick your heels off exaggeratedly. One lands near the couch, and the other somehow ends up halfway down the hallway. Jack silently watches this happen. Then watches you attempt to unbuckle whatever complicated contraption is keeping your outfit together. "Okay," he says immediately.
"What?"
"Maybe let's not do that."
You frown at him, "Why?"
Because you're drunk—very drunk, and apparently completely unaware that you're standing in the middle of his apartment trying to peel yourself out of an outfit that has occupied far too much of his attention already. Jack suddenly finds the ceiling fascinating, the wall too. Actually, maybe the floor. Anywhere except you.
"Because," he says carefully, "you need pajamas."
"Oh." You consider this, then nod solemnly. "Pajamas are smart."
"Thank you."
"I am smart."
"You are." He nods, and you point at him, "I knew you'd agree."
Jack presses his lips together. God help him. Somehow, over the years, you've become one of his favorite people. A few minutes later, after much negotiation and several failed attempts to convince you that sleeping in sequins is a terrible idea, Jack disappears into his bedroom closet. He returns holding an old Army shirt—worn soft with age, the fabric faded from years of washing, along with a pair of boxers. You stare, then grin. "These yours?" Jack immediately regrets everything, "Yes."
"Cool."
Then, before he can stop you—you start changing.
"Jesus Christ."
You blink, "What?"
Jack is staring firmly at the opposite wall. "You could've warned me."
"Why?"
Because you're still drunk enough that embarrassment hasn't caught up with you yet. Meanwhile, Jack is discovering entirely new levels of self-control.
"Bathroom," he says.
"Right." You pause, then gesture wildly. "The bathroom."
"Correct."
Five minutes later, you emerge wearing the oversized shirt. The hem brushes your thighs while sleeves hang past your hands. The sight nearly kills him, because you look comfortable—like you belong here. Which is a thought he immediately shoves into a locked box and throws into the ocean. Nope. Not touching that. Absolutely not. That’s reserved for a future therapy session. Boy, is his therapist going to love that.
"Sit."
You immediately sit on the edge of his bed.
"Drink."
You obediently accept the water bottle, and Jack blinks, "That's new."
"What?"
"You listened."
You point at him, "You're bossy."
"Drink the water."
You drink the water, then he hands you a spare toothbrush and makes sure you actually use it. Then spends several minutes making certain you don't accidentally fall asleep face-first into the sink. By the time he's satisfied you're hydrated and functional enough not to accidentally die overnight, you're sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed, wrapped in one of his old shirts and looking increasingly sleepy.
You dig through your purse. "There are makeup wipes in here."
Jack pauses, asks, "You carry those around?"
"My eyeliner smudges." You shrug. "My mascara too."
Jack shakes his head, "Prepared for everything."
"It's literally why we carry purses."
"Pretty sure that's not why."
"It absolutely is."
He finds the packet eventually and pulls one free, then gestures to you, "Come here." You blink, dazed, "What?"
"Your mascara's halfway down your face."
Well, that’s fucking mortifying—immediately you cover your face, "Oh my God." Jack laughs softly; the sound is low and warm. "You're fine."
"No, I'm not."
"You really are."
Gently, he pulls your hand away and carefully brushes the wipe across your cheek. His touch is light, patient, and unhurried. The same hands that place chest tubes and suture wounds and perform procedures under pressure somehow become impossibly gentle. They always do around people he cares about. You go strangely still, and the room suddenly feels too quiet and small. Jack is close enough that the details become impossible to ignore. The silver was woven through his hair. The exhaustion that never quite leaves his eyes. The traces of loss he carries with him even now. And still, despite all of it—or maybe because of it—he remains devastatingly, painfully beautiful.
"You've done this before." The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.
Jack's hand stills briefly, then resumes. "Mmm." His voice is soft, a little distant. "She hated taking her makeup off."
The ache arrives instantly—it’s deep and familiar.
"She'd fall asleep on the couch." A small smile touches his mouth. "Every time." His gaze drops to the wipe in his hand, "Eventually, it was easier to do it myself."
A tender silence settles over the room, and suddenly your eyes sting. Because even now—all these years later—he still misses her. Of course he does, he always will.
"Jack." He looks up, and you swallow hard. "I'm sorry."
His hand pauses, and he asks, "For what?"
Your throat tightens painfully, "I know you miss her." The words come out small, but completely honest, and are barely above a whisper. Jack looks at you, and what he sees nearly unravels him. Because you're crying for him—not for yourself, or because you're drunk. You're crying because his pain hurts you. Because somehow you've always carried pieces of everyone else's heartbreak as if it belongs to you too.
A tear slips down your cheek, and before you can wipe it away, Jack reaches up, his thumb tenderly brushes gently across your skin.
The touch lingers slightly.
"Hey." His voice is impossibly soft, "Don't cry, honey."
The endearment slips out before he can stop it. The second it does, the room changes. Your breath catches, and Jack freezes. Neither of you moves. For one suspended second, the entire world narrows to that single point of contact. His hand against your cheek, your eyes locked on his. The silence between you is suddenly filled with things neither of you knows how to say. Then Jack does the only thing he can think of—he opens his arms, and you go willingly. The hug is immediate, warm, and safe. Your forehead presses against his shoulder, and his strong arms wrap around you while you melt into him without hesitation. Trusting him completely, the way you always have. Fuck—that might be the most dangerous thing of all. For a moment, neither of you lets go, because none of you wants to. Jack can feel your heartbeat through the thin cotton of his shirt and feel your breathing gradually slowing. He can feel himself becoming far too aware of how perfectly you fit against him.
He closes his eyes for a second.
A mistake.
Because the truth waits for him there—the truth that somewhere along the way, you stopped being just his friend and just his favorite nurse. Stopped being just the person he trusted most and became something he doesn't know what to do with.
Eventually, your breathing evens out. Then slows….then slows again. Jack glances down and realizes you've fallen asleep curled against him. Carefully, he shifts and lowers you onto the bed, pulls the blanket over you, and tucks it beneath your shoulder. The motion is automatic, and for a moment, guilt rises sharp and sudden. Not because you remind him of his late wife. You don't, and you never have. You never will. But somehow that realization doesn't hurt. It simply feels true. You are different—entirely your own person. Entirely your own place in his life. Jack stands there for a long moment, watching you sleep peacefully. Then quietly, he reaches for his crutches resting beside the nightstand.
The apartment is dark now, silent, as he pauses at the doorway, looks back one last time, at you sleeping in his bed. Wrapped in his shirt, breathing softly against his pillow, and despite every effort not to—Jack smiles. Then he switches off the light and heads toward the couch. Completely unaware that he's already fallen far deeper than he ever intended to.
JACK ABBOT'S APARTMENT — MORNING
The first thing you notice when you wake up is that you're comfortable. Suspiciously comfortable. Wrapped in sheets that smell faintly of clean laundry and something familiar you can't quite place. For a few blissful seconds, you remain exactly where you are, half-buried beneath the blankets, eyes still closed. Then your brain starts working slowly… like an old computer booting up. Your mouth is dry, your head hurts, and you have absolutely no idea where the hell you are.
You crack one eye open, and a ceiling you don't recognize stares back. Your stomach immediately drops. "Oh no."
Then the memories start returning. The nightclub, losing your keys, calling Jack… Jack picking you up. The drive to his apartment, the makeup wipes, and the hug. Oh God. The hug.
Your eyes fly open, fully awake now. Mortification floods your entire body with terrifying speed. "No, no, no, no..."
You immediately bury your face in your hands. Maybe if you stay here long enough, you'll evaporate, and the earth will open up and swallow you whole. Maybe cardiac arrest—you'd accept cardiac arrest. Slowly, you peek out from between your fingers, and a glass of water sits on the nightstand. Beside it is a bottle of ibuprofen and a neatly folded note in Jack's handwriting.
Drink water before standing up.
Your heart does something deeply unhelpful as you groan, "Oh, my God."
Because that's such a Jack thing to do, he’s practical, thoughtful, and annoyingly sweet. You whimper and flop backward onto the pillow.
Unfortunately, reality remains—and reality is that you are currently in Jack Abbot's bed. His bed—his actual bed, the place where he sleeps. The place where—You immediately shove that thought into a dumpster and set it on fire. Nope. Absolutely not. Not going there.
You drag yourself upright before your imagination can make things worse. The oversized Army shirt hanging off your shoulders shifts as you move. Your eyes immediately drop. Jack's shirt. You are wearing Jack's shirt. You consider throwing yourself out of the nearest window.
The bathroom is somehow worse. Because now you're sober, fully sober. Which means you remember everything… mostly. You splash cold water onto your face repeatedly. Trying to wash away the embarrassment and the memory of crying. The image of him calling you honey and you falling asleep against him.
"Oh, I'm never recovering from this." You groan into the sink before you force yourself to look in the mirror. You survive trauma shifts and twelve-hour nights. You went through fucking COVID. So… you can survive breakfast. Probably.
After one final pep talk that accomplishes absolutely nothing, you step out of the bathroom and immediately stop. A framed photograph sits atop the dresser, Jack and his wife, both smiling. The picture looks old, well-loved, the edges slightly worn. Guilt arrives like a punch to the ribs. Because no matter how much time has passed, she's still here. In photographs, memories, and the quiet spaces, he doesn't talk about. You stare at the picture for a moment longer, then look away. The guilt lingers anyway.
The smell hits you before you reach the living room. Coffee, eggs, and toast, along with something frying in a pan. Your stomach growls traitorously, then you turn the corner, and nearly walk directly into a wall. Because Jack is standing at the stove, shirtless. You stop functioning completely. Gone. No thoughts. Head empty. Just panic. Because somehow, in all the years you've known him, you've never actually seen him like this.
At work, he's always covered by scrubs, layers, a jacket, and PPE. Now—now he's standing barefoot in his kitchen wearing nothing but athletic shorts and his prosthetic. Morning sunlight spills through the apartment windows. Across broad shoulders, freckled skin, and muscle earned through years of physical therapy, stubbornness, and sheer determination. The prosthetic is already attached as part of him, as familiar and unremarkable as breathing. You know the story and what happened, and understand now the work it takes to live with it.
Still—seeing him outside the hospital feels strangely intimate, and very human. Your jaw nearly hits the floor as Jack turns. He immediately catches your expression, and to his eternal satisfaction, you look horrified. Not by him, but by being caught staring. His mouth twitches, "Morning."
You blink once, then twice, and you begin rapidly looking anywhere else.
"Morning." Your voice cracks. Well, that’s spectacular. Jack's eyebrow rises, "Rough landing?" You clear your throat. "Oh, absolutely."
His smile grows slightly. "There are worse hangovers."
"Don't."
"You called me at midnight because you lost your keys."
"Jack."
"You accused the floor of moving."
"Jack."
"You tried to negotiate with a coat rack."
Your eyes widen as you sputter, "I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"Oh my fucking God."
Jack laughs—there it is again, a little lighter than it used to be. "Come eat." You hesitate, still standing awkwardly in his shirt, and painfully aware you're in his apartment—his space. Then Jack glances over his shoulder, "You need food before your headache gets worse."
There it is. His doctor voice—the one that brooks absolutely no argument. You sigh dramatically and obey. Because apparently that's become a habit. Jack places a plate in front of you. Eggs, toast, fruit, and a giant glass of water.
You stare, and then at him, then back at the plate, "You made breakfast."
"You sound surprised."
"You made breakfast."
"You were hungover." You blink because he says it so simply, as if taking care of you is the most natural thing in the world, and maybe that's what gets you. It's how easy it seems for him—the quiet way he shows up. Again, and again. So instead of saying any of that, you pick up a piece of toast. "Thanks." Jack glances up from his coffee, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. "Anytime, Lifeline."
You lower your gaze quickly and focus on your breakfast instead. Unfortunately, that only makes things worse because now you're sitting at Jack's dining table, in Jack's apartment—wearing Jack's shirt.
Eating breakfast, he made for you. The domesticity of it settles wrong inside your conscience. Not because you or him have done anything wrong. But because it feels like you're standing in a place that once belonged to someone else. Your eyes drift toward the bookshelf across the room. A framed photograph sits among the books, showing Jack and his late wife. They’re smiling and happy.
The familiar guilt immediately curls around your throat. You look away, and your appetite suddenly harder to find. Jack notices and asks, "You okay?"
You force a smile, "Mhm." Jack raises an eyebrow. The same look he gives patients who claim their pain is a three out of ten while actively dying. "Lifeline."
You sigh at being caught, again. "It's stupid."
"If you're saying that, it probably isn't."
The concern in his voice makes the guilt worse. You stare down at your plate, picking apart a piece of toast. "You've done so much for me."
Jack frowns immediately, "Okay."
"And I kind of crashed into your life last night."
His confusion visibly increases as he points out the obvious, "You lost your keys."
"I know."
"You called me."
"I know."
Jack waits as you groan softly because this sounds ridiculous out loud. "It just feels like I'm imposing."
Jack's expression softens as he says, "Lifeline." You hate it when he says your nickname like that—as if he's trying to talk you down from something.
"You are not imposing."
You look away, stubbornly mutter, "Still."
"No." His answer comes immediately.
You glance up, and Jack is looking directly at you now. Completely serious. "You called because you needed help. That's what people do."
"But—"
"It's not a burden."
You open your mouth; however, Jack cuts you off again. "You would've done the same thing for me."
And unfortunately—he's right. You would've, without hesitation. At three in the morning, or in the middle of a thunderstorm. Without a second thought.
Jack sees the realization cross your face. A faint smile touches the corner of his mouth.
"Exactly."
You look back down at your plate, suddenly embarrassed. Because he's making it sound so simple. Meanwhile, your brain is spiraling. You risk a glance upward and immediately regret it. Because Jack is leaning against the counter. Coffee mug in hand. Morning sunlight spilling through the kitchen windows behind him. Now that you're sober, you're trying very hard not to notice things. Like the freckles scattered across his shoulders. Or the way years of physical therapy and hospital shifts have built quiet strength into him. Maybe the fact that he looks unfairly good for someone standing barefoot in his kitchen at eight in the morning. Your eyes immediately dart back to your eggs because you’re a coward.
"So." Jack takes another sip of coffee. The amusement in his voice is impossible to miss. "You gonna keep staring at your breakfast like it’s inedible?"
You nearly choke, "What?"
"The eggs."
"Oh." Your face feels suspiciously warm. "They're intimidating."
Jack stares at you, then laughs.
Somehow and somewhere along the way, Jack stopped being your soulmate, the impossible person at the end of a red string, and became Jack. The man who remembers your coffee order, and the one who checked on you when you had COVID, who keeps spare electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at taking care of yourself. The man who made you breakfast because you were hungover, and the man who still loves his wife. The guilt returns instantly. You glance toward the photograph again. Jack follows your gaze this time. His expression changes subtly. The smile faded into something quieter, more thoughtful. Neither of you says anything for a moment. The apartment settles into a small, comfortable, sad silence. The kind that comes from old grief that never fully disappears. Finally, you clear your throat. "I'm sorry."
Jack immediately looks confused. "For what?" You gesture vaguely around the apartment. "Sleeping in your room." His expression somehow becomes even more confused. "Lifeline."
"I'm serious."
"Why?"
You stare at him, "Because it's your room."
"Correct."
"And your bed."
"Also correct."
You narrow your eyes because Jack is enjoying this. The asshole. "Jack."
"What?"
"I feel bad."
His expression softens immediately into a quiet gentleness. "It's fine." He replied. You shake your head, "But—"
"No." His voice is calm. "I wasn't going to wake you up so you could sleep on the couch." You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. You try to rebut, "But—" Jack points toward your coffee, "You would've fallen asleep sitting upright."
"That's not true."
"It absolutely is."
"It happened one time."
"It happened three times."
"Allegedly."
Jack laughs into his coffee, and for a moment, just a moment, the guilt eases. Because he's looking at you like you're welcome here. As if your presence isn't an intrusion or that helping you wasn't an obligation. It was just something he wanted to do. That realization follows you for the rest of breakfast. Maybe that's why loving him has always felt so dangerous. It's the spare apartment key he keeps on his keyring. The electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at remembering to drink water. The bottle of ibuprofen is waiting on the nightstand before you even wake up. The way he remembers—he doesn't even realize he's doing it.
Eventually, breakfast ends, and you help carry plates to the sink despite Jack's protests. "I'm perfectly capable of washing a plate."
"I know."
"You sounded doubtful."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
Jack rolls his eyes, and you grin.
For a moment, it feels normal. As if this is something the two of you do all the time. Then Jack glances toward the hallway. "I should shower."
Your eyes immediately dart away.
Why are you suddenly embarrassed? You've seen this man covered in blood during trauma activations, and somehow, showering is what's awkward.
"Okay." Jack nods, then pauses, a small frown appearing. "You don't have clothes."
You blink, "Oh." You hadn't actually thought that far ahead. Your club outfit is currently somewhere in the apartment and likely smells like spilled alcohol, perfume, and poor decisions.
Jack disappears down the hallway before you can offer a solution. A moment later he returns carrying a pair of gray sweatpants and another shirt. You immediately recognize the Army logo faded across the front. "Here."
You stare at him, then back at the clothes. "I can't take your clothes."
"You're already wearing my clothes." Unfortunately, he has a point. You glance down at the oversized shirt hanging off your shoulders. Jack's mouth twitches, "The sweats have a drawstring."
"Oh, good."
"They should fit."
"Should?"
"Mostly." You narrow your eyes, but Jack looks entirely unapologetic. "You can keep the shirt." Your heart immediately forgets how to function, breathless, "What?" Jack casually shrugs, "It's old." You can’t fucking breathe, so you settle for, "Oh."
The thought of keeping it, taking it home, and sleeping in it. Smelling his laundry detergent every time you wear it is incredibly intimate. "Thanks."
Across his expression is as soft as his response, "You're welcome." Then he gestures toward the hallway. "I'm gonna shower."
You nod, "Okay."
"The shower chair's in my bathroom, so I'll be in there awhile." The statement is matter-of-fact and unremarkable. The same way he always talks about it. Not because it doesn't matter. But because Jack long ago learned there was no point treating every accommodation like a tragedy. It's simply part of his life—part of him. You nod again, "Take your time."
Jack studies you for a second; he's checking for lingering hangover symptoms. Then apparently decides you'll survive. "I'll drive you home after."
"Sounds good." You agree. There’s a pause before Jack says, "Try not to break anything while I'm gone." Your gasp is immediate, "Rude."
"I know you."
"You wound me."
Jack laughs, then walks down the hallway. A few moments later, you hear the bathroom door close. The apartment becomes quiet—the one that only exists in the homes of people who live alone. You wander slowly—absolutely not snooping. You were observing, there's a difference. The apartment itself feels like Jack. Comfortable, practical, and unpretentious. Bookshelves line one wall of the living room. Medical textbooks, military history, and novels with dog-eared pages. A few framed photographs scattered throughout the apartment—friends, coworkers, and people who matter.
You pause near one shelf. A photograph sits there. Jack and his late wife, when they were younger, were laughing. The picture caught in the middle of a moment rather than a pose. She has her head tipped toward him, and Jack is looking at her like she hung the moon.
Your stomach lurches. Because even now—years later—she still belongs here. Of course she does. This was their home, their life. You gently set the frame back exactly where you found it. Suddenly feeling like an intruder again, your gaze drifts around the apartment. There are signs of her everywhere if you know where to look. It isn’t overwhelming or frozen in time. There’s a photograph, a ceramic mug, and a framed postcard tucked between books. Evidence that she existed, and you hate yourself a little. Because standing here, wrapped in Jack's clothes, waiting for him to finish showering, part of you wishes things were different. Part of you wishes you weren't standing in the aftermath of someone else's great love story. The guilt settles heavily, along with the red string hidden beneath your sleeve. You glance toward the hallway, and the sound of running water. Toward the man you've loved for years. Because no matter how badly you want him—you've never wanted to replace her. Not for a second. Never. You just...wanted him to be happy, even if it was never with you.
The drive back to your apartment is quiet, but not uncomfortable. You sit curled into the passenger seat, your folded dress resting on your lap alongside your heels. The sleeves of Jack's old Army shirt hang past your wrists, and the sweatpants are too big with the drawstring pulled tight enough to keep them from falling. You feel ridiculous, like a child playing dress-up. Outside the window, Pittsburgh drifts by in shades of gray. You keep your eyes fixed on it. Because every time you glance at Jack, your heart hurts. Especially after last night… the makeup wipes, the hug, his hand on your face, honey. You don't trust yourself anymore, not even a little. Beside you, Jack steals another glance. You're unusually quiet, and that alone is enough to make him nervous. Normally, even hungover, you'd be talking, making terrible jokes, or complaining about your headache.
Instead, you're staring out the window like you're already somewhere else. His fingers tighten slightly on the steering wheel as he asks, "You okay?" You nod immediately, humming, "Mhm."
A lie that Jack recognizes instantly, but he lets it go for now. When he finally pulls up in front of your apartment building, neither of you moves immediately. The truck idles softly as silence stretches, then you suddenly unbuckle. Before Jack can process what's happening, you lean across the center console and wrap your arms around him. The hug catches him completely off guard, and for a moment, he freezes. Then instinct takes over. His arms come around you automatically. Your face presses briefly against his shoulder. Jack's heart does something strange and painful. Because it feels like goodbye, and he has absolutely no idea why.
"Hey." His voice comes out softer than intended. You squeeze him once before you let go, because if you hold on any longer, you won't be able to leave.
"Thanks," you whisper. Your eyes sting immediately, but you force a smile anyway. "For everything." The words shouldn't sound final, but they do. "Anytime, honey." The endearment slips out effortlessly and naturally now. Neither of you acknowledges it. Jack studies your face, trying to figure out what's wrong, to understand why you suddenly look like you're trying not to cry. So he asks carefully, "I'll see you later at work, yeah?"
Your throat tightens while you nod. "Mhm." It's not technically a lie. The second you step out of the truck, you don't look back. You can't. Because if you do, you'll stay. So you practically run inside your apartment building.
Leaving Jack staring after you, confused, worried, and somehow strangely unsettled.
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — DAY
Dana and Lena listen quietly. The three of you sit in an empty conference room before shift change. You make it approximately halfway through your explanation before you start crying. Not graceful tears, pretty tears, but the ugly kind. The tears you've spent years swallowing, "I'm sorry."
Dana immediately reaches for you, "Hey." You shake your head, "I'm sorry."
"Hon." Dana rubs circles against your back, her voice gentle, maternal. "Why are you apologizing?" You laugh through your tears because the answer feels obvious and impossible. "Because I'm in love with him."
The room falls silent as Lena and Dana exchange a glance. A look. One that says they already knew. Everyone always knows except the people involved. "It's just for a little while," you whisper while you wipe furiously at your face. "I just need some space." Dana's expression softens. She asks, "And what about your heart?"
That's the problem, isn't it? Your heart—your stupid, stubborn heart. You stare down at your hands, "Until it relearns how to stop beating for him." Then quietly you hear Lena ask, "So you're not gonna tell him?" You shake your head immediately, "I can't."
Because how do you tell someone that you've been tethered to them for seven years? That you've loved them through a marriage, grief, and loss. Through healing. How do you tell someone that? Especially when he never chose you. So you don't.
THREE DAYS LATER…
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
Three days later, Jack notices immediately, the second he walks into the ED, you're gone. No coffee sitting beside your workstation and sarcastic comments from Central—there’s no you. He finds Lena first and asks, "Where is she?" Lena doesn't even look up from her charting, "Where's who?” Jack stares, "Lifeline."
"Oh." She clicks something on her computer. "Day shift." His stomach drops, "What?"
"She switched."
"When?" Lena shrugs at him, "A few days ago."
Jack blinks slowly. "Why?"
"Ask Dana." Suddenly, Lena becomes very interested in her chart.
A week passes, then two, and Jack begins losing his mind. Because you are avoiding him, deliberately and aggressively. You leave before he arrives, or arrive before he leaves. You disappear down hallways and take lunch at different times. Find literally any excuse not to be alone with him. The few times he manages to catch sight of you—you smile and wave.
Then vanish again, like smoke, as if you're afraid of him, and that hurts. Because Jack keeps replaying that night. The club, his apartment, the hug, and the morning after. What did he miss? What did he do? Did he cross a line? Did he make you uncomfortable? Did he somehow ruin the one friendship he can't bear to lose? Every answer leads nowhere, and every day you drift a little farther away. Three weeks later, during shift change, Jack finally spots you. Walking quickly through the corridor, badge swinging from the clip of your scrub pocket, and iced coffee in hand.
He immediately changes direction. "Lifeline." You freeze for a second, then keep walking. Fuck. Jack follows and calls after you, "Lifeline." Your pace somehow gets faster, and now he's genuinely irritated and hurt. "Hey."
Finally, you stop, turning around, with a careful smile already in place, too careful. But not him, never him, not until now. "Hi, Jack." The distance between you feels enormous as he asks, "What is going on?" Nothing. Everything. You force a shrug, "Nothing."
That’s bullshit, and Jack knows it's bullshit. You know he knows, but neither of you says it. Then somebody calls your name from down the hallway, and relief floods your face at escaping him. The realization dawns on him like a punch.
"I gotta go."
"Lifeline—"
"See you around." Then you're gone, again. Practically running.
That's when it happens—Jack stares after you, heart pounding, confused, angry, and hurt. Suddenly—pain flares around his wrist. It’s sharp and hot. He physically flinches, "What the—"
A red thread appears beneath his skin, bright and impossible, but all too real. Jack freezes as the world tilts. No. No. No. The string winds itself slowly around his wrist. As it has always belonged there, it was simply waiting.
His breath catches because he knows what it is; everybody knows what it is. His pulse begins hammering. The thread stretches down the hallway, past nurses, residents, and stretchers, straight toward—You. Jack stumbles, his hand slamming against the wall to keep himself upright as the hallway blurs and his vision tunnels.
No. No, that's impossible. His heart pounds so hard it hurts. The red string glows softly between his wrist and yours, unbroken. Years… all these years. Every conversation, every shift, every cup of coffee, and every moment. Every time you'd looked at him and then looked away, or when you'd disappeared when things became too close. All the times you'd chosen distance. The truth crashes into him all at once. You knew. Oh God. You knew, and somewhere down the hallway—completely unfazed—you kept walking.
While Jack stands frozen in place, one hand braced against the wall, staring at the impossible thread connecting him to the woman he's been desperately trying not to admit he's fallen in love with.
2025
6:00 PM
PTMC, CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY
The emergency department shifts from busy to catastrophic in less than thirty seconds. One moment, people are charting the next—every television screen in the department lights up with breaking news.
There’s an active shooter at PittFest—mass casualty incident. Every healthcare worker in the room recognizes it instantly. The moment before impact… before disaster arrives.
"Hey, what's going on?" McKay asks.
Robby strides into Central, already moving and planning. Carrying the weight of what is coming. "Mass casualty at PittFest."
Samira looks up sharply, "How many victims?"
"We don't know." Robby's face is grim. "Expect the worst.” A terrible silence settles, while someone else immediately reaches for a phone. "Did the police find David?" McKay asks. Robby shakes his head, then raises his voice, "Okay, everybody, listen up."
Every head turns to pay attention to Robby.
"There is an active shooter at PittFest. As the nearest trauma center, we are going to be getting the majority of the victims." The room goes completely still. "We don't know yet how many we're getting, but we are instituting hospital-wide emergency protocols. We need to move every patient out of here. Either home, upstairs, or Family Medicine. Call your loved ones now if you need to."
Robby glances toward the windows, toward the city. Towards the disaster unfolding somewhere beyond it. "I can guarantee cell service will soon be overwhelmed. Eat something. Stay hydrated. Use the bathroom while there's time and meet back here for a full briefing in five minutes."
Then his gaze lands on someone entering through the ambulance bay doors, relief flashes across his face.
"Brother." Robby exhales. "I'm so fucking glad to see you." Jack, carrying his backpack and wearing his black scrubs, briefly hugs Robby, "Heard it on the scanner."
Jack drops his bag onto a workstation. "How many are we expecting?"
"I don't know." Robby's expression darkens. "But it doesn't sound good."
After placing his things down, Jack looks up directly at you. The breath leaves your lungs. Already focused entirely on you.
Your stomach drops. Oh no. No. No. No. He knows. The realization slams into you so hard it feels physical. You don't know how or when. But something in his expression tells you immediately.
He knows about the string—your secret. The thing you've spent seven years burying. Your pulse begins hammering, and blood rushes up to your ears. Across Central, Jack doesn't look away; his jaw flexes, hard, angry. You know that look—you've seen it directed at negligent parents, reckless drivers, people who made choices that hurt others.
Five minutes. That's all you have before the briefing. Before the entire hospital erupts into chaos. Apparently five minutes is all Jack needs. The second he catches you alone, a hand closes firmly around your elbow. "Lifeline." You freeze, your heart immediately dropping into your stomach. "Jack—"
"We need to talk." The words come out low and controlled. He steers you toward an empty supply room. A narrow space lined with IV fluids and sterile procedure kits. The door swings shut behind you, and the silence is deafening.
You turn toward him, trying to keep your face neutral, and completely fall apart. "What's going on?" The question sounds pathetic even to your own ears. Jack stares, and for a moment, he says nothing. Which makes everything worse, because his eyes are furious.
Furious at being hurt and at being lied to. At realizing something important happened without him knowing. His jaw clenches, "You knew." Your vision immediately blurs, "Jack—"
"You knew." The repetition is softer, devastated. You feel your tears threatening already.
"Don't." Your voice cracks. "Don't look at me like that." Something flashes across his face—pain, but then anger returns to cover it. "So what was the plan?" His words come out sharp.
"Jack—"
"What?" His voice rises, years of confusion finally boiling over. "What were you doing?"
You flinch, and Jack immediately hates himself for it, but he can't stop, not now. "Were you just waiting?" The accusation hangs between you, ugly, unfair, and born entirely from hurt. "Were you waiting for your chance?"
Your eyes widen as the tears come instantly, and suddenly you're angry too. Years of restraint snap all at once.
"No." The word echoes off the walls. "No." You step toward him, furious, heartbroken, and shaking.
"I buried it." Your voice breaks. "I buried every part of it." Jack freezes as you keep going, "You don't get to stand there and act like I wanted this." The tears are falling freely now. It’s hot and humiliating. "I buried every chance of loving you so deep I could barely breathe around it."
The room goes silent as Jack stares while you choke on the next words, because they're true, every single one. "I buried my wanting for you." Your voice cracks again. "And don't you dare accuse me of waiting." The anger disappears, leaving only raw, ancient grief. "You don't get to accuse me of that when I respected it."
Jack's face changes back to confusion and regret. But you're not finished, "I respected her." The words nearly destroy you while you wipe at your face, failing miserably. "I respected both of you."
A photograph flashes through your mind. Then she laughed in the department, bringing Jack lunch, loving him. Being loved by him, the woman you'd genuinely cared about. The woman who had never done anything except be kind to you.
"She was brilliant." You laugh bitterly as another tear slips free. "Beautiful. And I knew I'd never measure up."
Jack physically recoils, as if you'd struck him. "What?" The word comes out strangled. You look away because you can't bear seeing his face. "I know that."
"No." Pain flashes across his expression. "No, you don't." You laugh again, broken, "I do." Then quietly, you add, "The first time I saw the end of the string." Jack goes completely still at your admission.
"The first time I saw it unfinished." Your voice drops, barely above a whisper. "I knew I was going to lose you either way."
Silence—absolute silence. Jack feels like the floor has vanished beneath him, because suddenly, he understands. All those years, smiles, retreats, your careful boundaries. How you'd chosen distance instead of possibility. You weren't waiting. You were grieving the entire time.
The supply room door suddenly swings open, and Robby appears, already halfway through speaking. "Abbot, I need—"
Then he stops, immediately, because you're crying, and Jack looks wrecked. The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.
"...Whoa." Robby looks between both of you a few times, then decides he absolutely does not want whatever this is. "What the hell is—"
You move first, past Robby and Jack. Past all of it. Your shoulder brushes the doorframe as you leave. You don't stop, and can’t look back. Because if you do, you'll fall apart. While Jack just stands there, watching you go, understanding too late. For the first time in seven years, understanding exactly how much it must have hurt. Then, somewhere outside the room—an overhead page sounds. The first ambulances are arriving, signaling that the mass casualty has begun. However, the conversation isn't over. Not even close.
7:00 PM
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
All at once, the emergency department is already overflowing. Trauma bays filled, hallways lined with stretchers, and blood smeared across floors that Environmental Services doesn't have time to clean. The overhead speakers haven't stopped paging for nearly twenty minutes. Victims keep coming. Gunshot wounds, shrapnel injuries, and crush injuries from the stampede that followed.
The air feels thick with adrenaline and fear. Every single person in the department is running on instinct, training, and experience.
You haven't looked at Jack since the supply room, not really. You can feel him occasionally, like a gravitational force somewhere at the edge of your awareness. A pull you refuse to acknowledge. Every time your eyes accidentally find his across Central, you immediately look away. You don't have the luxury of falling apart right now, because people are dying, you know that, and so does Jack.
So, whatever happened between you has been shoved aside by necessity.
"Let's go!" Langdon's voice cuts through the noise. Another victim on a gurney in Central. Male, approximately late twenties, multiple injuries, semi-conscious, and blood soaking through his shirt. Samira immediately moves to the stretcher, "Who do you have?"
"Semi-conscious. Responds only to pain. Decent carotid."
"Strip him." Mateo reaches for trauma shears, and so does Tim, "Let's go." The team descends immediately, beginning to cut clothing, assessing injuries, checking his airway, and breathing. Everything is moving with practiced efficiency. Then—something feels wrong. You don't know why, it’s just a feeling. A prickling sensation along the back of your neck.
The patient suddenly jerks, and the nurses yelp. A hand disappears beneath the shredded remains of his shirt. Langdon freezes, then shouts. "Whoa!" Everything happens at once.
"Gun!" The word detonates through Central. "Gun! He's going for his gun!"
Every person in the room reacts instantly; some hit the floor, and others dive behind workstations. The patient somehow manages to yank a handgun free. His eyes are wild, disoriented, and terrified. The muzzle swings wildly across the room and lands directly toward Robby and Jack.
Time slows for you as you watch. Later, you'll never be able to explain why you moved, whether it was instinct, training, love… or something much darker. A part of you wonders if maybe you were simply tired—tired of carrying this, of loving him, maybe of being afraid. You never figure it out, because your body moves before your brain does.
One second, you're standing near Central, the next you're running.
The gun fires, and the sound is deafening. A violent crack that echoes through the department. For one suspended moment—nobody moves or breathes. Then pain explodes through you, white-hot, blinding.
You stagger as your knees immediately buckle while the floor rushes upward. Somewhere nearby, people are screaming while others are shouting for security. The world becomes noise, blurred shapes, blood—too much blood. Then, you hear Jack scream your name, and it tears straight out of him. Raw, animal, nothing like you've ever heard before. The resident beside him barely has time to react before Jack is already moving. He’s running—ignoring everyone and everything. None of it matters, not anymore. Because you're on the floor, and you're bleeding. Suddenly, the worst thing Jack has ever imagined is happening right in front of him.Again.
He drops to his knees beside you, not caring that his stump is aching, hands immediately searching, assessing, locating the wound, trying to stop the bleeding while SWAT restrains the man who shot you. His trauma training takes over automatically, even while the rest of him is breaking apart.
"Pressure!" Somebody throws him gauze, Jack slams it hard against the wound. Too much blood—so much fucking blood, and the sight makes his stomach turn. "No."
Your vision swims, and you can barely focus. But somehow—somehow—Jack is all you see. Always him, maybe it was always going to be him. His face is pale, terrified—more terrified than you've ever seen him, and somehow that hurts worse than the bullet.
You manage a weak laugh, and blood touches your lips. Jack immediately hates the sound, "Don't." Your eyes find his, and for the first time in years, you stop hiding. "It was painful."
Jack freezes, "Lifeline—"
"When you looked at me." Your voice trembles, blood continues soaking through the gauze. "When you smiled at me."
"No." His hands shake, just slightly, but you feel it. "When you believed in me." Tears blur your vision. "It hurt."
Jack's face completely crumples because now he understands all of it.
"It tore me apart." The words barely make it out, and an unfiltered sob escapes him. Because you're dying, and he just found you. He spent seven years standing beside you without seeing it. "No." His voice breaks. "No, no, no."
Someone is calling for Trauma One and bringing a stretcher. The department is moving around him. But Jack doesn't care, because the world has narrowed to you—only you.
"I just got you." The words rip from his throat, his eyes shine, desperate, furious, and every bit terrified. "I just got you." Your breath catches. You love him, you always will. So maybe—maybe honesty won't kill you now. "I love you."
Jack closes his eyes, as if the words physically hurt. You smile weakly, doubling down, "I love you, Jack Abbot."
Silence for a moment, then, firmly, "No." The answer comes instantly, violently, as if he's rejecting reality itself. "No." His forehead presses briefly against yours. "You're not doing this."
Tears slide down his face, but he doesn't even notice. "You hear me?" His voice cracks. "You're not doing this to me."
The stretcher arrives, and Robby appears, blood on his gloves. Panic hidden beneath professionalism. "Jack." Nothing… Jack doesn't move. "Jack." Still nothing.
"Abbot!" Finally, Jack looks up, and Robby immediately understands. Oh. Oh no. "We need Trauma One." Robby's voice softens. "Now."
Jack nods once, then helps lift you onto the stretcher himself. Refuses to let go or step away. He refuses to leave your side as they race down the hallway. Trauma One is already being prepared. Blood products, thoracotomy tray, massive transfusion protocol—Everything and anything. Whatever it takes.
Dana meets them at the door, and one look at Jack's face tells her everything, every awful piece of it. "Oh, honey." Jack doesn't even hear her; his eyes never leave you, not once. Dana steps close, careful. "Jack." No response from him, so she tries again, "You need to let them work."
His jaw tightens, "No."
"Jack."
"No." His voice breaks again. Because he knows—he knows exactly how bad this is. Knows every possible complication, terrible outcome, and statistic. Every nightmare, and he cannot survive another one. Not you, God, please, especially not after all this—after finally finding you.
The trauma team begins crowding around the bed. Voices overlap, orders fly, blood pressure dropping, airway concerns, surgical consult from Garcia, massive transfusion. Yet, Jack refuses to move, standing beside your stretcher, his hand wrapped around yours. As if letting go might somehow allow death to take you, or sheer stubbornness can keep you here.
As if love might finally be enough this time around.
PTMC, ICU — DAY
The surgery lasts hours—too many hours, long enough for the adrenaline to burn away, and for exhaustion to settle into everyone's bones. Long enough for Jack to memorize every crack in the ICU waiting room floor.
The bullet had done catastrophic damage. A through-and-through gunshot wound with massive internal bleeding. Multiple units of blood transfused. Emergency surgery. Complications halfway through that had nearly sent the entire operating room into a panic. At one point, Robby had physically forced Jack to sit down because he looked seconds away from collapsing. Jack couldn't remember most of it afterward, only fragments. Your blood on his hands. Your voice. I love you, Jack Abbot.
The terror of watching your blood pressure disappear from the monitor. The awful realization that he might lose you before he'd ever gotten the chance to tell you—I love you too. But somehow, you survive. The surgeons manage to stop the bleeding and repair the damage. They brought you back. It feels less like medicine and more like a miracle.
Three days later, you're still asleep, intubated, and hooked to enough machines to make the room hum softly around you. But you're alive, and right now, that's enough.
Jack hasn't left at all. Dana, Robby, Lena, and even Whitaker—all of them fail. Because every time someone tells him to go home, he looks at you lying in that hospital bed and refuses. The man is impossible when he decides on something, and he decided he was staying.
So he stays, wearing scrubs more often than not. Surviving almost entirely on hospital coffee and vending machine food, and sleeping in the uncomfortable chair beside your bed. If you could see him, you'd probably yell at him. Tell him he's being ridiculous, and that he should shower. To stop looking like a man who personally lost a fight against a tornado. Unfortunately, you're unconscious, which means nobody can stop him.
The red string remains, that impossible thread winding around his wrist before disappearing into yours, completely visible now. Neither of you is hiding anymore. Sometimes Jack simply stares at it, as if he's afraid it'll disappear—a chance he'll wake up and discover this was some cruel fever dream. Because for years he believed he'd had his soulmate, then he lost her. And now—now the universe has somehow handed him another sacred thing. A second chance he never expected. One he's terrified of losing before it even begins.
The ICU room is quiet that afternoon as sunlight spills through the window. Your face is pale against the white pillow. Your hair is messy, and there's bruising along your neck from procedures, tape securing lines, and dressings. Evidence of how close death came for you. Jack reaches forward, his fingers brushing gently through your hair. The movement reverent, as if touching something precious. Something fragile and almost lost.
His thumb traces softly across your cheek. "You scared the hell out of me." His voice is rough, sleep-deprived, and broken around the edges. You don't answer, but that never stops him.
The door opens quietly as Robby steps inside, coffee in one hand and concern written all over his face. He pauses immediately, taking in the scene. Jack slumped beside your bed, wearing his scrubs, faintly stained with blood—your blood. His hand wrapped around yours, and the red string was visible between them. For a moment, Robby says nothing, simply watches. Understanding settling over him piece by piece. Then finally, he asks, "How's she doing?"
Jack glances up. His eyes are bloodshot and exhausted. "Stable." The word comes out cautious. Because saying it too loudly might somehow jinx everything.
Robby nods, steps closer, looking down at you, at the monitors, then at Jack. A realization flickers across his face. "Is she also..." His voice softens. "...your soulmate?"
The question hangs quietly between them, and Jack's gaze immediately drops to your hand. To the red thread wrapped around both wrists. He can't speak for a little while, then he nods once.
"I think so." The words sound ridiculous even now. "I didn't think..." His voice catches as he looks down at you. At the woman he'd spent seven years loving without understanding why it felt different. Not understanding why losing your friendship hurt more than it should, or why seeing you happy mattered so much. Why he'd kept showing up, again and again. "I didn't think it was possible."
The rRobby remains silent, letting him continue as Jack swallows. "I didn't think it would happen to me." The confession comes out almost embarrassed—he's admitting something shameful. Robby exhales slowly, nods. "There've been a few reports."
Jack glances up.
"A few studies." Robby shrugs. "The theory is that some soulmate bonds don't form immediately." His eyes drift toward the red string, toward your intertwined hands. "Sometimes they form after loss."
The room falls quiet, neither of them says the obvious thing. That his late had been Jack's soulmate too, and loving her had been real, complete, and true. That none of this erased her.
Jack looks back at your sleeping face, the rise and fall of your chest, and the steady rhythm on the monitor. Alive and still here. His fingers slide gently through your hair again, careful not to disturb anything, as his hand cups your cheek. The gesture impossibly tender. Robby immediately looks away, because some moments aren't meant for witnesses.
Jack leans forward, pressing a kiss against your forehead, lingering there for a second, eyes closed and relieved. Terrified and very in love. When he finally pulls back, his thumb brushes across your skin. And for the first time since the shooting, a small smile appears. Fragile, hopeful, like he's allowing himself to believe it. Just a little.
"Come back to me, Lifeline." His voice is barely above a whisper. The red string glows softly between your wrists, and Jack squeezes your hand gently, as if you're already listening. As if somewhere beneath the machines and medications and healing wounds, you can hear him. Maybe, for the first time in a very long time, he isn't asking fate for anything. He's only asking for you.
PTMC, ICU — DAY
The first thing you become aware of is discomfort, not pain, well, not yet anyway, just wrongness. A strange pressure lodged in your throat—something foreign. Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy, as if someone glued them shut. The effort required to open them feels monumental. Slowly, painstakingly—you manage it, and the world arrives in fragments. White ceiling, muted sunlight, the rhythmic beeping of monitors, and the steady hiss of oxygen.
A hospital room—your hospital room, and immediately your nursing brain starts putting pieces together. ICU, you're in the ICU, which means—Oh. Oh no, the shooting. Memory crashes back all at once: the gun, Jack, blood, Trauma One. I love you, Jack Abbot.
Your eyes widen immediately as panic flares. Because there is definitely a tube down your throat, a ventilator tube, and suddenly every survival instinct in your body starts screaming. You try to move—a mistake, as pain explodes through your abdomen. Pain that says somebody has spent several hours trying very hard to keep you alive. A strangled sound leaves you; your heart monitor immediately speeds up.
Then you feel it, a hand, wrapped around yours. You turn your head, slowly, and there he is… Jack. Curled awkwardly in the chair beside your bed, wearing his black scrubs, asleep. His head was resting against folded arms near your mattress, one hand tangled with yours, the red string winding quietly between your wrists. For a moment, you just stare because he looks awful. His curls are a mess, dark circles shadow his eyes, his jaw is covered in stubble, his scrubs are wrinkled because he hasn't slept properly in days, and he hasn't left. This whole time, he stayed. Your fingers twitch, weakly, barely enough movement to count. Then you squeeze his hand.
Jack jerks awake instantly, years of emergency medicine, and years of sleeping lightly. His head snaps upward, disoriented and confused. Then his eyes land on yours, and the entire world stops. For a moment, he doesn't move or breathe. Doesn't seem capable of either. He just stares, afraid you're another dream, or another hallucination born from exhaustion.
"Hey." The word comes out rough, barely audible, and your eyes immediately fill with tears. Because he's crying, relief floods his face so quickly it looks painful. His hand tightens around yours.
"My Lifeline." His voice cracks completely, and suddenly, tears are sliding down his cheeks, unashamed. Jack laughs once, a choked sound halfway between a sob and a prayer. "Oh, my God."
You try to answer, then immediately regret it, because the tube is still there. Panic spikes again.
Jack notices instantly, "Hey." His hand cups the side of your face, gentle and grounding. "Hey, hey." His thumb brushes your cheek, "You're okay." Your breathing becomes faster, the ventilator alarms immediately begin protesting. "You're okay." Jack is already reaching for the call button, never taking his eyes off you. "You're okay."
Within seconds, the room fills with people. Garcia arrives first. Followed by respiratory therapy, a nurse, and half the ICU, apparently. "Well, look at that." Garcia's grin is immediate. "About time."
You want to roll your eyes, but unfortunately, you still have a breathing tube. The respiratory therapist immediately begins assessing and following commands. Checking your neurological status. Making sure you're strong enough for extubation. You squeeze hands, follow fingers with your eyes, nod appropriately. All while Jack hovers nearby. Trying desperately not to interfere, and failing miserably.
"She's ready." The therapist glances toward Garcia, and then Garcia nods. "Let's do it."
Jack immediately moves closer, instinctively. Like he physically cannot help himself. The ventilator disconnects, the securing device is removed, and the respiratory therapist gives instructions. You barely hear any of them; your entire focus is on the tube. Then—it's out. Immediately, you cough violently because your throat burns. Every breath feels strange and uncomfortable, but you're breathing on your own.
Jack is already helping support you upright, one arm behind your shoulders, the other holding a cup with ice chips. "Easy." His voice is impossibly soft. "Slow down."
You cough again, eyes watering. Jack looks ready to fight somebody on your behalf. Possibly the tube or the entire ICU. Eventually, the coughing settles enough for you to breathe comfortably, and the monitors stabilize, everyone visibly relaxing.
Garcia steps forward, professional mode fully activated. "Okay. The surgery went well." She begins carefully. "You sustained a gunshot wound to the abdomen." Jack's jaw tightens visibly as she continues, "There was significant internal bleeding." Garcia continues. "We had to perform an emergency exploratory laparotomy."
Your nurse brain immediately fills in blanks, searching for damage, complications, and probabilities. Garcia notices this and says, "We repaired injuries to your small bowel and controlled several bleeding vessels."
Your stomach drops.
Jesus.
"You required multiple transfusions." Garcia continues. "But you're stable now."
Stable—the most beautiful word in medicine. You glance toward Jack; he's staring at the floor, hearing the details physically hurts. Garcia notices that, too, a tiny smile appears. One that says she understands far more than she's commenting on.
"Recovery's going to suck." You manage a weak laugh; the sound comes out raspy. Garcia points immediately. "There she is. Don't make me regret taking that tube out."
For the first time since waking, you actually smile. Garcia gathers her chart and steps toward the door, then pauses, looking between you. Then Jack, the red string, then back again.
"Oh." A knowing expression crosses her face. "Right."
Jack immediately looks uncomfortable, which is almost impressive considering everything that's happened.
Garcia grins. "Try not to stress her out." Then she points at you. "And try not to get shot again."
The door closes behind her, and the room suddenly feels much quieter. Much smaller and more intimate. Silence settles; neither of you quite knows what to say. Because there are too many things, seven years' worth.
Jack remains seated beside the bed, his hand never leaving yours, not once. He's afraid the second he lets go, you'll disappear again.
Your throat hurts—everything hurts, but somehow none of it matters right now. Because Jack is looking at you, really looking at you, and there are tears still caught in his eyelashes. Evidence of how terrified he'd been, your fingers tighten weakly around his. "Hi." The word comes out hoarse, barely audible. A wet laugh escapes him, disbelieving, and relieved. "Hi."
His thumb brushes across your knuckles, again and again. As if he needs the contact—he needs proof. Then Jack lowers his head, pressing his forehead gently against your joined hands, his eyes closing. Breathing shakily, and in that moment, you realize he was just as afraid of losing you as you'd always been of losing him.
Finally, Jack swallows hard, then asks quietly, "How long?" You know exactly what he means, not the shooting or the string. All of it. You stare down at your intertwined hands. At the red thread winding around both wrists, then back at him, and answer honestly. "Since my first day.”
Jack blinks, once and twice. He genuinely thought he'd misheard you, "Your first day?" You nod, a sad laugh escaping. "Yeah."
His mouth opens, then closes, and opens again. The physician in him is clearly attempting to process impossible information. Unfortunately for him, he's currently operating as a man in love, not a doctor, which means none of this is going well.
"Seven years?" The words come out strangled, and you give a tiny nod. Jack leans back in his chair, looking dizzy. "Jesus Christ."
A weak laugh escapes you. "That was more or less my reaction too." His hand tightens around yours to reassure himself.
"Why didn't you tell me?" The question is quiet, not accusing anymore, only hurt. He’s trying to understand. You look away first, toward the window. Because this part is harder. "You were married." The words are simple, obvious, and true, Jack's expression immediately softens.
"You loved her." You smile sadly. "Of course you did." Because he had, you'd seen it, every day, in every smile or phone call, at the mere mention of her.
"I wasn't going to be the woman who showed up and destroyed that." Your voice trembles. "I couldn't. It's why I never said anything." A tear slips free, and you don't bother wiping it away.
"I respected her too much." Your laugh cracks. "And honestly?" You finally look at him, unwaveringly, you admit, "I loved you too much.” Jack closes his eyes, processing the truth of it all. "I knew you were happy." You smile weakly. "I thought… I thought if I couldn't be the person you loved, then I'd settle for being someone you trusted."
Jack stares at you, completely speechless. Suddenly, every memory makes sense, every retreat or careful boundary. You chose distance over possibility. You weren't waiting. You weren't hoping for his wife to die. Goddamit. The thought makes him sick now. You were protecting him—protecting both of them, at the expense of yourself, for seven years.
"That's insane." The words slip out before he can stop them. You blink, offended. "Excuse me?" Jack actually laughs, a wet, exhausted sound. "You loved me for seven years."
"You make it sound like a disease." You frowned.
"It kind of is."
You point weakly, "I got shot."
"Exactly." For the first time since waking up—you both laugh. The sound fades slowly, leaving only the truth behind. Jack shifts closer, his chair scrapes softly against the floor, until he's sitting right beside the bed, close to you, so that there's nowhere left to hide.
"I need you to understand something." His voice lowers, gentler now, and more vulnerable than you've ever heard it. Jack looks down briefly, then back up. "She was my soulmate." The words settle softly between you, simply true and not at all cruel. You nod, because you know—you've always known.
"I loved her." His eyes shine, "I'll always love her."
You squeeze his hand, "I know." Jack exhales shakily, then continues, "But somewhere along the way..." His voice falters, and you can’t recall if you've ever seen him this scared. His thumb brushes your cheek, the same way it did the night you almost died. "You became my favorite part of the day. The first person I wanted to talk to." Another stroke of his thumb. "The person I looked for first." His eyes never leave yours. "And when you started avoiding me..."
He laughs once, humorless and every bit painful. "It felt like somebody was ripping pieces off me." The confession steals the air from your lungs, and Jack leans forward slightly, and your heart starts racing.
"I thought I was losing my mind." A tiny smile appears at the corners of his mouth. "Turns out I was just in love with you."
Everything disappears—leaving just him and tears blur your vision instantly.
"Oh." It's all you can manage. Jack smiles, soft, beautiful, it’s entirely his. "Yeah."
Suddenly, you're crying. Because after seven years—after all that grief and silence and fear—he chose you. Not because of the string or fate. Or because destiny told him to. But because he loved you.
"You idiot." Your words wobble and Jack laughs, "I know."
"You absolute idiot."
"I've been told."
You laugh through your tears, and somehow, he wipes them away before they can fall. The gentlest touch imaginable, as if you're something precious. Then his forehead rests against yours, and neither of you speaks. You don't need to. The red string glows softly between your wrists, a silent witness, and for the first time—it doesn't feel like a chain. It feels like a beginning.
Jack's gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then immediately back to your eyes. Giving you every opportunity to stop him. Every opportunity to say no. You don't. Not even a little.
So, he kisses you, softly, as if you're something holy. Something he spent seven years searching for without realizing it. His hand cups your cheek, while yours finds his wrist. Right where the string wraps around him, the kiss is gentle and tender. A promise rather than a fire.
When he finally pulls back, neither of you moves very far, foreheads touching, breathing the same air. Jack smiles, the kind of smile you've spent years secretly collecting. "Hi."
A laugh escapes you, "Hi." Then his eyes soften, filled with something warm enough to last a lifetime. "There you are."
After seven years of loving him in silence—you finally get to stay.
End Notes:
Where do I even begin? This idea has been cooking in my head for MONTHS. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how I wanted this story to go. But then you know how things just suddenly click and fall into place? That’s exactly what happened.
It was absolutely euphoric—once I got the plot beats down, I just couldn’t stop writing lol.
I wanted you, the reader, to know how much you respected Jack’s wife and that you weren’t trying to replace her.
Also.. do you get it? Lifeline = Line = String…. Ha ha ha. You are his Line…
Everyone blame Noah Kahan for making me cry to Orbiter.
LOWKEY, wasn’t expecting a lot of people to read this…
Taglist: @gennywennypenny @kneelforloki @unknownhuman102 @thebewitchingvagabond @danah-20 @i-do-not-care-bear @nerdgirljen @silksepia @rathatosy @proudlyvastlake @coconuthoneyandjaguars @acciotwinz @thefemininemystiquee @rei-scorpio @buckystwilight
I literally cried reading this. Fuck you for being such an amazing writer and making me feel things!
Not me making everyone cry with this fic 😭😭 MY BAD YA’LL 😭
Thank you so muchhh girll!! IT TRULY MEANS A LOT HUHU! Mwa mwa!
I’M AN ASTRONAUT, YOU’RE THE MOON
Summary: When you moved halfway across the world to work nights at PTMC, the last thing you expected was for your soulmate string to lead straight to Dr. Jack Abbot—who’s already happily married to his own soulmate. So you bury your feelings beneath friendship, trauma shifts, and years of silence… until tragedy changes everything, and both of you begin to realize that maybe soulmates were never about fate, but choice. Or, the Soulmate AU with Jack Abbot.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader (Can still be read by anyone! It’s not super specific)
Warnings: 18+ Soulmate String AU, Unrequited Love to Requited Love, Age-Gap Romance (Not Specified), Hospitals, ER, ANGST, Fluff, Crush, Blood, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow(ish) Burn, Eventual Hurt-to-Comfort, Longing, YEARNING, Major Character Death, The Pitt AU, Grief, Tragic Heroine, Tragic Hero, Widow!Abbot, Depressed!Abbot, Anger, Crying, GSW, Happily Ever After, COVID-19, Kissing,
Word Count: 22.5k
A/N: We're gonna take a break from Ducky and Robby for a bit. Welcome, Jack Abbot. You are in my domain now >:D ALSO, I HIT THE LIMIT ON SPACING SOOO THE FORMAT MIGHT BE FUCKED IDK. Sorry :(((
Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/keeryscupid. I’m not a doctor or a nurse. I’m dyslexic, and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!
Songs: Orbiter by Noah Kahan, Brush Fire by Gracie Abrams, and If You Let Me by Maisie Peters (with Marcus Mumford)
| Jack Abbot Masterlist | Main Masterlist |
2018
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
The first thing you notice about the Pitt isn’t the noise.
It’s the pace.
Everything moves fast, but no one looks rushed. People pass each other like they’ve done this a thousand times, sliding through narrow spaces without looking, voices overlapping in half-finished sentences, monitors beeping in uneven rhythms that somehow don’t throw anyone off.
Organized disaster is exactly what an emergency department should feel like. You tighten your grip on the strap of your bag as you follow Lena down the hall, trying not to stare at everything like it’s your first day on Earth.
New country, New hospital, New job.
Night shift.
Your body still hasn’t figured out what time zone it’s supposed to be in, but adrenaline is already kicking in, that familiar hum under your skin that always comes when you step into an ER. You tell yourself you’ve handled worse. That you’ve worked typhoon nights, mass casualty drills, and overcrowded government hospitals with half the supplies you needed.
You can handle this.
Lena pushes the double doors open with her shoulder, not even breaking stride. “ER’s through here,” she says. “You said you worked trauma before, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” you answer automatically.
She glances back at you immediately, “Drop the ma’am. You’ll make everyone feel old.”
Heat creeps up your neck, “Sorry. Habit.”
“You’ll fit in,” she mutters, half amused, half distracted as she scans the room.
You step through the doors behind her—and the sound hits all at once. Phones ringing, a monitor alarming somewhere in the back, sharp and insistent. A patient down the hall is yelling that he’s been waiting for three hours and he’s going to sue somebody.
It’s loud and crowded, but very alive and all too familiar. Your shoulders drop just a little, tension you didn’t realize you were holding easing out of your spine.
Lena stops near the central desk, scanning the board, then jerks her chin toward the far side of the room, “That’s Dr. Jack Abbot. He’s on trauma tonight, so you’ll probably be with him most of the shift.”
You follow her gaze without thinking.
He stands near the counter, scrolling through a chart on an iPad, stethoscope hanging loose around his neck like he forgot it was there. Curly salt and pepper hair slightly messy, the kind of tired that comes from too many night shifts in a row.
He looks up when someone calls his name, and the moment your eyes land on him, your wrist burns.
You suck in a small breath, instinctively looking down. There’s a red string looped around your wrist, thin, bright, and impossible to miss.
Your stomach drops so fast it makes you dizzy. Because what the actual fuck? No. Not here. Not now.
At some point, you’d convinced yourself maybe you simply didn’t have one. Maybe the universe skipped you.
The thread pulls slightly, like something on the other end just moved, and your fingers curl around it before you even realize what you’re doing. A voice in your head tells you not to look… but you look anyway. The string stretches across the room, weaving through people and stretchers and equipment like it doesn’t care about physics; it never has.
Your breath gets stuck in your throat as you follow it as it leads straight to him—Jack Abbot.
Your heart stutters hard enough that you feel it in your ears.
No.
No, no, no.
Lena is still talking beside you, something about assignments, but the words blur together. “…good with procedures, just don’t let him skip charting, he tries— Abbot!”
He looks up again, this time, at you. The string pulls tight between your wrists. For a second, neither of you moves. Then he walks over, casual, pumping sanitizer on his hands like this is just another shift, just another new nurse, nothing important happening at all.
He’s taller up close.
Tired-looking in a way that somehow makes him seem softer instead of intimidating. Curly salt-and-pepper hair slightly messy, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stethoscope hanging around his neck like he forgot it was there hours ago.
“You the new one?” he asks. His voice is warm and easy. Maybe a little rough around the edges from too much coffee and too many overnight shifts.
You force your brain to function.
“Yeah,” you manage. “First night.”
He nods once, then holds out his hand.
“Jack Abbot.”
Your hand hesitates for half a second before you take it. The second your skin touches his—the string snaps tight. It feels like something deep in your bones clicks violently into place.
Your pulse jumps hard beneath your skin, and for one horrifying second you think maybe he can feel it too.
But Jack just smiles politely, completely unaffected.
Because he can’t see it, not fully. The thread only loops faintly around his wrist before disappearing, incomplete and one-sided.
You swallow hard, “Nice to meet you.”
“Welcome to the Pitt,” he says. “Try not to run.” You let out a shaky laugh before you can stop yourself, “Too late for that.”
A faint smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, like he likes your answer. By God, that tiny expression alone nearly kills you.
Then he shifts the iPad under his arm—and you see the ring.
A silver band on his left hand.
Your entire body goes cold.
For a second, you genuinely can’t process what you’re looking at. Of course, he’s married. Because, yes, the universe would do something this cruel.
You force yourself to look away before your face gives you away—and that’s when you notice her.
A woman stands near Central holding a paper bag against her hip, looking around the department with the comfortable familiarity of someone who’s been here a hundred times before.
Waiting for him.
Jack notices her immediately, and his whole face changes. It softens enough for you to understand instantly how much he loves her. “Hey,” he says quietly, already walking toward her.
The incomplete thread around his wrist brightens faintly.
She smiles the second he reaches her, “You forgot dinner again.” Jack laughs softly, taking the bag from her, “I was busy.”
“You’re always busy.”
“Occupational hazard.”
She rolls her eyes affectionately, and he leans down automatically to kiss her cheek. It’s absent-minded and natural. The kind of intimacy built over years. Loving her is as easy as breathing. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist feels unbearably tight. Because the universe already chose—it’s not you. Never you.
Lena nudges your shoulder lightly, “You good?”
You blink quickly, forcing your expression back under control before anyone notices the way your soul feels like it’s collapsing inward. “Yeah,” you say, your voice almost sounds steady. “Just jet lag.”
Lena nods distractedly and turns back toward the board.
Across the room, Jack says something under his breath that makes his wife laugh. The warm and happy sound carries across the department.
You look down at the string around your wrist one last time before pulling your sleeve over it completely.
You can do this—you’ve survived harder things than heartbreak.
You square your shoulders, take the iPad Lena hands you, and step fully into the chaos of the Pitt.
So when Jack glances back at you a moment later, smiling like you’re just another coworker starting a shift, you smile back, pretending that your heart didn’t just fall through the floor.
A FEW MONTHS LATER…
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT SHIFT
By the time the Pitt starts feeling familiar, it’s already too late. You know the rhythm of the department now, the same way you know your own breathing. Which monitor is about to alarm before it starts screaming. Which psych patient is one bad interaction away from throwing a urinal at security, or a resident is about to panic during a difficult intubation.
You know the trauma bay doors stick when it rains, and Lena hides the good coffee above the Pyxis because Ellis steals the decent stuff first, and the fluorescent lights over Hallway C flicker around three in the morning like they’re barely holding on, and you know Jack Abbot’s footsteps before you even see him.
Well, to be honest, that part happens slowly. Shift after shift. Trauma after trauma. Somewhere between your first week and your third month, working beside him stops feeling intimidating and starts feeling natural.
You know how he likes his trauma setups organized. You know he taps his pen twice against the desk when he’s thinking too hard. You know he rubs the back of his neck when he’s exhausted and trying not to show it. And worse—he knows you too.
“Lifeline!” Ellis’ voice cuts across the department as you walk out of Trauma Two carrying an empty suture tray. You stop mid-step. “You people are never letting that nickname die, are you?”
Ellis swivels around in her chair with a grin. “Absolutely not.”
The nickname started during your second week after a pediatric code that had gone catastrophically wrong.
A seven-year-old nearly drowned—no pulse on arrival. The room had dissolved into controlled chaos within seconds—respiratory trying to secure the airway while one of the newer residents nearly froze trying to place an IO line.
Shen, still early enough into residency that panic sometimes beat experience, had looked one second away from completely spiraling.
But through all of it, you had stayed calm.
You’d guided Shen through the tibial IO placement while simultaneously pushing epinephrine prep toward Jack and coordinating compression rotations so nobody burned out too early.
At one point, Ellis had looked up from the monitor and muttered, “Jesus Christ. She’s everybody’s lifeline in here.”
Unfortunately for you, the name stuck. Now, half the ED used it more than your actual name.
“Lifeline, Trauma Two,” Lena calls without looking up from the board.
“On my way.”
Jack steps out of the trauma bay at the same time you do, peeling bloody gloves off his hands. “You steal my nurse again?” he asks Lena.
Lena snorts. “You don’t own her, Abbot.”
“That’s not what I said.”
There’s something easy in the exchange that makes warmth spread unexpectedly through you.
Jack falls into step beside you automatically as you head toward Trauma Two.
“You eat yet?” he asks.
You glance at him suspiciously. “Are you asking because you care or because you need me conscious enough to survive this shift?”
“A little of both.”
You huff out a laugh. Because that’s the problem with Jack. He’s kind in ways that sneak up on you, a quiet attentiveness that drives you nuts. He notices when you haven’t sat down in seven hours or when your hands shake after a bad pediatric trauma and when you’re pushing yourself too hard, and casually hands you a granola bar like he didn’t specifically go looking for one because he knew you skipped dinner.
The kind of doctor who stays with family members after delivering bad news instead of disappearing the second the conversation gets uncomfortable, and the kind of man who wears his wedding ring like it means something sacred.
Which somehow makes all of this hurt even more. Because every soft look. Every quiet joke at three in the morning or moment beside him in a trauma bay—belongs to someone else.
And you know that.
The universe reminds you every single day that the red string hidden beneath the cuff of your scrub jacket pulls tight whenever he gets too close.
You’ve gotten good at ignoring it or pretending to.
TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT
Tonight’s MVA is a disaster. Twenty-six-year-old male. Ejected through the windshield. Hypotensive on arrival. The second EMS wheels him through the ambulance bay doors, and the department shifts gears instantly.
“BP seventy over forty,” Ellis says from the monitor. “Heart rate one-forty.”
“Breath sounds diminished on the left,” Shen adds quickly, trying to keep up.
“Alright, let’s move,” Jack says sharply.
You’re already there.
Trauma shears cut through blood-soaked clothing while respiratory preps for intubation. You place oxygen and start hanging fluids while Jack performs the FAST exam. Free fluid in Morrison’s pouch appears on the screen almost immediately. Internal bleeding, most likely splenic rupture.
“Call OR,” Jack says. “He’s going upstairs.”
“Already on it,” you answer, grabbing the phone before he even finishes speaking. Jack glances toward you over the patient. There’s blood smeared across the sleeve of his scrub top, exhaustion pulled deep into the lines around his eyes. Yet still—that small flicker of trust when he looks at you. He knows you’ll catch whatever he misses.
You hate how much that matters to you.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
By four in the morning, the Pitt settles into its strange version of quiet. You’re charting near Central when the elevator doors open.
Jack’s wife walks out carrying six pizza boxes stacked in her arms.
The entire department visibly brightens.
“Oh thank God,” Ellis says dramatically. “An angel sent from heaven.”
“You people are unbelievable,” she laughs.
Ellis immediately takes two boxes from her. “Respectfully, I would die for you.”
“That’s deeply concerning,” Lena mutters.
“You’re just jealous she likes me more.”
“I absolutely am not.”
You can’t help laughing softly under your breath. There it is again— that awful ache in your heart. Because she’s truly, genuinely wonderful. The universe could’ve at least made her cold, cruel, or difficult.
Instead, she remembers everyone’s coffee orders and asks about your family back home, and brings food for the night shift because she knows none of you remember to eat unless somebody forces you.
“You must be Lifeline.”
You blink, startled when you realize she’s suddenly standing beside you.
Up close, her smile is warm and effortless. You force yourself to smile back. “That obvious, huh?”
“Oh, very,” she says easily. “Jack talks about you all the time.”
Your heart stumbles painfully against your ribs.
Before you can recover, she continues casually, “Apparently, you’re the only reason this department functions after midnight.”
You laugh weakly. “That gives me way too much credit. Obviously, Lena holds everything down.”
“Have you met these people?” she asks quietly, glancing around Central. “I’m pretty sure Shen would eat expired yogurt if left unsupervised.”
“That happened one time,” Shen shouts.
“You were hallucinating by hour two,” Ellis replies.
You laugh again before you can stop yourself, and somehow, talking to her is easy. Isn’t that cruel? Because you like her immediately, she asks about the Philippines, about your family, and how you plan on surviving Pittsburgh winters.
You’re halfway through explaining that black ice feels like a personal attack when Jack walks out of Trauma Two. He tosses his gloves into the biohazard bin before sanitizing his hands automatically. His curls are damp with sweat at the temples now, scrub top wrinkled from the shift.
Then he looks up to find the two of you talking and smiles—soft around the edges in a way that makes your eyes water.
“Well,” his wife says immediately, “there he is.”
Jack points toward the pizza boxes. “You bribing my staff again?”
“Your staff?” Lena repeats flatly from across the desk.
Jack ignores her completely.
His wife gestures toward you. “Lifeline and I decided you’re actually the problem in this department.” You blink. “We did?”
“We did now.”
Jack looks genuinely betrayed, “That was fast.”
“She’s nice,” his wife says simply. Jack’s eyes flick toward you for half a second, warm and amused. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “She is.”
Your pulse skips hard enough you nearly miss it. Coward, coward, coward.
You look away first while his wife grins triumphantly. “See? I win.”
“You gang up on me constantly.”
“Because you’re easy to bully,” you say before thinking.
Jack stares at you in mock offense. “Wow. Okay.”
“You walked into that one,” Ellis says.
“You’re all terrible people.”
His wife reaches up automatically to straighten the collar of his scrub shirt. Such a small gesture, absent-minded and intimate. The kind of touch that only exists between people who know each other completely.
Your wrist aches beneath your sleeve as the string pulls tighter. Still connected to him. So very impossible and still wrong. But somehow, standing there laughing with both of them at four in the morning, you realize something infinitely more dangerous than loving him.
You’re becoming part of their lives.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — LATER
The shift slows near dawn as you’re charting near Central when Jack drops into the chair beside you with a tired exhale.
“You ever think about leaving emergency medicine?” he asks suddenly. You glance sideways. “Every shift.”
“That’s healthy.”
“I think about becoming a florist at least twice a week.”
Jack huffs out a tired laugh. “You’d last six days.”
“Rude.”
“You yelled at a surgeon yesterday.”
“He was wrong.” You pointed out.
“He was technically right.”
“He was spiritually wrong.”
That earns a real laugh from him, the low and warm kind. God. You hold onto sounds like that more than you should. Silence settles comfortably between you afterward—the kind that only exists between people who know each other well. Then, almost absentmindedly, Jack asks, “Have you met your soulmate yet?”
Your fingers stop over the keyboard. For one horrible second, your entire body forgets how to function. But your face stays calm, because years in emergency medicine have made you terrifyingly good at composure. You keep typing as you reply, “Nope.”
Jack glances sideways at you. “At all?” You shrug lightly, forcing your voice steady. “Might just not be in the cards for me.”
Something softens in his expression immediately. Jack looks at people like he wants to understand them, not fix them. “I doubt that,” he says quietly. You stare at the chart on the screen because looking at him feels too dangerous. The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly heavy.
“I mean it,” he continues softly. “Whoever ends up with you is gonna be lucky.”
Your throat tightens painfully as you force a laugh under your breath before the emotion can show on your face. “Smooth.”
“I’m serious.”
The worst part is—he means it. You finally risk looking at him. His eyes are tired and honest in that devastating way that makes lying to him feel terrible.
“I hope whoever you love…” he says quietly, almost like he’s thinking out loud, “loves you back just as much.”
The cruel irony nearly splits you open. Because you already know exactly what loving him feels like. It feels like swallowing it down every single day, pretending friendship is enough because it has to be, while standing three feet away from your soulmate, while he talks about his wife with soft eyes and absolute devotion.
Your eyes sting suddenly, and you blink hard before he notices. “Me too, Jack,” you whisper. You mean it so much it hurts.
“Me too.”
2020, COVID PANDEMIC
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
The world changes fast. One week, people are joking about a virus overseas between trauma calls and coffee runs, and then the next week, the Pitt is overflowing.
Then, suddenly, every hallway smells like bleach and sanitizer, strong enough to burn your nose through the mask. Every shift feels like drowning—N95s cutting grooves into your skin, face shields fogging every time you breathe, and isolation gowns crackling every time you move.
The emergency department transforms into something unrecognizable almost overnight. There are no visitors or waiting rooms full of family. Alarms, intubations, oxygen sats dropping, and the sound of ventilators become part of the background noise of your life. Everyone starts looking exhausted, and then everyone starts looking haunted. You stop recognizing your coworkers without PPE. Even you stop recognizing yourself.
Through all of it, Jack keeps working.
You think maybe the entire world could collapse around him and he’d still show up for trauma shift fifteen minutes early with coffee in one hand and exhaustion carved into his face. Some nights, the two of you barely talk beyond patient updates. There isn’t time. Not anymore. Every room is full, and the waiting room looks like a war zone; people are dying faster than you can process. But even through the masks and face shields and layers of plastic, you still know him.
You know the crease between his brows when he’s worried and the exhaustion in his posture. The look in his eyes when a patient reminds him too much of somebody else.
To add to that, around the beginning of the pandemic, his wife dies. Not from COVID, which somehow makes it more merciless.
Pedestrian versus drunk driver—DOA. The call comes in just after midnight. You don’t know it’s her at first. Female in her late thirties. Severe head trauma. Massive internal injuries. CPR in progress.
The paramedics wheel her through the doors while respiratory rushes to clear Trauma One. For one horrible second, before you even see her face, the red string around Jack’s wrist burns.
You freeze, not because you understand yet. Because something deep inside you already does.
Then Jack steps into the trauma room, and everything stops. You watch recognition hit him in real time, the way his body locks up and how color drains from his face beneath the mask.
“No,” he says immediately, as if he says it softly enough, maybe reality will change its mind.
“No.”
Lena moves first.
“Jack—”
“That’s my wife.”
The room goes dead silent. Even with monitors alarming and compressions ongoing, along with Shen asking for another round of epi.
It all disappears under the sound of Jack’s voice breaking.
You’ve seen grief before—you work in emergency medicine, so you see it every day. But nothing prepares you for the sound a person makes when their entire life shatters in front of them. Jack tries to step forward, but Lena catches him immediately. “Jack.”
“No, let me—”
“Jack.”
“She’s still warm—”
His voice cracks apart on the words. The paramedic quietly says they found no pulse on scene. Prolonged downtime. Non-survivable head trauma. You can’t breathe—nobody can.
Jack looks at his wife lying on the trauma bed like he genuinely cannot understand what he’s seeing; his brain refuses to process it. Blood in her hair and on the sheet, with her wedding ring still on her hand. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist pulls painfully tight—before snapping loose.
Jack stares at his own wrist instinctively. The string tied there—gone. His face crumples. All that’s left is a man realizing the universe just took something from him that it can never give back.
COVID restrictions mean none of you are allowed at the funeral. No gathering or reception. No sitting beside him in church or placing a hand on his shoulder in comfort; bringing food to his house while relatives fill the rooms with noise and stories and grief.
Only Zoom.
Fucking Zoom.
You sit alone in your apartment at three in the afternoon after night shift, still in scrubs because you were too tired to change, laptop balanced on your kitchen table.
Everyone’s little squares flicker on-screen. Lena is crying silently, Ellis is muted, while Shen is trying and failing not to cry. Multiple other night shift staff are trying their best to pull themselves together—to be brave for Jack.
While Jack is sitting alone in a black button-down shirt in a house that suddenly looks too empty.
He looks hollow. That’s the only word for it. Hollowed out from the inside. You realize halfway through the service that he hasn’t stopped twisting his wedding ring around his finger once. Maybe he believes that if he keeps touching it, maybe she’s still here somehow.
You cry with your microphone muted.
Afterward, nobody knows what to say. There are no casseroles or hugs. No standing together in shared grief. Only little squares blink off one by one until Jack is the last person left in the call.
You stay after everyone disconnects. “You should sleep,” you say quietly. Jack lets out a humorless laugh, “Yeah.”
But he doesn’t move, and neither do you. Finally, he says, “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
There it is… the unbearable part, because she died instantly—no final words or closure. She was there one second—gone the next.
You press your lips together hard enough that they hurt as you faintly say, “I’m so sorry, Jack.”
He nods once because he’s heard it too many times already. Then his face folds inward suddenly, grief cracking through whatever fragile composure he’s been holding together. You’ve never seen him cry before, not really. Now he looks destroyed by it.
“I keep thinking she’s gonna walk through the door,” he whispers. “I keep forgetting for like… five seconds.”
Your lungs ache so violently that it feels unbearable.
Because despite everything—despite the string and the guilt and all the ways you tried to keep your distance—you love him. And loving someone means you cannot stand there and watch them suffer alone.
Not him.
Never him.
So you stay.
At first casually, then constantly, you start checking on him between shifts. You bring coffee, he forgets to drink, and force him to eat crackers during overnight shifts because grief has hollowed him thin. You sit beside him in the break room when he can’t sleep between traumas.
Some nights he talks, and there are nights he doesn’t. Later on, you learn grief has moods. Some days he’s numb, and some days he’s angry. Or days, a patient wearing the same perfume as his wife nearly sends him spiraling mid-shift. Once, after losing a COVID patient around his wife’s age, Jack locks himself in the stairwell for twenty minutes.
You find him there eventually. Still in PPE with his face shield shoved onto the top of his head, breathing hard like he’s trying not to come apart.
You sit beside him without saying anything. For a long time, neither of you speaks. The stairwell is cold through your scrub pants, concrete hard beneath you. Somewhere beyond the heavy metal door, the hospital keeps moving. Monitors alarming. Phones ringing. Ventilators hissing.
Life continued like his world didn’t just end.
Jack sits one step below you, elbows braced against his knees, surgical cap shoved halfway off his head. His N95 hangs loose around his neck now, leaving angry red pressure marks across his skin. He appears worn out in a manner unrelated to sleep. The type of tiredness that becomes bone-deep.
For a while, all you hear is his controlled breathing, but then, you know, if he lets himself lose control for even a second, he’ll never stop. Then quietly, without looking at you, Jack says, “I don’t know who I am without her.”
You nearly shatter at his confession, because it’s proof he loved her so completely. You saw it every day in small, ordinary ways. In the way his face softened when she walked into the department carrying takeout, or the absent-minded way he leaned toward her without realizing it. In the wedding ring, he twisted whenever he talked about her during quieter shifts. He loved her with the kind of certainty people spend their whole lives searching for, and somehow that only makes you love him more.
You look down at your hands, clasped tightly in your lap.
“At work?” you say softly after a moment. “You’re still Jack.” A weak laugh escapes him, humorless and tired, “Very inspirational speech.”
“I’m serious.”
You glance toward him carefully. Even now, he’s still wearing blood on the sleeve of his isolation gown from the code downstairs. His curls are damp with sweat, exhaustion carved deep into the lines around his eyes.
"When everything hurts," you say carefully, "you don't have to figure out how to survive the next ten years."
Jack finally looks up, with his eyes bloodshot, red-rimmed, and devastatingly tired. "You just find the next thing." His brow furrows slightly as you keep going, "The next cup of coffee that tastes okay."
A faint huff of breath leaves him.
"The next shift." You offer a small smile. "The next stupid joke Shen makes that isn't actually funny."
That earns the ghost of an eye roll—you take it.
"The next hour. The next day." Your throat tightens, but you push through it, "And eventually..." Your voice softens. "Eventually you realize you've made it farther than you thought you could."
Jack stares at you, fully paying attention and listening.
"The pain doesn't disappear," you admit quietly. "Some losses stay with you forever. But one day you wake up, and it isn't the first thing you feel."
The stairwell falls silent again, and you watch as Jack's eyes close briefly as if the possibility of hope hurts. When he opens them again, there's something unbearably raw there—something stripped bare. "You really believe that?" The question comes out almost broken, and you don't hesitate as you reply, "Yes."
Because you have to, for him, for yourself, and for every patient you've ever watched claw their way through impossible things.
"Yes," you repeat softly. Jack studies your face for a long moment—searching for something there. Maybe hope or permission. Or proof that somebody still sees him underneath all the grief. Then he gives one small, fragile nod, because he's trying very hard to believe you, too.
A softer shared silence settles between you again afterward. You remain beside him on the stairwell steps while the hospital hums around you. Two exhausted healthcare workers in the middle of a pandemic. One grieving the loss of the love of his life. The other grieving quietly beside him. Then, after a long time, you speak again.
Your voice barely rises above a whisper, "I don't think there's such a thing as a good goodbye." Jack doesn't look away, but you stare at the concrete floor.
"People say it gets easier. That you find closure. That eventually you make peace with it." Your fingers tighten together. "But I think losing someone just becomes part of you. You learn how to carry it." Your throat burns, "There are days when you think you're okay. Days when you laugh and work and breathe normally." You glance toward him. "And then something happens. A song, a smell, maybe a memory.” Blinking back your tears, you revealed, "The grief finds you again."
Jack's eyes shine slightly as you continue softly, "Not because you failed to move on." Your voice wavers. "But because they mattered."
A long silence follows. Then, quietly—"So what am I supposed to do?" When he asks the question, it sounds incredibly trivial.
You look at Jack—at the man who spent years helping everyone else survive. He stayed with frightened soldiers, and loved his wife so completely that even death couldn't erase her from him.
"Keep loving her," you say softly, and Jack's breath catches. "Just don't let her be the reason you stop living, too."
The silence that follows feels sacred, somewhere beneath your sleeve, hidden from the world, the red string wrapped around your wrist aches. Not because it hurts, but because for the first time since she died, you realize you would carry his grief with him for as long as he needed.
Even if he never knew.
2021
YOUR APARTMENT — NIGHT
By late 2021, you recognize the symptoms almost immediately. The exhaustion first. Not normal exhaustion—the kind every ER nurse carries around like a second heartbeat—but something meaner. The sort that becomes deeply ingrained in your bones and wears you out just by standing straight.
Then the fever, then it’s the cough that follows soon after, and the body aches that feel like somebody took a hammer to every joint you have.
You take the rapid test in your bathroom with trembling hands, already knowing what the result will be before the second line even appears.
Positive.
You stare at it for a long moment anyway, “Fuck.”
You’d been vaccinated months ago. Healthcare workers got priority access early on, one of the very few benefits of spending every shift neck-deep in a pandemic. And thank God for that, because without it, you’re almost certain this would’ve landed you intubated in an ICU somewhere.
Still—it hits you hard.
Your immune system has never exactly been reliable. Too many years of stress, skipped meals, night shifts, and pushing yourself past exhaustion had seen to that long before COVID ever existed.
So you quarantine immediately with no qualms or arguments. Immediately, you text Lena and Dana to tell them that you’ve contracted COVID-19. Then you lock yourself inside your apartment and prepare to wait it out.
The loneliness settles in fast after that. The first day isn’t terrible, but the second day is worse. By the third day, you genuinely feel like you’re losing your mind. Your apartment suddenly feels too small and too quiet. Every surface smells faintly of disinfectant and cough drops. Empty Gatorade bottles and medication wrappers clutter your coffee table because you’re too exhausted to clean properly.
You sleep in fragments. Wake up drenched in sweat. Cough until your ribs ache. Then fall asleep again, only to wake up disoriented an hour later. You try texting your family back home once, but hearing your mother’s worried voice over FaceTime nearly makes you cry, so you stop answering calls after that.
You tell everyone you’re fine. You’re not.
One particularly bad night, you sit on the bathroom floor wrapped in a blanket because the cold tiles feel good against your feverish skin, genuinely debating at what oxygen saturation you’d finally call an ambulance.
Ninety-three? Ninety-two?
You know too much…that’s the problem. You’re aware exactly how quickly patients can crash, and what respiratory distress looks like. You know what COVID sounds like when it starts settling deeper into the lungs. And alone in your apartment at two in the morning, feverish and exhausted and struggling not to spiral, you think: If this gets worse, I’m gonna end up at Presby or PTMC.
By day five, your phone is full of unread texts. Lena is checking in, Shen is sending memes, and Ellis is threatening to physically fight you if you don’t hydrate. But then there’s Jack calling twice… then three times.
You don’t answer any of them. Not intentionally. Your brain feels too foggy to function most of the time. Looking at your phone takes effort you barely have energy for. So when there’s suddenly a knock at your apartment door that evening, you frown from beneath your blanket without moving.
Probably the wrong apartment.
Another knock. Then—your real name, muffled through the door in a voice you’d recognize half-asleep.
“Hey.”
Your stomach drops.
No.
Absolutely not.
You push yourself upright too quickly and immediately regret it when dizziness crashes over you. You stumble toward the door anyway, coughing into your elbow before peeking through the peephole.
And there he is.
Jack Abbot. Standing outside your apartment in full PPE. N95. Face shield. Gloves. Isolation gown. Holding a plastic takeout bag in one hand. You stare at him in complete disbelief before yanking yourself back from the door. “Jack?!”
“Oh, good,” his voice comes through the other side, dry with relief. “You’re alive.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” you hiss through the door. “How did you even find where I live?”
“Lena told me… and Dana.”
Traitors.
You lean your forehead briefly against the door, exhausted. “You can’t be here,” you argue weakly. “You could get sick.” Jack snorts softly from the hallway, “Lifeline, we work in an emergency department.”
“That is not comforting!”
“Also,” he continues, ignoring you completely, “is there a reason you’ve been ignoring my texts and calls?”
You close your eyes briefly. Honestly, you hadn’t even realized how many messages you missed.
“Jack—”
“Open the door.”
You blink as you screech, “Are you fucking insane? No.” His voice lowers slightly then, gentler but firmer somehow. “Lifeline.”
Somewhere behind your ribs, the moniker settles heated and perilous.
“Open the door.”
You stare at the wood for a long moment. Then, against every ounce of common sense you possess, you unlock it. The second the door cracks open, Jack’s eyes immediately scan over you clinically. You can practically see the ER doctor in him assessing your flushed skin, fatigue, and mild shortness of breath. The way you’re subtly bracing yourself against the wall to stay upright. In an instant, his face tightens.
"Oh," he murmurs. Somehow, that soft little sound embarrasses you more than if he’d outright said you looked terrible. You cross your arms defensively, “I look worse than I feel.”
“That’s concerning, because you look awful.”
You let out a tired laugh despite yourself, immediately coughing afterward. Jack’s eyes narrow behind the face shield, “How high’s the fever?”
“It’s fine.”
“Temperature.”
“One-oh-one earlier.”
“And oxygen?”
You hesitate half a second too long, and Jack notices immediately, “Lifeline.”
“Ninety-four. I’ve been checking my Apple Watch.”
His jaw tightens, “Okay.”
You step aside reluctantly. “There’s hand sanitizer and ethyl alcohol everywhere. I’ve been disinfecting the place whenever I can.”
Jack walks inside carefully, setting the takeout bag down near the kitchen counter. Your apartment suddenly feels unbearably small with him standing in it. Messy blankets on the couch. Medications scattered across the coffee table. Laundry you’ve been too sick to fold. You suddenly want the earth to swallow you whole. “Sorry,” you mutter. “It’s kind of a disaster.”
Jack glances around once before looking back at you. “I’ve seen residents cry over missing lab results. This is nothing.” That earns another weak laugh out of you while he pulls out one of the dining chairs and gestures toward it, “Sit down before you fall down.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“You almost passed out opening the door.”
Rude.
You sit anyway because standing suddenly feels impossible, and Jack immediately starts fussing. Taking your temperature again. Checking your pulse ox. Asking when you last ate.
In a manner that hurts your core, it's somehow intimate. After observing him in silence for a while, you gently inquire, "Why are you here?"
Jack pauses before he shrugs one shoulder like the answer should be obvious. “Because I know you.”
“You don’t have family here,” he continues quietly. “No roommates. No neighbors you’re close enough with to help if things go bad.” He leans back slightly in the chair across from you.
“You moved halfway across the world by yourself,” he says. “So yeah. I came to do a welfare check.” Something warm and painful twists in your chest all at once, so you try covering it with humor. “Am I that unlucky or just that special?”
Jack looks at you for a long moment. Then, softly, he replies, “Just that special.” The room goes very still while your pulse stutters painfully against your ribs. Jack clears his throat first, looking away. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.”
He gives you a tired, unimpressed look immediately, “Don’t start with me.” You sigh, shoulders slumping. “I feel…” You swallow hard. “Honestly? Like I got hit by a truck.”
Jack nods once like he expected that answer. “My chest hurts when I cough,” you admit quietly. “And I’m exhausted all the time. Walking to the bathroom feels like running a 10k.”
Jack’s expression softens instantly to concern. “Okay,” he says gently. “That sounds about right for breakthrough COVID.”
You laugh weakly, “Reassuring.”
“You’re vaccinated. Your sats are holding. Fever sucks, but you’re stable.” His voice shifts into that calm doctor cadence you’ve heard him use with terrified patients a hundred times before.
“You’re gonna feel miserable for a little while,” he says softly. “But you’re not dying.”
The ridiculous thing is—you believe him immediately. Maybe because it’s Jack, he always sounds certain even when the world is falling apart. Or maybe because after spending almost a week alone in your apartment feeling terrified and sick and invisible—having somebody show up for you feels dangerously close to relief.
Somewhere beneath the fever and exhaustion and the red string hidden under your sleeve, you realize this is the first time since his wife died that Jack has willingly stepped into somebody else’s home again.
The thought nearly breaks your heart.
Grief has a way of shrinking people's worlds—you'd watched it happen to Jack in real time. After his wife died, he stopped inviting people over. Stopped talking about home or lingering after conversations that might eventually end with someone asking how he was doing outside of work. The walls had gone up slowly. Brick by brick. Most people probably never noticed, but you did. Yet here he is, standing in your cluttered apartment with a stethoscope in one hand and a grocery bag full of electrolyte drinks in the other.
"Drink."
You stare at the bottle he shoves toward you, "You're very bossy outside the hospital."
"Drink." He insists.
"Is this because I ignored your texts?"Jack gives you a look, the one he usually reserves for patients actively making terrible decisions. "Partly."
You sigh dramatically and take the bottle, "Happy?"
"No."
That catches your attention. You look up, and Jack is standing near the kitchen counter, arms folded across his chest. The concern on his face isn't hidden anymore. Hasn't been since he walked through the door. "You should've told somebody you were this sick." Your laugh comes out hoarse, "I did."
"No." Jack shakes his head, "You told people you were fine."
"...I was trying not to worry anyone."
"You had a one-oh-one fever and couldn't walk to your bathroom without getting winded."
You look away because when he says it like that, it sounds bad. "It sounds worse when you say it."
"That's because it is worse."
You can't help smiling, but that only seems to annoy him more.
"Why are you smiling?"
"You care."
Jack stares and then immediately looks away. Your fever-addled brain doesn't miss the faint flush creeping up his neck. "Of course I care."
The answer comes too naturally, and for some reason, that makes something warm settle beneath your body. The television murmurs faintly in the background, forgotten as Jack eventually disappears into your kitchen. You hear cabinets opening and then closing. A frustrated sigh leaves him, "How do you have absolutely no food?"
"I have food."
"You have soy sauce and olive oil."
"That's food-adjacent."
Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. "You work in healthcare."
"So do you."
"I know."
"Have you seen what doctors eat?"
He points at you from across the room, "Deflection."
You grin while Jack shakes his head again, but he opens the takeout containers anyway and pours you soup. Then make sure you actually eat it and wait until you're halfway through before finally sitting down. The quiet and unexpected realization sneaks up on him that somehow—he likes taking care of you. Because it shouldn't feel this good. It shouldn't feel this natural to be here. To fuss over your fever, refill your water glass, and check your pulse ox every twenty minutes because he doesn't trust you not to lie about your symptoms.
Yet every time he glances up and sees you curled beneath a blanket on the couch, alive and stubborn and complaining—something in his heart eases. The same feeling he gets when a trauma patient finally stabilizes. When someone he was worried about turns out okay. Only different. This time, it’s more personal and complicated.
You cough suddenly, and Jack is moving before he even realizes it, quickly handing you water. Waiting until the coughing fit passes. Your eyes lift toward him over the rim of the glass. It’s soft and sleepy. "Thank you." Your words are quiet and sincere.
And God help him—that does something to him. Something he doesn't examine too closely.
Because if he does—he might have to ask himself questions he's not ready to answer. Questions like why spending an afternoon taking care of you feels better than spending it anywhere else, or why your apartment already feels strangely familiar. Why did the idea of you being here alone all week bother him so much?
Instead, he focuses on something safer—annoyance. "You know," he says, sitting back in his chair, "your soulmate's doing a terrible job."
You blink at that, frowning, "What?" Jack shrugs, "If they're out there somewhere, they're slacking." A surprised laugh escapes you. "What does that even mean?"
"It means," he says, gesturing vaguely toward your blanket burrito state, "you're sick. Alone. Living on cough drops and spite."
"I had soup."
"You had olive oil."
"That was one time."
Jack rolls his eyes, "My point stands." A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "They should've shown up by now." The joke is spoken carelessly, and he doesn't know it nearly stops your heart.
You look away first, toward the rain-streaked window, literally anywhere but him. Because if you look at Jack right now—if you look at the man sitting in your apartment, taking care of you, worrying over you, complaining about a soulmate who never appeared—you might break.
The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly burdensome. But Jack doesn't notice, he's too busy opening another bottle of water and making sure your fever isn't climbing again. Somewhere in the quiet warmth of your apartment, he doesn’t realize the irony. Jack is sitting exactly where he should be. Doing exactly what he was supposed to do, and somehow, he can’t see it yet.
2023
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
Five years ago, you were the new nurse from the Philippines. Now you're simply part of the Pitt. Nobody really introduces you anymore. You're just there, part of the machinery. You know where everything is and everyone's habits. Or when Ellis is pretending to chart and is actually looking for the next best place to nap for her double. You know when Shen is about to spiral before he even realizes it himself. By now, you have memorized Lena's "I'm not mad, I'm disappointed" face is significantly more terrifying than actual anger.
Somewhere along the way—you became one of the safest places in Jack's life. Neither of you meant for that to happen.
It just did.
There are hundreds of tiny moments, none of which seem important on their own. But together, they're devastating. A patient's husband is screaming in the hallway after a failed resuscitation. Security is trying to de-escalate, family members are crying, and the entire department feels tense. Then, appearing devastated, Jack leaves the room but not in a noticeable way. Most people wouldn't recognize it, but you do.
You don't say anything; instead, you simply hand him a cup of coffee. Exactly how he takes it. He looks down at it, then at you. "Mind reader?" You shrug, "You looked like you needed caffeine." The corner of his mouth twitches, "Thanks."
Somehow, that small smile stays with him the rest of the shift.
Another night, it’s three in the morning. Everyone's fucking exhausted. You're sitting on the floor of the supply room because it's the only place nobody can find you for five minutes. Jack opens the door and stops. He finds you sitting there cross-legged, eating stale vending machine pretzels. "You hiding?"
"No."
"You are literally hiding."
You hold up a pretzel, defensive, "This is self-care." Jack stares at you, then, to your horror, he sits beside you on the floor. Like it's completely normal. "You know we're adults, right?" he asks.
"Says the man eating peanut butter crackers for dinner." Jack looks offended; he scoffs, "I had a protein bar." You roll your eyes at that, "Oh. Well, that's different."
His laugh echoes through the tiny room. It’s warm and unrestrained. The sound settles somewhere dangerous inside your chest. Then the days keep passing by, and then the days turn into months, then it’s another shift, another trauma.
Another impossible night.
A frightened little girl refuses to let go of your hand while waiting for stitches. You're sitting beside her bed, explaining every step of the procedure. Making balloon animals out of gloves while telling ridiculous stories.
By the time you're finished, she's laughing. You don't notice Jack standing in the doorway watching or the expression on his face either. The one that lingers long after he walks away. Because somewhere over the years, admiration has quietly become affection.
Affection has started becoming something else—something he doesn't have a name for yet. Jack's issue is that he doesn't immediately feel things. Without thinking, he simply begins searching for you first.
A difficult trauma comes in? His eyes automatically find yours. A bad shift? He looks for you at Central. A joke occurs to him? He wants to tell you. A patient reminds him of something sad? Somehow, you're the person he ends up talking to.
It happens gradually enough that neither of you notices.
Until everyone else does.
"You know Abbot's gonna have a breakdown if Lifeline ever leaves, right?" Ellis says it casually while charting. You nearly choke on your coffee, "What?" Across the desk, Shen immediately nods. "Oh, absolutely."
"Parker."
"I'm serious."
You point threateningly, "Stop." Parker raises both hands. "Hey, I don't make the rules."
You refuse to acknowledge the strange warmth crawling up your neck. Because if you acknowledge it—you'll have to acknowledge the way your heart still skips whenever Jack smiles at you. After all these years, that feels pathetic.
2024
PTMC, MAIN ENTRANCE — DAY
The rain starts sometime around six in the morning. Not a drizzle—a proper Pittsburgh downpour. The kind that turns streets silver and pounds against windows hard enough to drown out conversation.
After twelve hours of chaos, the entire department begins filtering out toward the parking garage and bus stops. You finally clock out around seven—exhausted and half-awake, absolutely ready for sleep.
When you step outside, you immediately spot Jack standing beneath the small emergency department awning.
Watching the rain… alone with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. Looking at him, you pause, "You're still here?"
Jack glances over, "My car's in the shop."
That explains it.
"How'd you get here?"
"Rideshare."
You look out toward the street, and the rain is somehow worse now. Jack follows your gaze, "Trying to decide how miserable walking home is gonna be." You glance over, "What happened to your ride?"
Jack lets out a tired breath, "Canceled."
"What?"
"Driver got stuck downtown." You wince at that, and he pulls his phone from his pocket and turns the screen toward you. The rideshare app is a disaster—surge pricing, long wait times. One estimate says thirty-eight minutes, while another says unavailable. Apparently, every exhausted healthcare worker in Pittsburgh had the same idea after shift. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Yeah." Jack stuffs his phone away again. "I've been refreshing it for ten minutes."
You look back toward the rain, then down at the umbrella dangling from your wrist, and then back at him. You ask, "No umbrella?"
"Nope."
You stare at him, then at the rain… and then at the very obvious lack of any workable plan. So, without thinking twice, you hold the umbrella out. Jack blinks, looks at the umbrella, and then at you. Then back at the umbrella. It's baby pink and covered in tiny Miffy rabbits. The ears are even printed around the trim—the thing looks aggressively cheerful.
"You serious?"
"Very."
A laugh escapes him, a real one. Low and surprised and completely unguarded. It's probably the first genuine laugh you've heard from him all shift, maybe longer. You feel absurdly proud of yourself as you snort, "Sorry about the color."
Jack studies the umbrella again, "I think I'll survive."
"You sure? Might destroy your reputation."
"My reputation was already questionable."
"Fair."
You press the handle into his hand without hesitation, because that's just who you are. Someone needs help, so you help; it's that simple. Jack looks genuinely baffled. "Wait."
You pause.
"What about you?" He asks, concerned. You shrug. The rain is cold, and the morning is gray. You've worked twelve hours, and your back hurts, along with your feet. But somehow none of that feels important. "I live closer than you do."
"Lifeline."
"Jack."
"You'll get soaked."
You smile, bright and softly. The same smile you've given frightened patients, overwhelmed residents, and grieving family members. You shrug, "It's rain."
His brow furrows, "You say that like hypothermia isn't a thing." You laugh at that, "I'm from the Philippines. Rain and I have a long-standing relationship."
"That's not remotely reassuring."
"It shouldn't be."
Jack shakes his head, but he's smiling now, which gives you a bit of peace. His eyes linger on you a second too long. Or maybe you're imagining it. You probably are—you usually are. Then you add quietly, "Besides, sometimes life is easier when you stop trying to avoid every uncomfortable thing."
Jack's expression softens, and you glance toward the rain. "Sometimes you just accept you're gonna get soaked and go home anyway." Neither of you says anything for a little bit. Because you both know that your words aren't really about the rain, neither of you acknowledges it. A laugh escapes him again, and he shakes his head, "You always have an answer for everything."
"No." You step backward toward the edge of the awning, and the cold rain immediately spatters against your scrub pants while you grin. "You just have to trust you'll be okay once you get there."
That gets another laugh out of him, the kind that reaches his eyes. You would do almost anything to keep hearing that sound. The umbrella remains clutched in his hand. Pink, ridiculous, and entirely yours. But for some reason, he can't stop staring at it. Or at you, standing in the rain, completely unapologetically yourself. No performance or hidden agenda. Only your kindness offered freely, as if giving away the only thing keeping you dry is the most natural decision in the world.
The thing is—Jack has spent years watching people take. Watching grief take, life and death take. And you...You are always giving… your time, your patience, and your terrible vending machine snacks. Your heart, if someone needed it badly enough. Now, it’s your umbrella.
Something warm twists unexpectedly inside of him, and he feels tingling all over his skin, as well as his mouth begins to dry. You lift a hand in farewell, "See you tomorrow, Dr. Abbot."
Then you turn and jog into the rain, water immediately drenches your hair, and you laugh when your shoe splashes into a puddle. You keep running anyway. While Jack just stands there—watching, until you disappear around the corner. Long after you're gone, he remains beneath the awning with your pink umbrella still hanging from his hand.
The rideshare app was forgotten entirely, and the rain pounded against the pavement as the morning traffic crawled by. For the first time in a very long time—the thought of going home doesn't feel quite as lonely. He looks down at the ridiculous little umbrella again. Then, despite himself, he smiles. Because somehow the damn thing feels exactly like you.
2025
NIGHTCLUB, PITTSBURGH — NIGHT
The music is loud enough to vibrate through your ribs. Honestly, you're having fun, a rare occurrence these days. Between night shifts and overtime and trying to maintain some semblance of a social life outside of the Pitt, opportunities to be a normal twenty-something are increasingly rare.
So when a few friends invited you out, you said yes. You danced, drank, and laughed. You let yourself forget about work for a few hours, and somewhere between your second drink and the realization that your feet hurt, you discovered a very important problem.
Your apartment keys were gone—completely vanished, you checked your purse three times. Your jacket pockets twice, then the bathroom counter, next the bar, and still nothing. Which is how you found yourself sitting in a booth near the back of the club with your phone pressed to your ear.
Waiting for Jack to answer.
He picks up on the second ring, "Everything okay?" You immediately relax, which is probably a problem. "Maybe."
Jack sighs, the sound of a man who has known you far too long, "What happened?" You look mournfully into your drink, "I lost my keys." A pause on the other end, and then, "You what?"
"They're gone."
"Lifeline."
"They disappeared."
"Keys don't disappear."
"They absolutely do."
The music swells around you, and someone screams happily near the dance floor. Through the phone, Jack suddenly goes quiet. He asks, "Where are you?"
You blink, "Huh?"
"Where are you?"
You frown, then glance up at the neon sign hanging over the bar, "Oh." You tell him the club's name. The silence on the other end lasts approximately two seconds before you hear him ask, "How are you getting home?"
You wave a hand vaguely despite the fact he can't see you, "M'gonna Uber." The words come out more slurred than intended. Silence... a long silence, then you hear him sigh, "Jesus Christ."
"It’s not that bad—"
"No."
You open your mouth to argue, but Jack beats you to it. "I'm picking you up." You immediately sober, exclaiming, "What?"
"Do not leave with anybody."
"Jack—"
"Do not get into a stranger's car."
"That's literally what Uber is." You throw back in response.
"Lifeline." The warning in his voice makes you sit up straighter. "I'm serious. Stay where you are."
"Jack—"
"I'm already grabbing my keys."
Your stomach flips unexpectedly as you point out, "You're working tomorrow."
"So are you."
"Jack."
His voice drops lower, gentler as he begs, "Please." And that ends the argument before it starts. You stare at your drink and reluctantly reply, "...Okay."
"Good." A beat and then you hear, "Don't hang up."
Twenty-five minutes later, Jack walks into the club and promptly forgets how to breathe, because he has never seen you like this before. At work, you're always in scrubs, with your hair pulled back, minimal makeup, and practical shoes.
Tonight—tonight you look nothing like the nurse who steals his coffee and argues with surgeons. Your hair is down, and your makeup catches the flashing lights every time you move. The outfit you're wearing should probably be illegal—at least that's what his traitorous brain immediately decides. Far too much skin and too beautiful—too distracting.
Jack stares for half a second too long, but then immediately hates himself for it. Because he's Jack and you're you. You're his friend, and he's forty-something years old and should absolutely know better. But the sudden realization that other people are staring at you, too, fills him with an entirely unreasonable amount of irritation. There are multiple reasons he hates that realization—none of them are good. You spot him immediately, and relief floods your face, "Jack!"
Somehow that's worse—because you're happy to see him, you always are. Jack pushes through the crowd toward your booth. He asks, "You okay?"
You grin, a little tipsy and a little tired, "Hi."
"That's not an answer."
"I lost my keys."
"You mentioned."
You immediately point at him, "I looked."
"I believe you."
"I looked everywhere."
Jack softens despite himself, "I know."
Just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The amount of trust you've placed in him over the years—it sneaks up on him sometimes, along with the amount he's placed in you. Neither of you ever talks about it—it's just simply there.
"Where are your friends?"
You blink.
"Oh."
You glance toward the dance floor, where your group has completely disappeared into the crowd. One of them is standing on a platform dancing with a stranger. Another appears to be attempting karaoke despite there being no karaoke machine. Honestly, nobody looks remotely concerned about your whereabouts. You point vaguely, "Over there." Jack follows your finger, and immediately regrets it. "Jesus."
You laugh, "They're having fun."
"They look like a liability."
"They are." A pause, then you smile warmly at him. The kind of smile that's become increasingly difficult for him to ignore lately.
"You ready to head home?" The question comes out gentler than he intended. Your expression softens immediately. "Mhm."
There’s no argument because the answer was always going to be yes. After all, it's him asking. Something in Jack's chest tightens unexpectedly. You climb out of the booth and wobble slightly when your heel catches on the edge of the floor. His hand is on your elbow before either of you thinks about it. It’s steady and instinctive—the contact lasts barely a second, but you both notice. Your eyes flick down to his hand, then back up to his face. Neither of you says anything, and Jack clears his throat first before he lets go, "You good?"
You nod immediately, "Mhm. Yep." Then point at him. "I need to go tell them I'm not being kidnapped by you."
The laugh that escapes him is helpless, "You go do that."
You grin, "Okay.” Before turning toward the dance floor, you lightly tap his arm. It’s a small gesture, mindless and affectionate. The kind of touch friends make without thinking. Yet Jack feels it long after you've disappeared into the crowd. He watches you weave through the dancers. Watch you throw your arms around one of your friends.
You laugh at something that makes your whole face light up, and standing there in the middle of a crowded nightclub, surrounded by strangers and flashing lights and music loud enough to shake the floor—Jack suddenly realizes he's smiling. He's smiling because you're happy and somewhere deep down, in a place he has been carefully avoiding for a very long time—he knows that's becoming a problem.
You weave your way through the crowd, dodging dancers and spilled drinks, until you finally find your friends near the center of the dance floor. One of them immediately grabs your arm, "There you are!" You laugh, "Apparently, I'm leaving."
"What?" another groans theatrically. "Already?"
You point toward the edge of the club—toward Jack. Standing near the entrance with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, waiting. The second your friends spot him, several heads swivel at once. Then all of them turn suspiciously slowly back toward you.
"Ohhh."
You immediately know that tone, you shake your head, "No."
"That's the doctor."
"No."
"The hot doctor."
You cover your face, "Oh my God." One of them leans closer, asking, "Is he your boyfriend?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Very."
"Because he definitely looks like he's here to pick up his girlfriend." Heat floods your face instantly, "No, he does not."
Across the room, Jack glances over, as if sensing he's being talked about. But when he spots you, his expression visibly relaxes. And unfortunately, your friends see that too. "Oh my God."
You groan, "Stop."
"He likes you."
"He does not."
"He drove here to rescue you from yourself."
"That's called friendship."
"That's called middle-aged pining." You nearly choke, "Please never say those words again."
Laughter follows you all the way back toward the entrance, and Jack looks mildly concerned the closer you get. "You okay?"
"Apparently not."
He narrows his eyes at your response, "What happened?"
"My friends are terrible people."
"Fair."
You point at him, "Don't encourage them."
"I'm not encouraging anybody."
"Liar."
The corner of his mouth twitches, and just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The simple fact that he's here has solved half the problem already. Then you take two steps toward the exit, but Jack is moving before he even thinks about it. One hand catches your elbow, and the other settles briefly at your waist, steadying you. The contact is innocent, but your breath catches anyway. It’s practical and necessary, at least that's what both of you tell yourselves.
"Whoa there." Jack says, and you blink up at him, then immediately start laughing, "I think the floor moved."
"The floor did not move."
"It absolutely moved."
"Lifeline."
"I'm just saying." Jack shakes his head, and his hand doesn't immediately leave your waist. Neither of you seems to notice. Or maybe both of you notice too much. "Come on."
You allow him to guide you outside, and the cool night air hits immediately. Rain lingers on the pavement, turning the streets into rivers of reflected neon. You inhale deeply, then sway again. Jack catches you before it becomes a problem. His hand settles more firmly against your side this time, and your body immediately relaxes into the contact like it's familiar.
Jack notices that too. "You good?" He asked, and you nod, "Mhm." A beat, and then you add, "The ground's still suspicious."
That earns a real laugh out of him, and you love that sound.
The parking lot isn't far, but Jack keeps his hand on your waist the entire walk there. Just in case… well, at least that's what he tells himself. Not because he likes the feeling of you beside him or how perfectly you fit there.
Just in case. That's all…. at least for tonight.
Jack sighs. The long-suffering sigh of a man who spends his life dealing with stubborn people. "Come on."
You allow him to guide you… well. at least until you nearly walk directly into a group of people entering the club. Jack catches your shoulder and redirects you gently, "Okay."
"What?"
His hand settles more firmly against your back, "Maybe we're graduating from independent walking." You gasp dramatically, "I am fully capable." But your words come out slightly slurred.
Jack raises an eyebrow, "You just tried to walk through three people."
"They were in my way."
A laugh escapes him. God. You're something truly special.
Now he has a new problem. Namely, getting you safely into his truck before you attempt something stupid.
The passenger-side door swings open, and you stare at it, then back at the seat. Jack immediately knows what's happening. "Need help?"
"No." A pause as you squint at the truck suspiciously. "Maybe."
"It's higher than it looked five seconds ago, isn't it?"
"It definitely wasn't this tall before."
Jack bites the inside of his cheek, hard, trying not to laugh.
"Okay."
Before you can protest, his firm hands settle at your waist, and suddenly you're being lifted just enough to get into the passenger seat. The whole thing takes maybe two seconds, except neither of you feels normal afterward. You freeze, and Jack also freezes. His hands are still on your waist, and you're looking directly at each other—far too close.
For a brief, dangerous moment, neither of you moves. Then Jack clears his throat, immediately stepping back. "Seatbelt."
Your brain takes several seconds to reboot, "What?"
"Seatbelt."
"Oh."
Of course, duh. You fumble with it and miss the buckle twice before Jack reaches over and clicks it into place. His face is suddenly very near again. Near enough to see the tiny scar near his jaw, and that your heart starts doing things it absolutely should not be doing. "There." His voice comes out lower than usual. You swallow, "Thanks."
Neither of you acknowledges how strange the moment felt and the warmth lingering where his hands had been. Or the way Jack has to grip the steering wheel a little tighter once he's behind it. Because some things are easier left alone. At least for now.
JACK ABBOT’S APARTMENT — NIGHT
The drive back to your apartment is quieter than the nightclub. The city has settled into that strange hour between night and morning, when the roads are mostly empty, and the traffic lights seem to change for no one. Rain taps softly against the windshield as Jack drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. You are attempting to stay awake. Attempting being the important word here. Every few minutes, your head tips toward the window before jerking upright again.
Jack notices every single time, "You can sleep."
"I'm not sleeping."
"You were asleep thirty seconds ago."
"I was thinking."
"You were drooling."
You gasp in offense, and Jack doesn't even look at you as he commands, "Go to sleep."
"You're mean." A laugh escapes him at your comment. He realizes that he’s been doing it a lot when he’s around you.
By the time you arrive at your apartment, you’re humming a song, trying to stay awake. Then Jack pats his pocket, and freezes when he realizes, "...Shit."
You blink, "What?" He closes his eyes, "I forgot your spare key." You stare, then immediately start laughing.
Jack groans, "Oh my God."
"You drove all the way there."
“Don’t.”
"You forgot the whole reason you picked me up."
"Don't."
Your laughter gets worse, and for the first time in years, Jack lets out a full belly laugh too. He begins to drive to his apartment, and since it’s late, he offers for you to crash at his place.
By the time he pulls into his apartment complex, you're visibly losing the fight against exhaustion and alcohol—mostly alcohol. The second you step through the front door, you kick your heels off exaggeratedly. One lands near the couch, and the other somehow ends up halfway down the hallway. Jack silently watches this happen. Then watches you attempt to unbuckle whatever complicated contraption is keeping your outfit together. "Okay," he says immediately.
"What?"
"Maybe let's not do that."
You frown at him, "Why?"
Because you're drunk—very drunk, and apparently completely unaware that you're standing in the middle of his apartment trying to peel yourself out of an outfit that has occupied far too much of his attention already. Jack suddenly finds the ceiling fascinating, the wall too. Actually, maybe the floor. Anywhere except you.
"Because," he says carefully, "you need pajamas."
"Oh." You consider this, then nod solemnly. "Pajamas are smart."
"Thank you."
"I am smart."
"You are." He nods, and you point at him, "I knew you'd agree."
Jack presses his lips together. God help him. Somehow, over the years, you've become one of his favorite people. A few minutes later, after much negotiation and several failed attempts to convince you that sleeping in sequins is a terrible idea, Jack disappears into his bedroom closet. He returns holding an old Army shirt—worn soft with age, the fabric faded from years of washing, along with a pair of boxers. You stare, then grin. "These yours?" Jack immediately regrets everything, "Yes."
"Cool."
Then, before he can stop you—you start changing.
"Jesus Christ."
You blink, "What?"
Jack is staring firmly at the opposite wall. "You could've warned me."
"Why?"
Because you're still drunk enough that embarrassment hasn't caught up with you yet. Meanwhile, Jack is discovering entirely new levels of self-control.
"Bathroom," he says.
"Right." You pause, then gesture wildly. "The bathroom."
"Correct."
Five minutes later, you emerge wearing the oversized shirt. The hem brushes your thighs while sleeves hang past your hands. The sight nearly kills him, because you look comfortable—like you belong here. Which is a thought he immediately shoves into a locked box and throws into the ocean. Nope. Not touching that. Absolutely not. That’s reserved for a future therapy session. Boy, is his therapist going to love that.
"Sit."
You immediately sit on the edge of his bed.
"Drink."
You obediently accept the water bottle, and Jack blinks, "That's new."
"What?"
"You listened."
You point at him, "You're bossy."
"Drink the water."
You drink the water, then he hands you a spare toothbrush and makes sure you actually use it. Then spends several minutes making certain you don't accidentally fall asleep face-first into the sink. By the time he's satisfied you're hydrated and functional enough not to accidentally die overnight, you're sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed, wrapped in one of his old shirts and looking increasingly sleepy.
You dig through your purse. "There are makeup wipes in here."
Jack pauses, asks, "You carry those around?"
"My eyeliner smudges." You shrug. "My mascara too."
Jack shakes his head, "Prepared for everything."
"It's literally why we carry purses."
"Pretty sure that's not why."
"It absolutely is."
He finds the packet eventually and pulls one free, then gestures to you, "Come here." You blink, dazed, "What?"
"Your mascara's halfway down your face."
Well, that’s fucking mortifying—immediately you cover your face, "Oh my God." Jack laughs softly; the sound is low and warm. "You're fine."
"No, I'm not."
"You really are."
Gently, he pulls your hand away and carefully brushes the wipe across your cheek. His touch is light, patient, and unhurried. The same hands that place chest tubes and suture wounds and perform procedures under pressure somehow become impossibly gentle. They always do around people he cares about. You go strangely still, and the room suddenly feels too quiet and small. Jack is close enough that the details become impossible to ignore. The silver was woven through his hair. The exhaustion that never quite leaves his eyes. The traces of loss he carries with him even now. And still, despite all of it—or maybe because of it—he remains devastatingly, painfully beautiful.
"You've done this before." The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.
Jack's hand stills briefly, then resumes. "Mmm." His voice is soft, a little distant. "She hated taking her makeup off."
The ache arrives instantly—it’s deep and familiar.
"She'd fall asleep on the couch." A small smile touches his mouth. "Every time." His gaze drops to the wipe in his hand, "Eventually, it was easier to do it myself."
A tender silence settles over the room, and suddenly your eyes sting. Because even now—all these years later—he still misses her. Of course he does, he always will.
"Jack." He looks up, and you swallow hard. "I'm sorry."
His hand pauses, and he asks, "For what?"
Your throat tightens painfully, "I know you miss her." The words come out small, but completely honest, and are barely above a whisper. Jack looks at you, and what he sees nearly unravels him. Because you're crying for him—not for yourself, or because you're drunk. You're crying because his pain hurts you. Because somehow you've always carried pieces of everyone else's heartbreak as if it belongs to you too.
A tear slips down your cheek, and before you can wipe it away, Jack reaches up, his thumb tenderly brushes gently across your skin.
The touch lingers slightly.
"Hey." His voice is impossibly soft, "Don't cry, honey."
The endearment slips out before he can stop it. The second it does, the room changes. Your breath catches, and Jack freezes. Neither of you moves. For one suspended second, the entire world narrows to that single point of contact. His hand against your cheek, your eyes locked on his. The silence between you is suddenly filled with things neither of you knows how to say. Then Jack does the only thing he can think of—he opens his arms, and you go willingly. The hug is immediate, warm, and safe. Your forehead presses against his shoulder, and his strong arms wrap around you while you melt into him without hesitation. Trusting him completely, the way you always have. Fuck—that might be the most dangerous thing of all. For a moment, neither of you lets go, because none of you wants to. Jack can feel your heartbeat through the thin cotton of his shirt and feel your breathing gradually slowing. He can feel himself becoming far too aware of how perfectly you fit against him.
He closes his eyes for a second.
A mistake.
Because the truth waits for him there—the truth that somewhere along the way, you stopped being just his friend and just his favorite nurse. Stopped being just the person he trusted most and became something he doesn't know what to do with.
Eventually, your breathing evens out. Then slows….then slows again. Jack glances down and realizes you've fallen asleep curled against him. Carefully, he shifts and lowers you onto the bed, pulls the blanket over you, and tucks it beneath your shoulder. The motion is automatic, and for a moment, guilt rises sharp and sudden. Not because you remind him of his late wife. You don't, and you never have. You never will. But somehow that realization doesn't hurt. It simply feels true. You are different—entirely your own person. Entirely your own place in his life. Jack stands there for a long moment, watching you sleep peacefully. Then quietly, he reaches for his crutches resting beside the nightstand.
The apartment is dark now, silent, as he pauses at the doorway, looks back one last time, at you sleeping in his bed. Wrapped in his shirt, breathing softly against his pillow, and despite every effort not to—Jack smiles. Then he switches off the light and heads toward the couch. Completely unaware that he's already fallen far deeper than he ever intended to.
JACK ABBOT'S APARTMENT — MORNING
The first thing you notice when you wake up is that you're comfortable. Suspiciously comfortable. Wrapped in sheets that smell faintly of clean laundry and something familiar you can't quite place. For a few blissful seconds, you remain exactly where you are, half-buried beneath the blankets, eyes still closed. Then your brain starts working slowly… like an old computer booting up. Your mouth is dry, your head hurts, and you have absolutely no idea where the hell you are.
You crack one eye open, and a ceiling you don't recognize stares back. Your stomach immediately drops. "Oh no."
Then the memories start returning. The nightclub, losing your keys, calling Jack… Jack picking you up. The drive to his apartment, the makeup wipes, and the hug. Oh God. The hug.
Your eyes fly open, fully awake now. Mortification floods your entire body with terrifying speed. "No, no, no, no..."
You immediately bury your face in your hands. Maybe if you stay here long enough, you'll evaporate, and the earth will open up and swallow you whole. Maybe cardiac arrest—you'd accept cardiac arrest. Slowly, you peek out from between your fingers, and a glass of water sits on the nightstand. Beside it is a bottle of ibuprofen and a neatly folded note in Jack's handwriting.
Drink water before standing up.
Your heart does something deeply unhelpful as you groan, "Oh, my God."
Because that's such a Jack thing to do, he’s practical, thoughtful, and annoyingly sweet. You whimper and flop backward onto the pillow.
Unfortunately, reality remains—and reality is that you are currently in Jack Abbot's bed. His bed—his actual bed, the place where he sleeps. The place where—You immediately shove that thought into a dumpster and set it on fire. Nope. Absolutely not. Not going there.
You drag yourself upright before your imagination can make things worse. The oversized Army shirt hanging off your shoulders shifts as you move. Your eyes immediately drop. Jack's shirt. You are wearing Jack's shirt. You consider throwing yourself out of the nearest window.
The bathroom is somehow worse. Because now you're sober, fully sober. Which means you remember everything… mostly. You splash cold water onto your face repeatedly. Trying to wash away the embarrassment and the memory of crying. The image of him calling you honey and you falling asleep against him.
"Oh, I'm never recovering from this." You groan into the sink before you force yourself to look in the mirror. You survive trauma shifts and twelve-hour nights. You went through fucking COVID. So… you can survive breakfast. Probably.
After one final pep talk that accomplishes absolutely nothing, you step out of the bathroom and immediately stop. A framed photograph sits atop the dresser, Jack and his wife, both smiling. The picture looks old, well-loved, the edges slightly worn. Guilt arrives like a punch to the ribs. Because no matter how much time has passed, she's still here. In photographs, memories, and the quiet spaces, he doesn't talk about. You stare at the picture for a moment longer, then look away. The guilt lingers anyway.
The smell hits you before you reach the living room. Coffee, eggs, and toast, along with something frying in a pan. Your stomach growls traitorously, then you turn the corner, and nearly walk directly into a wall. Because Jack is standing at the stove, shirtless. You stop functioning completely. Gone. No thoughts. Head empty. Just panic. Because somehow, in all the years you've known him, you've never actually seen him like this.
At work, he's always covered by scrubs, layers, a jacket, and PPE. Now—now he's standing barefoot in his kitchen wearing nothing but athletic shorts and his prosthetic. Morning sunlight spills through the apartment windows. Across broad shoulders, freckled skin, and muscle earned through years of physical therapy, stubbornness, and sheer determination. The prosthetic is already attached as part of him, as familiar and unremarkable as breathing. You know the story and what happened, and understand now the work it takes to live with it.
Still—seeing him outside the hospital feels strangely intimate, and very human. Your jaw nearly hits the floor as Jack turns. He immediately catches your expression, and to his eternal satisfaction, you look horrified. Not by him, but by being caught staring. His mouth twitches, "Morning."
You blink once, then twice, and you begin rapidly looking anywhere else.
"Morning." Your voice cracks. Well, that’s spectacular. Jack's eyebrow rises, "Rough landing?" You clear your throat. "Oh, absolutely."
His smile grows slightly. "There are worse hangovers."
"Don't."
"You called me at midnight because you lost your keys."
"Jack."
"You accused the floor of moving."
"Jack."
"You tried to negotiate with a coat rack."
Your eyes widen as you sputter, "I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"Oh my fucking God."
Jack laughs—there it is again, a little lighter than it used to be. "Come eat." You hesitate, still standing awkwardly in his shirt, and painfully aware you're in his apartment—his space. Then Jack glances over his shoulder, "You need food before your headache gets worse."
There it is. His doctor voice—the one that brooks absolutely no argument. You sigh dramatically and obey. Because apparently that's become a habit. Jack places a plate in front of you. Eggs, toast, fruit, and a giant glass of water.
You stare, and then at him, then back at the plate, "You made breakfast."
"You sound surprised."
"You made breakfast."
"You were hungover." You blink because he says it so simply, as if taking care of you is the most natural thing in the world, and maybe that's what gets you. It's how easy it seems for him—the quiet way he shows up. Again, and again. So instead of saying any of that, you pick up a piece of toast. "Thanks." Jack glances up from his coffee, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. "Anytime, Lifeline."
You lower your gaze quickly and focus on your breakfast instead. Unfortunately, that only makes things worse because now you're sitting at Jack's dining table, in Jack's apartment—wearing Jack's shirt.
Eating breakfast, he made for you. The domesticity of it settles wrong inside your conscience. Not because you or him have done anything wrong. But because it feels like you're standing in a place that once belonged to someone else. Your eyes drift toward the bookshelf across the room. A framed photograph sits among the books, showing Jack and his late wife. They’re smiling and happy.
The familiar guilt immediately curls around your throat. You look away, and your appetite suddenly harder to find. Jack notices and asks, "You okay?"
You force a smile, "Mhm." Jack raises an eyebrow. The same look he gives patients who claim their pain is a three out of ten while actively dying. "Lifeline."
You sigh at being caught, again. "It's stupid."
"If you're saying that, it probably isn't."
The concern in his voice makes the guilt worse. You stare down at your plate, picking apart a piece of toast. "You've done so much for me."
Jack frowns immediately, "Okay."
"And I kind of crashed into your life last night."
His confusion visibly increases as he points out the obvious, "You lost your keys."
"I know."
"You called me."
"I know."
Jack waits as you groan softly because this sounds ridiculous out loud. "It just feels like I'm imposing."
Jack's expression softens as he says, "Lifeline." You hate it when he says your nickname like that—as if he's trying to talk you down from something.
"You are not imposing."
You look away, stubbornly mutter, "Still."
"No." His answer comes immediately.
You glance up, and Jack is looking directly at you now. Completely serious. "You called because you needed help. That's what people do."
"But—"
"It's not a burden."
You open your mouth; however, Jack cuts you off again. "You would've done the same thing for me."
And unfortunately—he's right. You would've, without hesitation. At three in the morning, or in the middle of a thunderstorm. Without a second thought.
Jack sees the realization cross your face. A faint smile touches the corner of his mouth.
"Exactly."
You look back down at your plate, suddenly embarrassed. Because he's making it sound so simple. Meanwhile, your brain is spiraling. You risk a glance upward and immediately regret it. Because Jack is leaning against the counter. Coffee mug in hand. Morning sunlight spilling through the kitchen windows behind him. Now that you're sober, you're trying very hard not to notice things. Like the freckles scattered across his shoulders. Or the way years of physical therapy and hospital shifts have built quiet strength into him. Maybe the fact that he looks unfairly good for someone standing barefoot in his kitchen at eight in the morning. Your eyes immediately dart back to your eggs because you’re a coward.
"So." Jack takes another sip of coffee. The amusement in his voice is impossible to miss. "You gonna keep staring at your breakfast like it’s inedible?"
You nearly choke, "What?"
"The eggs."
"Oh." Your face feels suspiciously warm. "They're intimidating."
Jack stares at you, then laughs.
Somehow and somewhere along the way, Jack stopped being your soulmate, the impossible person at the end of a red string, and became Jack. The man who remembers your coffee order, and the one who checked on you when you had COVID, who keeps spare electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at taking care of yourself. The man who made you breakfast because you were hungover, and the man who still loves his wife. The guilt returns instantly. You glance toward the photograph again. Jack follows your gaze this time. His expression changes subtly. The smile faded into something quieter, more thoughtful. Neither of you says anything for a moment. The apartment settles into a small, comfortable, sad silence. The kind that comes from old grief that never fully disappears. Finally, you clear your throat. "I'm sorry."
Jack immediately looks confused. "For what?" You gesture vaguely around the apartment. "Sleeping in your room." His expression somehow becomes even more confused. "Lifeline."
"I'm serious."
"Why?"
You stare at him, "Because it's your room."
"Correct."
"And your bed."
"Also correct."
You narrow your eyes because Jack is enjoying this. The asshole. "Jack."
"What?"
"I feel bad."
His expression softens immediately into a quiet gentleness. "It's fine." He replied. You shake your head, "But—"
"No." His voice is calm. "I wasn't going to wake you up so you could sleep on the couch." You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. You try to rebut, "But—" Jack points toward your coffee, "You would've fallen asleep sitting upright."
"That's not true."
"It absolutely is."
"It happened one time."
"It happened three times."
"Allegedly."
Jack laughs into his coffee, and for a moment, just a moment, the guilt eases. Because he's looking at you like you're welcome here. As if your presence isn't an intrusion or that helping you wasn't an obligation. It was just something he wanted to do. That realization follows you for the rest of breakfast. Maybe that's why loving him has always felt so dangerous. It's the spare apartment key he keeps on his keyring. The electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at remembering to drink water. The bottle of ibuprofen is waiting on the nightstand before you even wake up. The way he remembers—he doesn't even realize he's doing it.
Eventually, breakfast ends, and you help carry plates to the sink despite Jack's protests. "I'm perfectly capable of washing a plate."
"I know."
"You sounded doubtful."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
Jack rolls his eyes, and you grin.
For a moment, it feels normal. As if this is something the two of you do all the time. Then Jack glances toward the hallway. "I should shower."
Your eyes immediately dart away.
Why are you suddenly embarrassed? You've seen this man covered in blood during trauma activations, and somehow, showering is what's awkward.
"Okay." Jack nods, then pauses, a small frown appearing. "You don't have clothes."
You blink, "Oh." You hadn't actually thought that far ahead. Your club outfit is currently somewhere in the apartment and likely smells like spilled alcohol, perfume, and poor decisions.
Jack disappears down the hallway before you can offer a solution. A moment later he returns carrying a pair of gray sweatpants and another shirt. You immediately recognize the Army logo faded across the front. "Here."
You stare at him, then back at the clothes. "I can't take your clothes."
"You're already wearing my clothes." Unfortunately, he has a point. You glance down at the oversized shirt hanging off your shoulders. Jack's mouth twitches, "The sweats have a drawstring."
"Oh, good."
"They should fit."
"Should?"
"Mostly." You narrow your eyes, but Jack looks entirely unapologetic. "You can keep the shirt." Your heart immediately forgets how to function, breathless, "What?" Jack casually shrugs, "It's old." You can’t fucking breathe, so you settle for, "Oh."
The thought of keeping it, taking it home, and sleeping in it. Smelling his laundry detergent every time you wear it is incredibly intimate. "Thanks."
Across his expression is as soft as his response, "You're welcome." Then he gestures toward the hallway. "I'm gonna shower."
You nod, "Okay."
"The shower chair's in my bathroom, so I'll be in there awhile." The statement is matter-of-fact and unremarkable. The same way he always talks about it. Not because it doesn't matter. But because Jack long ago learned there was no point treating every accommodation like a tragedy. It's simply part of his life—part of him. You nod again, "Take your time."
Jack studies you for a second; he's checking for lingering hangover symptoms. Then apparently decides you'll survive. "I'll drive you home after."
"Sounds good." You agree. There’s a pause before Jack says, "Try not to break anything while I'm gone." Your gasp is immediate, "Rude."
"I know you."
"You wound me."
Jack laughs, then walks down the hallway. A few moments later, you hear the bathroom door close. The apartment becomes quiet—the one that only exists in the homes of people who live alone. You wander slowly—absolutely not snooping. You were observing, there's a difference. The apartment itself feels like Jack. Comfortable, practical, and unpretentious. Bookshelves line one wall of the living room. Medical textbooks, military history, and novels with dog-eared pages. A few framed photographs scattered throughout the apartment—friends, coworkers, and people who matter.
You pause near one shelf. A photograph sits there. Jack and his late wife, when they were younger, were laughing. The picture caught in the middle of a moment rather than a pose. She has her head tipped toward him, and Jack is looking at her like she hung the moon.
Your stomach lurches. Because even now—years later—she still belongs here. Of course she does. This was their home, their life. You gently set the frame back exactly where you found it. Suddenly feeling like an intruder again, your gaze drifts around the apartment. There are signs of her everywhere if you know where to look. It isn’t overwhelming or frozen in time. There’s a photograph, a ceramic mug, and a framed postcard tucked between books. Evidence that she existed, and you hate yourself a little. Because standing here, wrapped in Jack's clothes, waiting for him to finish showering, part of you wishes things were different. Part of you wishes you weren't standing in the aftermath of someone else's great love story. The guilt settles heavily, along with the red string hidden beneath your sleeve. You glance toward the hallway, and the sound of running water. Toward the man you've loved for years. Because no matter how badly you want him—you've never wanted to replace her. Not for a second. Never. You just...wanted him to be happy, even if it was never with you.
The drive back to your apartment is quiet, but not uncomfortable. You sit curled into the passenger seat, your folded dress resting on your lap alongside your heels. The sleeves of Jack's old Army shirt hang past your wrists, and the sweatpants are too big with the drawstring pulled tight enough to keep them from falling. You feel ridiculous, like a child playing dress-up. Outside the window, Pittsburgh drifts by in shades of gray. You keep your eyes fixed on it. Because every time you glance at Jack, your heart hurts. Especially after last night… the makeup wipes, the hug, his hand on your face, honey. You don't trust yourself anymore, not even a little. Beside you, Jack steals another glance. You're unusually quiet, and that alone is enough to make him nervous. Normally, even hungover, you'd be talking, making terrible jokes, or complaining about your headache.
Instead, you're staring out the window like you're already somewhere else. His fingers tighten slightly on the steering wheel as he asks, "You okay?" You nod immediately, humming, "Mhm."
A lie that Jack recognizes instantly, but he lets it go for now. When he finally pulls up in front of your apartment building, neither of you moves immediately. The truck idles softly as silence stretches, then you suddenly unbuckle. Before Jack can process what's happening, you lean across the center console and wrap your arms around him. The hug catches him completely off guard, and for a moment, he freezes. Then instinct takes over. His arms come around you automatically. Your face presses briefly against his shoulder. Jack's heart does something strange and painful. Because it feels like goodbye, and he has absolutely no idea why.
"Hey." His voice comes out softer than intended. You squeeze him once before you let go, because if you hold on any longer, you won't be able to leave.
"Thanks," you whisper. Your eyes sting immediately, but you force a smile anyway. "For everything." The words shouldn't sound final, but they do. "Anytime, honey." The endearment slips out effortlessly and naturally now. Neither of you acknowledges it. Jack studies your face, trying to figure out what's wrong, to understand why you suddenly look like you're trying not to cry. So he asks carefully, "I'll see you later at work, yeah?"
Your throat tightens while you nod. "Mhm." It's not technically a lie. The second you step out of the truck, you don't look back. You can't. Because if you do, you'll stay. So you practically run inside your apartment building.
Leaving Jack staring after you, confused, worried, and somehow strangely unsettled.
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — DAY
Dana and Lena listen quietly. The three of you sit in an empty conference room before shift change. You make it approximately halfway through your explanation before you start crying. Not graceful tears, pretty tears, but the ugly kind. The tears you've spent years swallowing, "I'm sorry."
Dana immediately reaches for you, "Hey." You shake your head, "I'm sorry."
"Hon." Dana rubs circles against your back, her voice gentle, maternal. "Why are you apologizing?" You laugh through your tears because the answer feels obvious and impossible. "Because I'm in love with him."
The room falls silent as Lena and Dana exchange a glance. A look. One that says they already knew. Everyone always knows except the people involved. "It's just for a little while," you whisper while you wipe furiously at your face. "I just need some space." Dana's expression softens. She asks, "And what about your heart?"
That's the problem, isn't it? Your heart—your stupid, stubborn heart. You stare down at your hands, "Until it relearns how to stop beating for him." Then quietly you hear Lena ask, "So you're not gonna tell him?" You shake your head immediately, "I can't."
Because how do you tell someone that you've been tethered to them for seven years? That you've loved them through a marriage, grief, and loss. Through healing. How do you tell someone that? Especially when he never chose you. So you don't.
THREE DAYS LATER…
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
Three days later, Jack notices immediately, the second he walks into the ED, you're gone. No coffee sitting beside your workstation and sarcastic comments from Central—there’s no you. He finds Lena first and asks, "Where is she?" Lena doesn't even look up from her charting, "Where's who?” Jack stares, "Lifeline."
"Oh." She clicks something on her computer. "Day shift." His stomach drops, "What?"
"She switched."
"When?" Lena shrugs at him, "A few days ago."
Jack blinks slowly. "Why?"
"Ask Dana." Suddenly, Lena becomes very interested in her chart.
A week passes, then two, and Jack begins losing his mind. Because you are avoiding him, deliberately and aggressively. You leave before he arrives, or arrive before he leaves. You disappear down hallways and take lunch at different times. Find literally any excuse not to be alone with him. The few times he manages to catch sight of you—you smile and wave.
Then vanish again, like smoke, as if you're afraid of him, and that hurts. Because Jack keeps replaying that night. The club, his apartment, the hug, and the morning after. What did he miss? What did he do? Did he cross a line? Did he make you uncomfortable? Did he somehow ruin the one friendship he can't bear to lose? Every answer leads nowhere, and every day you drift a little farther away. Three weeks later, during shift change, Jack finally spots you. Walking quickly through the corridor, badge swinging from the clip of your scrub pocket, and iced coffee in hand.
He immediately changes direction. "Lifeline." You freeze for a second, then keep walking. Fuck. Jack follows and calls after you, "Lifeline." Your pace somehow gets faster, and now he's genuinely irritated and hurt. "Hey."
Finally, you stop, turning around, with a careful smile already in place, too careful. But not him, never him, not until now. "Hi, Jack." The distance between you feels enormous as he asks, "What is going on?" Nothing. Everything. You force a shrug, "Nothing."
That’s bullshit, and Jack knows it's bullshit. You know he knows, but neither of you says it. Then somebody calls your name from down the hallway, and relief floods your face at escaping him. The realization dawns on him like a punch.
"I gotta go."
"Lifeline—"
"See you around." Then you're gone, again. Practically running.
That's when it happens—Jack stares after you, heart pounding, confused, angry, and hurt. Suddenly—pain flares around his wrist. It’s sharp and hot. He physically flinches, "What the—"
A red thread appears beneath his skin, bright and impossible, but all too real. Jack freezes as the world tilts. No. No. No. The string winds itself slowly around his wrist. As it has always belonged there, it was simply waiting.
His breath catches because he knows what it is; everybody knows what it is. His pulse begins hammering. The thread stretches down the hallway, past nurses, residents, and stretchers, straight toward—You. Jack stumbles, his hand slamming against the wall to keep himself upright as the hallway blurs and his vision tunnels.
No. No, that's impossible. His heart pounds so hard it hurts. The red string glows softly between his wrist and yours, unbroken. Years… all these years. Every conversation, every shift, every cup of coffee, and every moment. Every time you'd looked at him and then looked away, or when you'd disappeared when things became too close. All the times you'd chosen distance. The truth crashes into him all at once. You knew. Oh God. You knew, and somewhere down the hallway—completely unfazed—you kept walking.
While Jack stands frozen in place, one hand braced against the wall, staring at the impossible thread connecting him to the woman he's been desperately trying not to admit he's fallen in love with.
2025
6:00 PM
PTMC, CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY
The emergency department shifts from busy to catastrophic in less than thirty seconds. One moment, people are charting the next—every television screen in the department lights up with breaking news.
There’s an active shooter at PittFest—mass casualty incident. Every healthcare worker in the room recognizes it instantly. The moment before impact… before disaster arrives.
"Hey, what's going on?" McKay asks.
Robby strides into Central, already moving and planning. Carrying the weight of what is coming. "Mass casualty at PittFest."
Samira looks up sharply, "How many victims?"
"We don't know." Robby's face is grim. "Expect the worst.” A terrible silence settles, while someone else immediately reaches for a phone. "Did the police find David?" McKay asks. Robby shakes his head, then raises his voice, "Okay, everybody, listen up."
Every head turns to pay attention to Robby.
"There is an active shooter at PittFest. As the nearest trauma center, we are going to be getting the majority of the victims." The room goes completely still. "We don't know yet how many we're getting, but we are instituting hospital-wide emergency protocols. We need to move every patient out of here. Either home, upstairs, or Family Medicine. Call your loved ones now if you need to."
Robby glances toward the windows, toward the city. Towards the disaster unfolding somewhere beyond it. "I can guarantee cell service will soon be overwhelmed. Eat something. Stay hydrated. Use the bathroom while there's time and meet back here for a full briefing in five minutes."
Then his gaze lands on someone entering through the ambulance bay doors, relief flashes across his face.
"Brother." Robby exhales. "I'm so fucking glad to see you." Jack, carrying his backpack and wearing his black scrubs, briefly hugs Robby, "Heard it on the scanner."
Jack drops his bag onto a workstation. "How many are we expecting?"
"I don't know." Robby's expression darkens. "But it doesn't sound good."
After placing his things down, Jack looks up directly at you. The breath leaves your lungs. Already focused entirely on you.
Your stomach drops. Oh no. No. No. No. He knows. The realization slams into you so hard it feels physical. You don't know how or when. But something in his expression tells you immediately.
He knows about the string—your secret. The thing you've spent seven years burying. Your pulse begins hammering, and blood rushes up to your ears. Across Central, Jack doesn't look away; his jaw flexes, hard, angry. You know that look—you've seen it directed at negligent parents, reckless drivers, people who made choices that hurt others.
Five minutes. That's all you have before the briefing. Before the entire hospital erupts into chaos. Apparently five minutes is all Jack needs. The second he catches you alone, a hand closes firmly around your elbow. "Lifeline." You freeze, your heart immediately dropping into your stomach. "Jack—"
"We need to talk." The words come out low and controlled. He steers you toward an empty supply room. A narrow space lined with IV fluids and sterile procedure kits. The door swings shut behind you, and the silence is deafening.
You turn toward him, trying to keep your face neutral, and completely fall apart. "What's going on?" The question sounds pathetic even to your own ears. Jack stares, and for a moment, he says nothing. Which makes everything worse, because his eyes are furious.
Furious at being hurt and at being lied to. At realizing something important happened without him knowing. His jaw clenches, "You knew." Your vision immediately blurs, "Jack—"
"You knew." The repetition is softer, devastated. You feel your tears threatening already.
"Don't." Your voice cracks. "Don't look at me like that." Something flashes across his face—pain, but then anger returns to cover it. "So what was the plan?" His words come out sharp.
"Jack—"
"What?" His voice rises, years of confusion finally boiling over. "What were you doing?"
You flinch, and Jack immediately hates himself for it, but he can't stop, not now. "Were you just waiting?" The accusation hangs between you, ugly, unfair, and born entirely from hurt. "Were you waiting for your chance?"
Your eyes widen as the tears come instantly, and suddenly you're angry too. Years of restraint snap all at once.
"No." The word echoes off the walls. "No." You step toward him, furious, heartbroken, and shaking.
"I buried it." Your voice breaks. "I buried every part of it." Jack freezes as you keep going, "You don't get to stand there and act like I wanted this." The tears are falling freely now. It’s hot and humiliating. "I buried every chance of loving you so deep I could barely breathe around it."
The room goes silent as Jack stares while you choke on the next words, because they're true, every single one. "I buried my wanting for you." Your voice cracks again. "And don't you dare accuse me of waiting." The anger disappears, leaving only raw, ancient grief. "You don't get to accuse me of that when I respected it."
Jack's face changes back to confusion and regret. But you're not finished, "I respected her." The words nearly destroy you while you wipe at your face, failing miserably. "I respected both of you."
A photograph flashes through your mind. Then she laughed in the department, bringing Jack lunch, loving him. Being loved by him, the woman you'd genuinely cared about. The woman who had never done anything except be kind to you.
"She was brilliant." You laugh bitterly as another tear slips free. "Beautiful. And I knew I'd never measure up."
Jack physically recoils, as if you'd struck him. "What?" The word comes out strangled. You look away because you can't bear seeing his face. "I know that."
"No." Pain flashes across his expression. "No, you don't." You laugh again, broken, "I do." Then quietly, you add, "The first time I saw the end of the string." Jack goes completely still at your admission.
"The first time I saw it unfinished." Your voice drops, barely above a whisper. "I knew I was going to lose you either way."
Silence—absolute silence. Jack feels like the floor has vanished beneath him, because suddenly, he understands. All those years, smiles, retreats, your careful boundaries. How you'd chosen distance instead of possibility. You weren't waiting. You were grieving the entire time.
The supply room door suddenly swings open, and Robby appears, already halfway through speaking. "Abbot, I need—"
Then he stops, immediately, because you're crying, and Jack looks wrecked. The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.
"...Whoa." Robby looks between both of you a few times, then decides he absolutely does not want whatever this is. "What the hell is—"
You move first, past Robby and Jack. Past all of it. Your shoulder brushes the doorframe as you leave. You don't stop, and can’t look back. Because if you do, you'll fall apart. While Jack just stands there, watching you go, understanding too late. For the first time in seven years, understanding exactly how much it must have hurt. Then, somewhere outside the room—an overhead page sounds. The first ambulances are arriving, signaling that the mass casualty has begun. However, the conversation isn't over. Not even close.
7:00 PM
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
All at once, the emergency department is already overflowing. Trauma bays filled, hallways lined with stretchers, and blood smeared across floors that Environmental Services doesn't have time to clean. The overhead speakers haven't stopped paging for nearly twenty minutes. Victims keep coming. Gunshot wounds, shrapnel injuries, and crush injuries from the stampede that followed.
The air feels thick with adrenaline and fear. Every single person in the department is running on instinct, training, and experience.
You haven't looked at Jack since the supply room, not really. You can feel him occasionally, like a gravitational force somewhere at the edge of your awareness. A pull you refuse to acknowledge. Every time your eyes accidentally find his across Central, you immediately look away. You don't have the luxury of falling apart right now, because people are dying, you know that, and so does Jack.
So, whatever happened between you has been shoved aside by necessity.
"Let's go!" Langdon's voice cuts through the noise. Another victim on a gurney in Central. Male, approximately late twenties, multiple injuries, semi-conscious, and blood soaking through his shirt. Samira immediately moves to the stretcher, "Who do you have?"
"Semi-conscious. Responds only to pain. Decent carotid."
"Strip him." Mateo reaches for trauma shears, and so does Tim, "Let's go." The team descends immediately, beginning to cut clothing, assessing injuries, checking his airway, and breathing. Everything is moving with practiced efficiency. Then—something feels wrong. You don't know why, it’s just a feeling. A prickling sensation along the back of your neck.
The patient suddenly jerks, and the nurses yelp. A hand disappears beneath the shredded remains of his shirt. Langdon freezes, then shouts. "Whoa!" Everything happens at once.
"Gun!" The word detonates through Central. "Gun! He's going for his gun!"
Every person in the room reacts instantly; some hit the floor, and others dive behind workstations. The patient somehow manages to yank a handgun free. His eyes are wild, disoriented, and terrified. The muzzle swings wildly across the room and lands directly toward Robby and Jack.
Time slows for you as you watch. Later, you'll never be able to explain why you moved, whether it was instinct, training, love… or something much darker. A part of you wonders if maybe you were simply tired—tired of carrying this, of loving him, maybe of being afraid. You never figure it out, because your body moves before your brain does.
One second, you're standing near Central, the next you're running.
The gun fires, and the sound is deafening. A violent crack that echoes through the department. For one suspended moment—nobody moves or breathes. Then pain explodes through you, white-hot, blinding.
You stagger as your knees immediately buckle while the floor rushes upward. Somewhere nearby, people are screaming while others are shouting for security. The world becomes noise, blurred shapes, blood—too much blood. Then, you hear Jack scream your name, and it tears straight out of him. Raw, animal, nothing like you've ever heard before. The resident beside him barely has time to react before Jack is already moving. He’s running—ignoring everyone and everything. None of it matters, not anymore. Because you're on the floor, and you're bleeding. Suddenly, the worst thing Jack has ever imagined is happening right in front of him.Again.
He drops to his knees beside you, not caring that his stump is aching, hands immediately searching, assessing, locating the wound, trying to stop the bleeding while SWAT restrains the man who shot you. His trauma training takes over automatically, even while the rest of him is breaking apart.
"Pressure!" Somebody throws him gauze, Jack slams it hard against the wound. Too much blood—so much fucking blood, and the sight makes his stomach turn. "No."
Your vision swims, and you can barely focus. But somehow—somehow—Jack is all you see. Always him, maybe it was always going to be him. His face is pale, terrified—more terrified than you've ever seen him, and somehow that hurts worse than the bullet.
You manage a weak laugh, and blood touches your lips. Jack immediately hates the sound, "Don't." Your eyes find his, and for the first time in years, you stop hiding. "It was painful."
Jack freezes, "Lifeline—"
"When you looked at me." Your voice trembles, blood continues soaking through the gauze. "When you smiled at me."
"No." His hands shake, just slightly, but you feel it. "When you believed in me." Tears blur your vision. "It hurt."
Jack's face completely crumples because now he understands all of it.
"It tore me apart." The words barely make it out, and an unfiltered sob escapes him. Because you're dying, and he just found you. He spent seven years standing beside you without seeing it. "No." His voice breaks. "No, no, no."
Someone is calling for Trauma One and bringing a stretcher. The department is moving around him. But Jack doesn't care, because the world has narrowed to you—only you.
"I just got you." The words rip from his throat, his eyes shine, desperate, furious, and every bit terrified. "I just got you." Your breath catches. You love him, you always will. So maybe—maybe honesty won't kill you now. "I love you."
Jack closes his eyes, as if the words physically hurt. You smile weakly, doubling down, "I love you, Jack Abbot."
Silence for a moment, then, firmly, "No." The answer comes instantly, violently, as if he's rejecting reality itself. "No." His forehead presses briefly against yours. "You're not doing this."
Tears slide down his face, but he doesn't even notice. "You hear me?" His voice cracks. "You're not doing this to me."
The stretcher arrives, and Robby appears, blood on his gloves. Panic hidden beneath professionalism. "Jack." Nothing… Jack doesn't move. "Jack." Still nothing.
"Abbot!" Finally, Jack looks up, and Robby immediately understands. Oh. Oh no. "We need Trauma One." Robby's voice softens. "Now."
Jack nods once, then helps lift you onto the stretcher himself. Refuses to let go or step away. He refuses to leave your side as they race down the hallway. Trauma One is already being prepared. Blood products, thoracotomy tray, massive transfusion protocol—Everything and anything. Whatever it takes.
Dana meets them at the door, and one look at Jack's face tells her everything, every awful piece of it. "Oh, honey." Jack doesn't even hear her; his eyes never leave you, not once. Dana steps close, careful. "Jack." No response from him, so she tries again, "You need to let them work."
His jaw tightens, "No."
"Jack."
"No." His voice breaks again. Because he knows—he knows exactly how bad this is. Knows every possible complication, terrible outcome, and statistic. Every nightmare, and he cannot survive another one. Not you, God, please, especially not after all this—after finally finding you.
The trauma team begins crowding around the bed. Voices overlap, orders fly, blood pressure dropping, airway concerns, surgical consult from Garcia, massive transfusion. Yet, Jack refuses to move, standing beside your stretcher, his hand wrapped around yours. As if letting go might somehow allow death to take you, or sheer stubbornness can keep you here.
As if love might finally be enough this time around.
PTMC, ICU — DAY
The surgery lasts hours—too many hours, long enough for the adrenaline to burn away, and for exhaustion to settle into everyone's bones. Long enough for Jack to memorize every crack in the ICU waiting room floor.
The bullet had done catastrophic damage. A through-and-through gunshot wound with massive internal bleeding. Multiple units of blood transfused. Emergency surgery. Complications halfway through that had nearly sent the entire operating room into a panic. At one point, Robby had physically forced Jack to sit down because he looked seconds away from collapsing. Jack couldn't remember most of it afterward, only fragments. Your blood on his hands. Your voice. I love you, Jack Abbot.
The terror of watching your blood pressure disappear from the monitor. The awful realization that he might lose you before he'd ever gotten the chance to tell you—I love you too. But somehow, you survive. The surgeons manage to stop the bleeding and repair the damage. They brought you back. It feels less like medicine and more like a miracle.
Three days later, you're still asleep, intubated, and hooked to enough machines to make the room hum softly around you. But you're alive, and right now, that's enough.
Jack hasn't left at all. Dana, Robby, Lena, and even Whitaker—all of them fail. Because every time someone tells him to go home, he looks at you lying in that hospital bed and refuses. The man is impossible when he decides on something, and he decided he was staying.
So he stays, wearing scrubs more often than not. Surviving almost entirely on hospital coffee and vending machine food, and sleeping in the uncomfortable chair beside your bed. If you could see him, you'd probably yell at him. Tell him he's being ridiculous, and that he should shower. To stop looking like a man who personally lost a fight against a tornado. Unfortunately, you're unconscious, which means nobody can stop him.
The red string remains, that impossible thread winding around his wrist before disappearing into yours, completely visible now. Neither of you is hiding anymore. Sometimes Jack simply stares at it, as if he's afraid it'll disappear—a chance he'll wake up and discover this was some cruel fever dream. Because for years he believed he'd had his soulmate, then he lost her. And now—now the universe has somehow handed him another sacred thing. A second chance he never expected. One he's terrified of losing before it even begins.
The ICU room is quiet that afternoon as sunlight spills through the window. Your face is pale against the white pillow. Your hair is messy, and there's bruising along your neck from procedures, tape securing lines, and dressings. Evidence of how close death came for you. Jack reaches forward, his fingers brushing gently through your hair. The movement reverent, as if touching something precious. Something fragile and almost lost.
His thumb traces softly across your cheek. "You scared the hell out of me." His voice is rough, sleep-deprived, and broken around the edges. You don't answer, but that never stops him.
The door opens quietly as Robby steps inside, coffee in one hand and concern written all over his face. He pauses immediately, taking in the scene. Jack slumped beside your bed, wearing his scrubs, faintly stained with blood—your blood. His hand wrapped around yours, and the red string was visible between them. For a moment, Robby says nothing, simply watches. Understanding settling over him piece by piece. Then finally, he asks, "How's she doing?"
Jack glances up. His eyes are bloodshot and exhausted. "Stable." The word comes out cautious. Because saying it too loudly might somehow jinx everything.
Robby nods, steps closer, looking down at you, at the monitors, then at Jack. A realization flickers across his face. "Is she also..." His voice softens. "...your soulmate?"
The question hangs quietly between them, and Jack's gaze immediately drops to your hand. To the red thread wrapped around both wrists. He can't speak for a little while, then he nods once.
"I think so." The words sound ridiculous even now. "I didn't think..." His voice catches as he looks down at you. At the woman he'd spent seven years loving without understanding why it felt different. Not understanding why losing your friendship hurt more than it should, or why seeing you happy mattered so much. Why he'd kept showing up, again and again. "I didn't think it was possible."
The rRobby remains silent, letting him continue as Jack swallows. "I didn't think it would happen to me." The confession comes out almost embarrassed—he's admitting something shameful. Robby exhales slowly, nods. "There've been a few reports."
Jack glances up.
"A few studies." Robby shrugs. "The theory is that some soulmate bonds don't form immediately." His eyes drift toward the red string, toward your intertwined hands. "Sometimes they form after loss."
The room falls quiet, neither of them says the obvious thing. That his late had been Jack's soulmate too, and loving her had been real, complete, and true. That none of this erased her.
Jack looks back at your sleeping face, the rise and fall of your chest, and the steady rhythm on the monitor. Alive and still here. His fingers slide gently through your hair again, careful not to disturb anything, as his hand cups your cheek. The gesture impossibly tender. Robby immediately looks away, because some moments aren't meant for witnesses.
Jack leans forward, pressing a kiss against your forehead, lingering there for a second, eyes closed and relieved. Terrified and very in love. When he finally pulls back, his thumb brushes across your skin. And for the first time since the shooting, a small smile appears. Fragile, hopeful, like he's allowing himself to believe it. Just a little.
"Come back to me, Lifeline." His voice is barely above a whisper. The red string glows softly between your wrists, and Jack squeezes your hand gently, as if you're already listening. As if somewhere beneath the machines and medications and healing wounds, you can hear him. Maybe, for the first time in a very long time, he isn't asking fate for anything. He's only asking for you.
PTMC, ICU — DAY
The first thing you become aware of is discomfort, not pain, well, not yet anyway, just wrongness. A strange pressure lodged in your throat—something foreign. Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy, as if someone glued them shut. The effort required to open them feels monumental. Slowly, painstakingly—you manage it, and the world arrives in fragments. White ceiling, muted sunlight, the rhythmic beeping of monitors, and the steady hiss of oxygen.
A hospital room—your hospital room, and immediately your nursing brain starts putting pieces together. ICU, you're in the ICU, which means—Oh. Oh no, the shooting. Memory crashes back all at once: the gun, Jack, blood, Trauma One. I love you, Jack Abbot.
Your eyes widen immediately as panic flares. Because there is definitely a tube down your throat, a ventilator tube, and suddenly every survival instinct in your body starts screaming. You try to move—a mistake, as pain explodes through your abdomen. Pain that says somebody has spent several hours trying very hard to keep you alive. A strangled sound leaves you; your heart monitor immediately speeds up.
Then you feel it, a hand, wrapped around yours. You turn your head, slowly, and there he is… Jack. Curled awkwardly in the chair beside your bed, wearing his black scrubs, asleep. His head was resting against folded arms near your mattress, one hand tangled with yours, the red string winding quietly between your wrists. For a moment, you just stare because he looks awful. His curls are a mess, dark circles shadow his eyes, his jaw is covered in stubble, his scrubs are wrinkled because he hasn't slept properly in days, and he hasn't left. This whole time, he stayed. Your fingers twitch, weakly, barely enough movement to count. Then you squeeze his hand.
Jack jerks awake instantly, years of emergency medicine, and years of sleeping lightly. His head snaps upward, disoriented and confused. Then his eyes land on yours, and the entire world stops. For a moment, he doesn't move or breathe. Doesn't seem capable of either. He just stares, afraid you're another dream, or another hallucination born from exhaustion.
"Hey." The word comes out rough, barely audible, and your eyes immediately fill with tears. Because he's crying, relief floods his face so quickly it looks painful. His hand tightens around yours.
"My Lifeline." His voice cracks completely, and suddenly, tears are sliding down his cheeks, unashamed. Jack laughs once, a choked sound halfway between a sob and a prayer. "Oh, my God."
You try to answer, then immediately regret it, because the tube is still there. Panic spikes again.
Jack notices instantly, "Hey." His hand cups the side of your face, gentle and grounding. "Hey, hey." His thumb brushes your cheek, "You're okay." Your breathing becomes faster, the ventilator alarms immediately begin protesting. "You're okay." Jack is already reaching for the call button, never taking his eyes off you. "You're okay."
Within seconds, the room fills with people. Garcia arrives first. Followed by respiratory therapy, a nurse, and half the ICU, apparently. "Well, look at that." Garcia's grin is immediate. "About time."
You want to roll your eyes, but unfortunately, you still have a breathing tube. The respiratory therapist immediately begins assessing and following commands. Checking your neurological status. Making sure you're strong enough for extubation. You squeeze hands, follow fingers with your eyes, nod appropriately. All while Jack hovers nearby. Trying desperately not to interfere, and failing miserably.
"She's ready." The therapist glances toward Garcia, and then Garcia nods. "Let's do it."
Jack immediately moves closer, instinctively. Like he physically cannot help himself. The ventilator disconnects, the securing device is removed, and the respiratory therapist gives instructions. You barely hear any of them; your entire focus is on the tube. Then—it's out. Immediately, you cough violently because your throat burns. Every breath feels strange and uncomfortable, but you're breathing on your own.
Jack is already helping support you upright, one arm behind your shoulders, the other holding a cup with ice chips. "Easy." His voice is impossibly soft. "Slow down."
You cough again, eyes watering. Jack looks ready to fight somebody on your behalf. Possibly the tube or the entire ICU. Eventually, the coughing settles enough for you to breathe comfortably, and the monitors stabilize, everyone visibly relaxing.
Garcia steps forward, professional mode fully activated. "Okay. The surgery went well." She begins carefully. "You sustained a gunshot wound to the abdomen." Jack's jaw tightens visibly as she continues, "There was significant internal bleeding." Garcia continues. "We had to perform an emergency exploratory laparotomy."
Your nurse brain immediately fills in blanks, searching for damage, complications, and probabilities. Garcia notices this and says, "We repaired injuries to your small bowel and controlled several bleeding vessels."
Your stomach drops.
Jesus.
"You required multiple transfusions." Garcia continues. "But you're stable now."
Stable—the most beautiful word in medicine. You glance toward Jack; he's staring at the floor, hearing the details physically hurts. Garcia notices that, too, a tiny smile appears. One that says she understands far more than she's commenting on.
"Recovery's going to suck." You manage a weak laugh; the sound comes out raspy. Garcia points immediately. "There she is. Don't make me regret taking that tube out."
For the first time since waking, you actually smile. Garcia gathers her chart and steps toward the door, then pauses, looking between you. Then Jack, the red string, then back again.
"Oh." A knowing expression crosses her face. "Right."
Jack immediately looks uncomfortable, which is almost impressive considering everything that's happened.
Garcia grins. "Try not to stress her out." Then she points at you. "And try not to get shot again."
The door closes behind her, and the room suddenly feels much quieter. Much smaller and more intimate. Silence settles; neither of you quite knows what to say. Because there are too many things, seven years' worth.
Jack remains seated beside the bed, his hand never leaving yours, not once. He's afraid the second he lets go, you'll disappear again.
Your throat hurts—everything hurts, but somehow none of it matters right now. Because Jack is looking at you, really looking at you, and there are tears still caught in his eyelashes. Evidence of how terrified he'd been, your fingers tighten weakly around his. "Hi." The word comes out hoarse, barely audible. A wet laugh escapes him, disbelieving, and relieved. "Hi."
His thumb brushes across your knuckles, again and again. As if he needs the contact—he needs proof. Then Jack lowers his head, pressing his forehead gently against your joined hands, his eyes closing. Breathing shakily, and in that moment, you realize he was just as afraid of losing you as you'd always been of losing him.
Finally, Jack swallows hard, then asks quietly, "How long?" You know exactly what he means, not the shooting or the string. All of it. You stare down at your intertwined hands. At the red thread winding around both wrists, then back at him, and answer honestly. "Since my first day.”
Jack blinks, once and twice. He genuinely thought he'd misheard you, "Your first day?" You nod, a sad laugh escaping. "Yeah."
His mouth opens, then closes, and opens again. The physician in him is clearly attempting to process impossible information. Unfortunately for him, he's currently operating as a man in love, not a doctor, which means none of this is going well.
"Seven years?" The words come out strangled, and you give a tiny nod. Jack leans back in his chair, looking dizzy. "Jesus Christ."
A weak laugh escapes you. "That was more or less my reaction too." His hand tightens around yours to reassure himself.
"Why didn't you tell me?" The question is quiet, not accusing anymore, only hurt. He’s trying to understand. You look away first, toward the window. Because this part is harder. "You were married." The words are simple, obvious, and true, Jack's expression immediately softens.
"You loved her." You smile sadly. "Of course you did." Because he had, you'd seen it, every day, in every smile or phone call, at the mere mention of her.
"I wasn't going to be the woman who showed up and destroyed that." Your voice trembles. "I couldn't. It's why I never said anything." A tear slips free, and you don't bother wiping it away.
"I respected her too much." Your laugh cracks. "And honestly?" You finally look at him, unwaveringly, you admit, "I loved you too much.” Jack closes his eyes, processing the truth of it all. "I knew you were happy." You smile weakly. "I thought… I thought if I couldn't be the person you loved, then I'd settle for being someone you trusted."
Jack stares at you, completely speechless. Suddenly, every memory makes sense, every retreat or careful boundary. You chose distance over possibility. You weren't waiting. You weren't hoping for his wife to die. Goddamit. The thought makes him sick now. You were protecting him—protecting both of them, at the expense of yourself, for seven years.
"That's insane." The words slip out before he can stop them. You blink, offended. "Excuse me?" Jack actually laughs, a wet, exhausted sound. "You loved me for seven years."
"You make it sound like a disease." You frowned.
"It kind of is."
You point weakly, "I got shot."
"Exactly." For the first time since waking up—you both laugh. The sound fades slowly, leaving only the truth behind. Jack shifts closer, his chair scrapes softly against the floor, until he's sitting right beside the bed, close to you, so that there's nowhere left to hide.
"I need you to understand something." His voice lowers, gentler now, and more vulnerable than you've ever heard it. Jack looks down briefly, then back up. "She was my soulmate." The words settle softly between you, simply true and not at all cruel. You nod, because you know—you've always known.
"I loved her." His eyes shine, "I'll always love her."
You squeeze his hand, "I know." Jack exhales shakily, then continues, "But somewhere along the way..." His voice falters, and you can’t recall if you've ever seen him this scared. His thumb brushes your cheek, the same way it did the night you almost died. "You became my favorite part of the day. The first person I wanted to talk to." Another stroke of his thumb. "The person I looked for first." His eyes never leave yours. "And when you started avoiding me..."
He laughs once, humorless and every bit painful. "It felt like somebody was ripping pieces off me." The confession steals the air from your lungs, and Jack leans forward slightly, and your heart starts racing.
"I thought I was losing my mind." A tiny smile appears at the corners of his mouth. "Turns out I was just in love with you."
Everything disappears—leaving just him and tears blur your vision instantly.
"Oh." It's all you can manage. Jack smiles, soft, beautiful, it’s entirely his. "Yeah."
Suddenly, you're crying. Because after seven years—after all that grief and silence and fear—he chose you. Not because of the string or fate. Or because destiny told him to. But because he loved you.
"You idiot." Your words wobble and Jack laughs, "I know."
"You absolute idiot."
"I've been told."
You laugh through your tears, and somehow, he wipes them away before they can fall. The gentlest touch imaginable, as if you're something precious. Then his forehead rests against yours, and neither of you speaks. You don't need to. The red string glows softly between your wrists, a silent witness, and for the first time—it doesn't feel like a chain. It feels like a beginning.
Jack's gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then immediately back to your eyes. Giving you every opportunity to stop him. Every opportunity to say no. You don't. Not even a little.
So, he kisses you, softly, as if you're something holy. Something he spent seven years searching for without realizing it. His hand cups your cheek, while yours finds his wrist. Right where the string wraps around him, the kiss is gentle and tender. A promise rather than a fire.
When he finally pulls back, neither of you moves very far, foreheads touching, breathing the same air. Jack smiles, the kind of smile you've spent years secretly collecting. "Hi."
A laugh escapes you, "Hi." Then his eyes soften, filled with something warm enough to last a lifetime. "There you are."
After seven years of loving him in silence—you finally get to stay.
End Notes:
Where do I even begin? This idea has been cooking in my head for MONTHS. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how I wanted this story to go. But then you know how things just suddenly click and fall into place? That’s exactly what happened.
It was absolutely euphoric—once I got the plot beats down, I just couldn’t stop writing lol.
I wanted you, the reader, to know how much you respected Jack’s wife and that you weren’t trying to replace her.
Also.. do you get it? Lifeline = Line = String…. Ha ha ha. You are his Line…
Everyone blame Noah Kahan for making me cry to Orbiter.
LOWKEY, wasn’t expecting a lot of people to read this…
Taglist: @gennywennypenny @kneelforloki @unknownhuman102 @thebewitchingvagabond @danah-20 @i-do-not-care-bear @nerdgirljen @silksepia @rathatosy @proudlyvastlake @coconuthoneyandjaguars @acciotwinz @thefemininemystiquee @rei-scorpio @buckystwilight
I couldn't breathe because I was crying so hard 😭😭😭😭
I love you, you're such a good writer. I love the way you write angst ❤️
TEHE
Thank you so much for reading!! Please hydrate and get some tissues!!! I send hugs 🥰 🤍
could u pls maybe add a page break to the fics/blog you have when it's super long? like your 22k wc had me scroll for a minute before i gave up and closed the app instead /gen /nm thank you…
Ermmm… I did?
Did it not work on your end? I moved the page break a little higher now… hope that’s fine!
A Game of Chance
18+ account - minors do not interact
titus danforth x f!reader Word Count: 10.8K Rating: E
Summary: You get invited to an unexpected wedding.
Warnings: (SMUT MDNI 18+), professor reader, idiots in love, mentions of death (not super descriptive), obscene wealth, alcohol, feelings, mutual pinging, yearning, sexual tension, jealousy, (both reader and titus), sorta mean/pissed off titus, pet names, some fingering, oral sex (69ing so f & m receiving), lite spanking, dirty talk, praise, unprotected p in v, possessive sex?, hallmark ending (HEA <3), don't want to spoil too much about the ending
A/N: No spoilers! Anything that happens in this is not in the 2nd movie. Creative liberties galore! GIF found HERE by @sammy-bryant. dividers as always by @saradika-graphics
Thank you for reading!! if you reblog with commentary i love you so much <3.
BREAKING NEWS
An anchor spoke with hushed urgency usually reserved for national crises:
"The entire Le Domas family, heirs to the Le Domas Dominion board‑game empire, have been discovered dead inside the ancestral estate of patriarch Tony Le Domas. And at the center of it all is one name—Grace MacCaullay, the bride who married into the dynasty just hours before the massacre. Authorities are calling this a murder‑suicide, one of the most shocking in recent memory. Grace MacCaullay, 28, was found dead on the estate grounds with a gunshot wound to the head, and a gun in her hand. She was still wearing her wedding dress."
They replayed the police body‑cam footage—officers approaching a blood‑spattered bride sitting on the mansion steps, smoke still rising from the ruins behind her. When the officers asked her what happened, she gave only one chilling word:
"In‑laws."
The anchor continued, "They arrested Grace that day and rushed her to the hospital, where she was being held after her arrest. She was placed under police hold, sedated, and monitored, but somehow, she escaped the hospital and made her way back to the estate—back to the scene of the slaughter and killed herself."
The anchor closed the segment with a practiced, solemn tone:
Why would a woman with no prior history of violence destroy an entire family? Investigators argue the most straightforward explanation is: either she harbored a long‑standing vendetta against the family or that she suffered a sudden, catastrophic mental breakdown.
You exhaled in your apartment, almost laughing at the neatness of it all. Because you knew what the anchors didn’t. One of the families from the high council had clearly killed her, taken her body, and brought her back to the Le Domas estate themselves. They placed her exactly where she needed to be for the narrative to hold. They arranged the scene so investigators would find her in the perfect position, with the perfect weapon, wearing the perfect dress for a tragedy the public would swallow whole.
You whispered the final line along with the anchor, but with a knowing edge:
"Murder‑suicide."
You couldn’t help but wonder: Had Titus and Ursula won the seat back?
You were walking across the Columbia University campus, the early October sun casting long shadows across the quad, your bag slung over one shoulder. Midterms were looming, and your mind was halfway through your upcoming lecture when a voice cut through your thoughts and called out your name after the word 'professor.'
The voice was smooth, and you turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored navy suit, crisp white shirt open at the collar, no tie. His shoes were polished cordovan leather. His hair was dark, neatly combed, with just a hint of silver at the temples.
He smiled, a practiced but warm expression. "I'm sorry to interrupt. I was told I might find you here."
"I'm sorry, do I know you?"
He extended his hand. "Conrad Harrington. I'm Ursula's—" He paused when he saw your own eyes widen before you could stop them. "I'm Ursula's fiancé."
"Fiancé?" The word came out sharper than you intended. Hadn’t they called off their engagement years ago?
"I know this must be confusing." He glanced around at the students streaming past, the noise of the quad. "Is there somewhere we can talk? Just a few minutes."
You nodded, not trusting your voice. He pointed to a wrought-iron bench under a large tree, mostly empty in the afternoon lull. You both walked over and sat down. The iron was cool through your skirt. Conrad leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped.
"I'm sorry about your mother, by the way. She was nothing but kind to me when she worked at the estate," he said with complete sincerity.
A slow pressure gathered in your chest. "Thank you. She only had wonderful things to say about you."
He nodded, seeming to take comfort in that.
"Ursula and I got back together," he said. "About 3 months ago. We've been quietly... reconnecting."
Your first instinct was bitter: Why didn't Ursula tell you they had gotten back together? You knew you were being a hypocrite. And…the last time you'd seen her, she'd been calmly murdering her father. Not exactly a heart-to-heart moment. Hardly the occasion for catching up. Yet you would have expected something. A cryptic comment maybe. Instead: nothing. Her silence felt deliberate.
"And you're engaged now? Just like that?"
"Just like that." He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. "I know how it sounds. But I've wanted to marry that woman since the first night I met her. She was the one who kept saying no when we were dating. Kept pushing me away." He looked at you directly. "Maybe you know why."
He was clearly gauging how much you knew.
"I know enough," you said.
He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. "Well… she never wanted to put me through that…the chance of drawing the wrong card. She thought she was protecting me by breaking up with me."
"Then why did she change her mind?"
He looked away, across the quad, his eyes unfocused for a moment.
"I don’t know…but I’ve always told her I'd take the risk. I don't care."
"So you're willing to play? To possibly draw the card and end up—"
"I'm willing to take the chance," he interrupted, turning back to face you. "I’m madly in love with her. And in fairness, there are other games. Multiple. Not just hide and seek. The odds aren't as bad as you'd think."
"And you’re willing to give your soul if you survive?"
"I would do anything to be with her."
Damn… Ursula must have some magic pussy, you thought.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cream-colored envelope. "We're getting married. October 24th. In Aix-en-Provence."
You stared at the envelope, not taking it. "October 24th? That's barely 2 weeks away. Are you serious?"
"I've waited 9 years for this. I'm not waiting any longer." He pressed the envelope into your hand. "I was in town for business. Ursula told me you teach at Columbia. I thought... I thought I'd bring this to you myself."
"Wait." You looked up from the invitation. "Does Ursula know you're here… or that you’re inviting me?"
Conrad's smile had a nervous edge. "No."
You felt the sting even though you didn’t want to. Ursula was getting married, and you weren't part of it. And that was fine, logically. People didn’t invite everyone to everything. That was normal. Except it didn't feel normal. It felt like you were standing outside looking in, and there was a whole version of Ursula you weren't going to get to know. You realized that maybe the 12 years of ignoring Danforth’s had done more damage than you thought.
"You want me to show up unannounced?" you frowned.
"It will be a surprise. A good one."
"Ursula hates surprises."
"I know." He said it softly, almost like a confession. "But look—" He leaned closer, his voice dropping. "I don't know what happened between you and their family. I know there was some rift…but Ursula loved your mother. She was devastated when she died. And with her father passing recently... she's trying to put on a strong face, but I think she would like it if you were there. I really do."
You looked down at the invitation. The gold lettering shimmered in the afternoon light. For a long moment, you didn’t move. Then a memory surfaced, unbidden. You were 19 again, sitting on the edge of Ursula’s bed at Danforth’s English estate. She was brushing her hair, telling you about her favorite place in the world.
"Aix-en-Provence", she’d said. The house there is the only place I have ever felt completely myself." You had never made it out there. You had visited the other estates—the sprawling manor in the English countryside, the villa on Lake Como, the chalet in the Swiss Alps, the schloss in Austria…but never Aix.
"I'll consider it," you finally said.
Conrad stood, smoothing his jacket. He looked relieved. "That's all I ask. The invitation has all the details. If you can make it... I think it would mean more to her than she'd ever admit."
He started to walk away, his shoes clicking on the cobblestones. You stood up, the invitation crushed against your palm.
"Conrad," you called out. He turned, and you lowered your voice, even though no one was close.
"Did they win the seat?"
He held your gaze. The easy smile faded. His eyes went flat for just a second, the mask slipping. Then he said, quietly, "If you come to the wedding, you can ask them yourself."
He turned and walked away, disappearing into the stream of students heading toward the library. You pocketed the invitation and started walking, the crunch of leaves beneath your shoes grounding you in the present. The news report replayed in your mind like a loop you couldn’t shut off.
Grace MacCaullay.
The Le Domas family.
Massacre.
Murder suicide.
You pulled out your phone, checked your calendar, and booked a flight to Marseille, connecting through Paris. The ticket was refundable. You told yourself you could always cancel.
But you knew, even as you typed in your credit card number, that you wouldn’t.
MARSEILLE, FRANCE
The hotel was charming in that way only a French boutique hotel could be—aged stone walls, wrought-iron balcony, the faint scent of lavender drifting in through the open window. You had barely slept. The connecting flight from Newark to Marseille had been delayed, and by the time you had checked in and collapsed onto the crisp white sheets, it was nearly midnight. The rehearsal dinner had been long over.
Now, at 1 pm, you stood in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of the room, the black dress hanging from the closet door. You had bought it 3 days ago, something about the cut drawing you in with the high neckline, and the way it skimmed the collarbone. You liked that it left the shoulders bare in that subtle, architectural way, and that the slit ran just high enough to be alluring without being obscene. You slipped it over your head, the material cool against your skin. It zipped up the side (a hidden zipper that you managed on the third try), and turned to face the mirror to stare at your reflection.
What the fuck were you thinking? Ursula might actually kill you for this.
You reached for the glass of wine you'd poured ten minutes ago from a local Côtes de Provence rosé you'd grabbed from the minibar and took a long sip out of nerves. You picked up the invitation, reading the instructions for the hundredth time:
Arrival strictly between 2:30 PM and 3:15 PM. Present this invitation at the first checkpoint. Follow the drive to the second gate. A valet will direct you.
You grabbed your clutch, which was a small black satin pouch, just big enough for your phone, lipstick, and a compact. The invitation went in last, and you checked the room one more time, then grabbed your room key and headed out. The hotel concierge called you a taxi, a clean white Mercedes that pulled up to the curb. The driver was an older man, maybe sixty, with a thick mustache and a shrug that seemed permanent. You gave him the address from the invitation, and he raised an eyebrow.
He pulled away from the curb, navigating the narrow streets, and suddenly the city gave way to countryside with rolling hills covered in vineyards, clusters of stone farmhouses, the occasional glimpse of a distant chateau. The road wound upward, the vegetation becoming denser, more wild. After about 40 minutes, he turned onto a private road marked only by a small stone pillar with a wrought-iron gate. A guardhouse appeared. A man in a black suit stepped out, clipboard in hand. You rolled down the window and handed him the invitation. He examined it, glanced at you, then at a list on his clipboard. He nodded, handed it back, and the gate swung open.
"Ils ne rigolent pas," the driver muttered. This is some serious security.
"Apparemment," you replied. Apparently
The drive continued for another mile, winding through a forest of olive trees. The second gate was even more imposing, with iron bars at least twelve feet high, flanked by stone walls that disappeared into the trees. Another guard, another check. This one took longer. He scanned the invitation with a device, then made a phone call. After a tense minute, he waved you through.
The driver let out a low whistle. "Putain. C'est un château, pas une maison." Holy shit. That's a castle, not a house.
"Je sais…" you whispered in awe. I know
The house emerged from the trees slowly, deliberately, as if revealing itself on purpose. It was a sprawling limestone manor, three stories tall, with a mansard roof of blue-gray slate and tall French windows that caught the afternoon sun. Wisteria climbed the eastern facade, its purple blossoms hanging in heavy clusters. A gravel courtyard opened before it, already filled with ultra‑luxury European vintage cars. A fountain in the center of the courtyard featured a stone nymph, water cascading from an urn she held.
The driver pulled up to the entrance, slowing as clusters of elegantly dressed guests drifted toward the doors. He turned to you, his eyes wide.
"C’est un marriage," you said, forcing a smile. It’s a wedding.
He shook his head, muttering something about the rich as he helped you out. You handed him a generous tip (30 euros), and he tipped his hat.
"Merci, madame."
"Merci."
You stood on the gravel, the crunch of stones under your heels echoing loudly in the quiet. The front door was ajar, a butler in uniform was standing patiently nearby. You took a deep breath and stepped inside, your heart pounding in your chest. The foyer was a symphony of marble and light. A grand staircase curved upward, its banisters wrought iron with gold leaf accents. A crystal chandelier hung from a two-story ceiling, casting prisms across the walls. To the left, a salon opened up, filled with guests, champagne flutes in hand. The murmur of conversation washed over you, punctuated by occasional laughter.
As the gathering buzzed around you, a waiter appeared, offering a tray of champagne. You accepted a flute, grateful for something to hold, and glanced around at the familiar faces. Hazel, Ursula’s aunt, caught your eye first. She was a gaunt woman dressed in a navy silk dress, a string of pearls resting against her collarbone. Her husband, a portly man with a flushed face, stood beside her, engaged in conversation with someone you didn’t recognize. She seemed to notice you, her eyes flickering with recognition and surprise behind her gaze, as if they hadn’t expected to see you after all these years.
A few more familiar faces began to emerge from the crowd, and thankfully, you recognized a couple of Ursula's friends from that Nantucket trip. More people started to notice, and others who recognized you started to come over and strike up conversations. The usual barrage of questions had begun to flow, predictable, shallow, and almost anthropological in their curiosity. But what really got you was the look on their faces when you mentioned you lived in Harlem. It was as if they’d forgotten that Columbia University was in Morningside Heights, just next to Harlem—yet, here they were, acting as if the neighborhood were some distant, unfamiliar place. It was a curated ignorance that only the affluent could afford.
You noticed another family cluster: the Wainwrights, cousins of the Danforth’s, notorious for their real estate empire. The younger son, a man in his forties with a receding hairline, stared at you for a while before turning away. You took another gulp of champagne. Then another.
And then, across the room, you saw fucking Kip.
He was leaning against a marble pillar, a scotch in his hand, talking to two women in pastel dresses. Kip, who looked like a grinning predator in a tailored suit. You hadn’t seen him since his 'wedding,' which was fine because he had always found ways to corner you and whisper things that made your skin crawl during prep school. He was a piece of shit. He looked up, and his eyes met yours. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face.
You turned on your heel and walked in the opposite direction, weaving through the crowd, putting as many bodies between you and him as possible. You found a quiet corner near a window overlooking the gardens and pressed your back against the wall, your champagne flute now empty.
Your hands were shaking, and you set the flute on a passing waiter's tray and grabbed another.
Where was Titus?
You scanned the room, the clusters of guests, the winding staircase. No sign of him. Was he with Ursula? Getting ready? You fidgeted, adjusted your earrings, and smoothed your hair. You felt exposed, vulnerable, like a rabbit in a field of wolves…so you kept drinking, the champagne a thin shield against the rising tide of panic. Then the wedding coordinator stepped into the center of the foyer and clapped her hands twice. The murmur died down.
"If I could have everyone's attention, please. The ceremony will begin in five minutes. Please proceed to the garden through the south doors. Guests are requested to be seated." The crowd began to move, a slow tide of silk and cologne toward the open doors at the end of the hall. You followed, the champagne glass still in your hand, and set it on a small table as you passed.
The garden was breathtaking.
The aisle wasn’t strewn with petals; instead, a long strip of dark stone, polished to a mirror sheen, cut through the grass like a blade. At the end of it stood an archway of blackened iron twisted with deep‑red amaranth and dark olive leaves. The arch was set against a backdrop of the Luberon valley, the hills rolling in shades of green and gold under the late afternoon sun. Chairs (black iron with deep wine‑colored cushions) were arranged in neat rows on either side of the aisle. A string quartet was already playing, something soft and classical. The temperature was perfect. Maybe 66 degrees, the air carrying the scent of lavender and earth. The sky was a clear, endless blue.
You took a seat in the middle row, on the end of the left side, so you could be close enough to see but far enough from the aisle that you wouldn't be caught in the wedding party's sightline. You clasped your hands in your lap, your fingers cold despite the warmth. The officiant, a man dressed in a simple black robe, walked down the aisle and took his place beneath the arch. Almost abruptly, Conrad followed and walked down the aisle with his parents—they walked him to the altar, his father shaking his hand, his mother kissing his cheek, and then they stepped to the side, taking their seats in the front row. They hadn’t bothered with a wedding party, which you loved. No bridesmaids fussing with hems, and no shitfaced groomsmen. It was just Conrad, standing under the arch, his hands clasped in front of him, his eyes fixed on the house.
Then the quartet paused. The officiant cleared his throat.
The first notes of Bittersweet Symphony began to play, the strings carrying that iconic melody. The guests stirred. The officiant raised his voice.
"Please stand for the bride."
Everyone rose as the chairs scraped against the gravel, and you stood with your heart in your throat when the doors of the house opened, revealing Ursula emerging.
She was a vision in red. The dress was a deep wine, almost burgundy, with a fitted bodice that flowed into a full skirt. The fabric caught the light, shimmering like liquid fire.
"Wow, look at her in that dress," someone murmured nearby. "It's like she stepped out of a dream." Her hair was pinned up, with a few curls escaping to frame her face, and she wore a circlet of dark metal that caught the light, each garnet glimmering like drops of blood with every step she took as she moved.
But it wasn't only the dress that made your breath catch.
It was the man walking beside her.
Titus.
He looked devastating, wearing a perfectly tailored suit, and with a deep red pocket square that matched Ursula's dress. His arm was linked through hers, guiding her down the aisle. Your eyes burned, and as you blinked, a tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it, so you brushed it away quickly, hoping no one saw.
Ursula looked beautiful. Stunning. And the fact that it was Titus walking her down the aisle, her twin brother, her other half—it made something ache deep in your chest. You wished Chester could have seen this moment. And, the most beautiful part, was Conrad's face. He was watching Ursula with an expression you had only seen in books or in movies. Complete and total awe. His eyes were wide, his lips slightly parted, and there was a softness in his gaze that bordered on reverence. He wasn't looking at his bride. He was looking at a miracle.
Titus led Ursula up to the arch, then paused and turned to face Conrad. For a moment, the three of them stood in a small triangle before Titus took Ursula's hand and gently placed it in Conrad's. That’s when you noticed he was wearing his father’s ring. You smirked, because you realized that it meant the twins had secured their seat back on the High Council.
Titus was about to take his seat when he paused, his eyes catching sight of you. Your heart stopped with them because there was something in his expression—something darker, something that made your blood run cold. He wasn’t happy to see you, and without a word, he looked away and took his seat, as if dismissing you. Regret flooded your mind…it was a mistake to come here. You sat there, rooted to your spot, your hands clutching the edge of your chair, feeling the weight of his displeasure press down like a heavy stone.
The words echoed quietly in your mind as the ceremony continued, the officiant's voice a distant drone, the lavender-scented air suddenly suffocating. You kept your eyes fixed forward, but all you kept thinking was:
You were not welcome here. Not by Ursula. And certainly not by Titus.
The ceremony ended in a blur. You stood when everyone else stood, clapped when they clapped, smiled when they smiled. But your body moved on autopilot while your mind churned in a dark spiral, replaying the look Titus had given you.
You needed a drink.
The bar was tucked in a corner of the ballroom (because of course this house had a ballroom), all dark wood and brass, staffed by a man who looked like he'd seen a hundred broken hearts and knew better than to ask questions. You ordered a whiskey, neat, and knocked half of it back in one swallow. The burn was grounding.
Ursula and Conrad were making their rounds, stopping at tables, accepting congratulations. You watched her from a distance, the way she moved through the crowd with practiced grace, her dress trailing behind her. You also noticed her look of complete shock when she noticed you.
She started heading straight for you, and your stomach dropped.
Ursula didn't slow down. She weaved through the guests with a smile fixed on her face, but her eyes were locked on you. She reached the bar, grabbed your wrist with surprising strength, and pulled you away before you could protest.
"Ursula—"
"Not a word," she hissed, dragging you through a side door, down a narrow corridor, and into a study lined with bookshelves.
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
You let out a breath, a nervous laugh escaping your lips. "Congratulations. You look stunning. The dress is—"
"Explain yourself."
You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Your husband invited me."
She looked ready to combust. "I'm going to kill him."
"You really shouldn't make jokes like that," you said, raising an eyebrow. "You know. Considering."
For a heartbeat, she stared at you. Then, despite herself, a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.
You pressed your advantage while you had it. "Look, I know why you didn't invite me. I wouldn't have invited me either." You held her gaze despite the way your heart was hammering. "But I didn't want to miss this. And I know my mother would have loved being here."
Ursula's expression shifted—the anger draining from her face like water through cupped hands. She turned away from you, her shoulders stiffening. For a long moment, she didn't speak.
"Don't," she finally said, her voice tight. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Use her as a distraction." She spun back around, and her eyes were glistening now, though her jaw was clenched hard enough to break teeth. "You don't get to—you can't just—"
"I'm not," you said quietly. "I'm telling you the truth. She would have been here if she could. And since she can't be, I wanted to be. For the both of us."
Ursula's hand came up to her face, and she turned toward the bookshelves, her shoulders trembling slightly.
"I can’t believe I’m married." You let the silence stretch for a moment, watching her shoulders gradually still. When she finally turned back around, her eyes were red-rimmed but dry since Ursula had clearly decided tears were not on the agenda.
"Neither can I," you said softly, and despite everything, she let out a short, surprised laugh. "Conrad seems like a really wonderful person. I can tell he’s madly in love with you.”
She studied you for a moment, then nodded. "He is. He looks at me, and it's like he already knows exactly who I am and loves me anyway." There was something almost vulnerable in the admission, like she was surprised by it herself. "He's... a much better person than I am. Which, granted, isn't a high bar, but still," she smiled sadly. "I love him so much it scares me. I'm still waiting for the universe to correct its mistake."
"It's not a mistake," you said firmly.
She tilted her head, one eyebrow arched in that signature way of hers. "Are we done with the feelings portion of the evening, or...?"
"Are you afraid?" you whispered.
"Of what?" She turned back to the mirror, smoothing down her dress with deliberate precision.
"Of what might happen tonight."
She was quiet for a long moment. "He won't pull the Hide and Seek card," she said with absolute certainty.
"How can you know that?"
"Because Titus made sure he wouldn't."
The words hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. What did that mean? Your mind raced.
"I have to go," she said. "Smooze with people. Total buzzkill."
"Good luck. Try not to commit any felonies."
"No promises." She rolled her eyes. "I also need to go find the wedding planner and tell her that some absolute nightmare of a person showed up uninvited, so she needs to hide you in the back somewhere near the kitchen.
You grinned. "I appreciate that."
Ursula was already moving toward the door, mentally preparing herself for the social minefield of in-law pleasantries.
"I'm happy you two won the seat back," you said, lowering your voice. Ursula paused at the doorway, turning back with a knowing smile.
"That was all Titus. He made sure of it. Made sure a lot of things happened the way they needed to."
For a moment, she looked like she might say something more, but then the sound of voices drifted down the hallway. She gave you a quick wink before disappearing past the door.
The ballroom had transformed into a glittering maze of conversation and champagne. You'd spent the last 10 minutes circling through clusters of guests, your eyes perpetually scanning for Titus. You hadn't seen Titus since the ceremony. Part of you hoped he'd disappeared entirely, that you could slip away before dawn and pretend this whole night never happened. But you knew better. The weight of his stare from the aisle still clung to your skin like a brand.
You finally found him on the terrace, leaning against the stone balustrade that overlooked the gardens, a glass of wine in his hand. He was watching the sunset paint the valley in shades of amber and rose, his profile sharp and unreadable in the golden light. For a moment, you just stood there, taking him in.
Then she appeared.
She was young—couldn't have been more than 22, with the kind of effortless beauty that came from good genes and better skincare. She had red hair, the kind of shade that caught the light like it was made for it, and she was wearing a champagne-colored dress with piercing blue eyes. She materialized at his side like she'd been summoned, her hand already reaching out to touch his arm.
"Titus, darling," she cooed, her accent distinctly British, upper-crust. "I've been looking for you all evening. You simply can't hide away like this. It's terribly unfair to the rest of us."
"Hello, Margot," you overheard him say.
Of course her name was Margot.
You watched her laugh—a tinkling, practiced sound that probably worked on approximately 98% percent of the male population. She leaned closer, her fingers still on his arm, and you felt something hot and acidic crawl up your throat.
"I'm starting to think you're avoiding me."
"Hard to avoid someone who keeps finding me," Titus said, a slight smirk playing at his mouth. "Though I'm not complaining."
"Well, I'm terribly persistent when I want something,"
"I've noticed," Titus said.
Margot laughed again (that same crystalline sound that made your molars ache). You realized that your nails were digging crescents into your palms. What infuriated you most wasn't that she was beautiful. It wasn't even that she was young and effortless and everything you'd expect the average man to want. It was that Titus was engaging with her. That he wasn't stepping back. That he was considering it, you could see it in the way his gaze lingered on her face, in the way he didn't immediately shut her down.
You moved toward them before you could think better of it. "Excuse me," you said directly to Titus, your voice cutting through the evening air like a blade. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"
Titus turned to you, and his expression shifted…and not in the way you wanted. His eyes, which had been warm moments before, went cool and distant, that familiar wall slamming down between you two. Margot’s head whipped around, her expression shifting from flirtation to indignation in half a second. She looked you up and down, dismissively, as if cataloging your outfit choice.
"We’re sort of having a private conversation," she said coolly. "Shouldn't you be tending to the bar?" she asked, her tone dripping with rudeness. "Or did someone send you to collect glasses?
What a cunt.
"Isn't it past your bedtime? Us adults need to have a little chat," you smiled, sweet as poison.
Her face flushed crimson. For a moment, she looked like she might say something cutting.
"I'll find you later," Titus said, his gaze already shifting away from you, and towards her. "We just need to have a quick chat.”
Her hand found his shoulder, her lips brushing against his cheek in a kiss that lingered. "Don't take too long," she murmured against his skin, her eyes flicking toward you with unmistakable triumph.
Titus didn’t look at you right away. He just exhaled, and when he finally turned, his expression was carved from stone.
"I don’t really actually have time to chat," he muttered, already stepping away from you.
You followed him, pulse hammering. "I would’ve thought you’d be happy to see me."
"Why?" he shot back instantly, not even glancing over. "Since when is that the dynamic?"
He didn’t wait for your answer. He just kept walking, long strides carrying him back toward the house. As he moved, he slipped seamlessly into host mode—nodding to guests, offering clipped greetings, shaking hands. Each polite smile he gave them only highlighted how little warmth he had for you.
You trailed behind him, feeling like a ghost tethered to his shadow.
"Titus," you hissed, trying to keep up. "Why are you being this way?"
He stopped mid‑stride, turned his head just enough to look at you over his shoulder.
"What way?" he asked, voice flat. "You’re going to have to be more specific."
This was the man who once had looked at you like you were something dangerous and precious in equal measure. Who had touched you like he was afraid you'd shatter. Who had said your name like it meant something. You wanted to scream. Instead, you grabbed his wrist and tugged him down a side hallway that was currently empty, quiet, and far from the party’s hum. He let you pull him, but only barely, like he was indulging a child.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" you demanded, keeping your voice low. "You've been cold since the ceremony, and now you're—"
"I'm being what?" he interrupted, his tone deliberately measured in that way that made your skin crawl. "Honest?"
"You're being cruel."
He laughed—a short, bitter sound that echoed off the stone walls. "Cruel would be telling you what I actually think right now." He turned away from you, running a hand through his hair, and you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might break. "So I'm being merciful, actually. You should thank me."
"Thank you for what? For ignoring me? For flirting with that vapid—"
"Don't." His voice cracked like a whip. He spun back around, and his eyes… God, his eyes were furious. "Don't you dare sit there and act territorial when you've been fucking that linguistics professor."
"How did you—" you started.
"Does it matter?" He stepped closer.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" you hissed, because you hadn’t told anyone about David. The only way he could know was if he was keeping tabs on you with the Danforth’s private investigator.
"I’m not. Kindly get the fuck out." He stopped himself, jaw working, clearly trying to regain control. "I can’t believe you’ve been letting him touch you. He’s beneath you. You could do so much better."
Suddenly, it all made so much sense. This was why he had been ignoring your phone calls and texts.
"I'm not—" You felt heat rise in your chest, exasperation mixing with something else. Something that felt dangerously like guilt. "First of all, we slept together once. I haven't done anything physical with him since I came to visit your father in Newport. And you don't deserve to hear this, but the only reason I slept with him was that I was trying to get over you. I ended things with him weeks ago." Titus went very still. "It's 2026," you continued, your voice shaking slightly. "A woman having casual sex is completely reasonable. Men do it all the time. I'm not going to apologize for it."
He scoffed, and your hand caught his jaw to stop him from turning away. Your fingers pressed into the sharp line of his cheek, guiding his face back toward yours.
"Titus," you said, breath unsteady. "Look at me." You stepped closer, closing the distance he'd been so carefully maintaining. Your hand was still on his jaw, but this time you didn’t stop there. Your other hand found his—the hand, the one with his father’s ring. His fingers twitched under your touch, like he wasn’t sure whether to pull away or hold on. "I'm happy you won your seat back. I'm happy the bride is dead if it means you're where you belong. I don't care how that makes me sound. I only care about you."
"That's—you can't mean that."
"I do. I'm in love with you, Titus. I don't know how any of this works. I don't know how to be with someone like you. I don't know if I'll fit into your world or if I'll burn it down trying. But I want to try. I want to be with you. If you'll let me."
Silence stretched between you, thick and trembling.
"I can't focus. I can't think. Every time I close my eyes, I taste you," he murmured.
"Then stop trying to think."
He stared at you, his hazel orbs searching yours for any hint of a lie. Finding none, his mouth crashed into yours, and he kissed you like he was drowning, and you were air. His fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back. You gasped against his lips, and he swallowed the sound, pressing you against the wall behind you. His hips pinned yours, and you felt the unmistakable hardness of him straining against his trousers.
You kissed him back with equal ferocity, your hands sliding up his chest, fisting the lapels of his suit jacket. He groaned, low and guttural, and hitched your leg up around his hip. The fabric of your dress rode high, exposing your thigh
"I don't deserve you," he gasped against your lips, and then his mouth was on your throat, teeth grazing the pulse point, tongue soothing the sting. You moaned, tilting your head back, giving him more access. His hand slid down your side, over the curve of your waist, gripping your ass through the thin material of your dress.
"I don't recall asking what you deserve."
He kissed you again, his mouth slanting over yours again and again until you were both breathless. Then he pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours, his breathing ragged. Titus grabbed your hand, and you let him pull you out of the corridor, through the grand foyer, past clusters of guests who barely registered as a blur of jewel tones and curious glances. His grip was firm, his pace urgent, and you followed without hesitation.
At the base of the grand staircase, you saw her. Margot stood near the bar, a glass of champagne frozen halfway to her lips, her eyes locked on you and Titus, and you saw the exact moment her composure cracked. Her jaw tightened, her knuckles whitened around the stem of the glass, and behind her carefully painted smile, something ugly and furious writhed.
You paused on the landing, met her gaze, and winked.
The fury that flashed across her face was almost violent, a mask slipping just long enough for you to see the raw, possessive rage beneath. You hated admitting that the taste of her jealousy was exquisite. You turned away, letting Titus pull you up the stairs, your heart soaring. He led you down a corridor lined with oil paintings and sconces casting warm pools of light, past doors closed and open, until he stopped at one near the end. He pushed it open and guided you inside.
His room stole your breath.
It was a vision of French European elegance with walls paneled in cream with delicate gold filigree, a crystal chandelier catching the dying evening light and scattering it like stars across the ceiling. The bed was massive, a four-poster draped in ivory silk and velvet, the sheets crisp and inviting. French doors opened onto a small balcony, the sheer curtains billowing in the breeze. A marble fireplace, unlit but stunning, dominated one wall, flanked by armchairs upholstered in pale rose damask.
Titus turned to you, his chest heaving, his eyes dark and hungry. He reached for the zipper of your dress, and you let him, your breath catching as the fabric loosened and slid down your shoulders. It pooled at your feet, and you stood before him in nothing but your heels and the delicate lace of your underwear.
"You're…" he made a low guttural sound, "the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." You looked at him…his eyes wild with want, his lips swollen, his composure shattered. The man who had guided his sister down the aisle with such grace now looked feral with need.
"Show me," you begged, taking off your panties and heels.
He shed his clothes with rough, urgent movements—jacket, shirt, trousers, all discarded in a trail behind him. His body was lean and hard, muscles shifting beneath freckled skin, his cock already thick and straining, the tip glistening. He stepped toward you, his hands finding your waist, and he backed you toward the bed until your knees hit the edge. He pushed you down onto the mattress, the silk cool against your bare skin, and followed you, his body covering yours. His mouth found your neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. When his lips closed around your nipple, you gasped, your back arching, your fingers tangling in his hair.
"Titus—"
"Say my name again." He suckled harder, his tongue flicking the sensitive peak, his teeth grazing just enough to send sparks through your nerves. He moved to the other breast, giving it the same devastating attention, his hand sliding between your thighs. His fingers found you slick and ready, and he groaned against your skin.
"I missed you," you cried out.
"Me too, Angel."
He pushed two fingers inside you, curling them just right, and your vision went white at the edges. You cried out, your hips bucking against his hand, and he watched your face with feral satisfaction.
"Please—I need—"
"What do you need, darling?" His voice was honey and gravel. "Tell me."
"I want to put my mouth on you."
And you did, you had been dreaming about it for months. He pulled his fingers out slowly, bringing them to his mouth and licking them clean, his eyes never leaving yours. Then he lay back on the bed, settling against the pillows, his cock standing thick and proud.
"Come here," he said, his voice rough. "I want to eat your pussy at the same time."
You crawled over him, straddling his chest, facing his cock, and then shifted forward. You lowered yourself slowly, feeling his breath hot against your cunt, and when his mouth latched onto you, you moaned—loud and fucking shameless. You leaned forward, pressing your chest against his stomach, taking his cock in your hand, guiding the tip past your lips. His tongue found your clit immediately, circling, flicking, while his hands came up to grip your ass. He spread your cheeks, pulling you tighter against his face, and then—slap.
The first spank made you gasp around him, your eyes watering. The sting bloomed hot across your left cheek, and you felt him smile against your cunt.
"That's it, good girl," he murmured, the vibrations traveling through your core. "Take it. Take all of it."
You swallowed him deeper, your throat relaxing, taking him to the base. His cock hit the back of your throat, and you hummed, loving the way he groaned in response. His hands kneaded your flesh, then slap again—harder this time, on your right cheek. The slap sent a jolt of pleasure-pain through your body, his tongue working your clit with the same rhythm. You were drowning in sensation...the thick length of him filling your throat, the sting of his palm against your ass, the wet, obscene sounds of his mouth feasting on your pussy.
Your hips began to rock, grinding against his face, taking him deeper down your throat. He groaned against you, the sound muffled but satisfied, and his tongue pressed harder, faster, circling your clit with devastating precision.
"Fuck, missed the taste of you," he breathed, pulling back just enough to speak. You moaned around his cock, your eyes rolling back, your thighs trembling. His tongue grew more erratic, matching the building tension in your belly, each suck pushing you closer to the edge.
"Titus," you panted, "Fuck—"
"Come on my face," he commanded, his voice ragged.
The knot in your belly snapped. Your orgasm crashed through you, violent and blinding, your walls clenching as waves of pleasure wracked your body. You screamed around his cock, your throat convulsing, your hips bucking against his mouth. He didn't stop—he lapped at you through it all, drawing out every pulse, every shiver, until you were limp and gasping above him.
He pulled you off gently, guiding you to lie beside him, and pressed a kiss to your shoulder, his breathing ragged. "I don't want to come in your mouth," he said, his voice strained, thick with need. "I want to watch your perfect face and see your eyes when you come." Titus flipped you onto your back before you could recover, positioning himself between your legs. His cock pressed against your slick, swollen entrance, and he pushed inside you in one smooth motion, making you both gasp. Titus filled you so perfectly, stretching you, claiming you. He set a rhythm that was deep and slow, his eyes never leaving yours. Suddenly, he lifted your legs, placing one ankle on his shoulder and tucking the other in the crook of his arm.
The new angle drove him deeper, and you cried out, your nails raking down his back, leaving red trails on his skin. "Look at you," he breathed, his pace quickening. " You're mine. Say it."
"I'm yours."
"Whose pussy is this?"
"Yours. It's yours, Titus. Only yours."
He grunted, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. The bed creaked beneath you, the headboard knocking against the wall in a steady rhythm. "And that fucking professor? Did he ever make you feel like this?" Titus wanted to own every part of you.
"No one has ever made me feel like this. No one. Just you."
His control snapped.
He fucked you harder, deeper, his hips slamming against yours, his breathing ragged, his sweat glistening on his chest. The room smelled of sex—salt and musk and the sweet, heady scent of your arousal mingling with his. The air was thick with it, with the sounds of your moans and his grunts, the wet, obscene sound of him driving into you again and again.
"I'm close," he growled. "Fuck, I'm so close. I need to feel you come again.”
The pressure built again, coiling tight in your belly, your walls clenching around him. You came with a sob, tears streaming down your cheeks, your body convulsing, your face contorted with the intensity of it. The pleasure was too much, too intense, a beautiful agony that left you gasping, your vision blurring. Titus watched you fall apart, his eyes locked on yours, his expression almost reverent. God, you were fucking gorgeous. His thrusts grew erratic, his breath coming in harsh pants, and you could feel him pulsing inside you, his peak approaching.
"I-I’m gonna pull out," he said, his voice breaking.
"Don't. It's safe. Stay inside me. Come inside me."
He groaned, a sound torn from somewhere deep, and you felt him release—hot, thick, and completely flooding you. His face twisted with pleasure, his eyes rolling back, his mouth falling open in a silent cry. His body shuddered above you, his hips pressing deep, holding himself there as he emptied into you. Titus collapsed on top of you, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting, your bodies slick with sweat, the air around you heavy and warm.
He pulled out slowly, and you felt his spend trickle down your thigh. He disappeared into the attached bathroom, returning moments later with a warm, damp cloth. He cleaned you gently, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hips, and your belly as he worked.
You checked your watch and sighed.
"Cocktail hour is almost over. We need to go back down."
Titus lay beside you, pulling you into his arms, his chest pressed against your back, his lips brushing your shoulder. "Just a few more minutes. I want to hold you a little longer."
You nestled into him, feeling his heartbeat slow beneath your ear, his arms wrapped around you like a shield.
"Titus?"
"Hmm?"
"I love you."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then his arms tightened around you, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
"I love you too."
The words hung in the air, fragile and precious, a promise neither of you fully understood but both of you desperately wanted to keep.
You pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face in the darkness of the room. His eyes were closed, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his chest still rose and fell with controlled breaths.
"Titus?"
"Yes?"
"Why is Ursula so sure that Conrad won't pull the hide and seek card?"
He was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing slow circles on your back. "When the bride was killed," he began, his voice low and measured, "Mr. Le Bail’s lawyer let us know that because we'd re-won the seat, we were allowed to adjust our family contract. The terms, the rules, all of it. Ursula and I had made a deal that whoever killed the bride would be the one to make whatever adjustment we pleased."
Your heart was already beginning to race, sensing where this was going.
"I requested," he continued, his arms tightening around you since he was still afraid that confirming that he killed her would make you look at him differently, "that our family continues to participate in the hunts. We're bound to this. To the High Council. To Mr. Le Bail. That's not something that can be undone, and I wouldn't ask for that. But I did ask that the hide and seek card...the game itself be removed from possibility. For future spouses. For spouses of future Danforth children. For generations to come in our immediate family."
He’d done what?
Titus paused, letting the enormity of it settle. "Ursula deserved to marry Conrad today without the fear of his possible immediate death.”
Your eyes burned. You pulled back to look at him fully, seeing the weight of what he'd done written across his features.
"You did that for Ursula," you whispered.
"She’s my sister. I would do anything for her… but I also did it for me," he said quietly, and the admission hung between you like a confession. You understood immediately what he wasn't saying outright—what he couldn't quite say, not yet. By removing the hide and seek card, he had secured something far more precious than Ursula's peace of mind. He'd secured the possibility of a future where he could have a wife without the constant shadow of that particular death sentence looming. Children who wouldn't grow up knowing their future spouses might be hunted down on their wedding day.
"I'm not asking for anything right now," he said quickly, reading what he thought was panic in your silence. "I'm not saying this to... I'm telling you because you asked."
But that wasn't quite the whole truth either, was it? You could see it in the way his eyes finally opened, in the way they searched yours. He was asking for something. Not explicitly, not with words...but with the architecture of his choices. He'd restructured his family's future, rewritten the rules of their darkest game for Ursula… and for you?
"You killed the bride," you said slowly, "and made sure that if you ever had someone to protect, you could actually keep them. That makes a lot of sense to me."
He didn't say anything.
All the fear, all the darkness of this world you'd been pulled into, and here was Titus, this man bound by blood and obligation to a cult of monsters, using the only leverage he had to carve out a small sanctuary for the people he loved.
You emerged from the room together, your dress re-zipped, your hair smoothed back into something resembling order. Titus had a faint mark on his neck that you'd left with your teeth... which was a small claim staked in the landscape of his skin. Neither of you bothered to fix it.
The evening had shifted outdoors again for dinner. Long tables had been arranged in a horseshoe formation across the manicured grounds of the Danforth estate, strung with lights that transformed the darkness into something ethereal. A jazz trio played from a pavilion, their music drifting across the gardens. The air smelled of night-blooming jasmine and the rich aroma of the meal being served.
Titus's hand found the small of your back as you descended the stone steps; his touch was proprietary in a way that made several heads turn as you passed. The family table was positioned at the center of the horseshoe, and Ursula sat at the head, with Conrad on her right. His parents occupied the seats beyond him—his mother beaming with the particular radiance of a woman who'd just watched her son marry a woman she clearly found fascinating, his father nodding approvingly at something one of Conrad's siblings was saying. Titus guided you to the empty seat to his left, pulling it out for you and kissing your shoulder as you sat.
"Well, this is interesting," Ursula murmured, leaning forward slightly so only you and Titus could hear. Her eyes glinted with amusement, and Conrad grinned openly, as if he'd just won some private bet with himself.
Conversation flowed around the table with that easy rhythm, and you watched Ursula look so happy. Marriage seemed to suit her, or perhaps it was simply the absence of fear. Knowing that Conrad wouldn't be hunted, wouldn't be forced into a game where the stakes were his life, had carved away some essential tension from her shoulders. By the time dessert arrived (a decadent chocolate confection with edible gold leaf served under the stars), the evening had taken on the quality of a dream. The kind where terrible things existed in the margins but couldn't quite touch the center of the frame.
After hours of dancing, the other guests departed as the night deepened, taxis picking people up and cars winding down the long drive away from the estate. But the Danforth family remained—not just Ursula and Titus, but their uncles, aunts, and cousins, scattered across the grounds in small clusters, lingering over drinks and conversation. Tradition, after all, demanded their presence.
Pernella appeared with the ornate wooden box, setting it in front of Conrad with ceremonial precision. The room fell silent. Everyone knew what this meant. Or at least… they thought they did.
"The final tradition," Pernella announced. "A game must be played before the evening concludes." Conrad reached toward the box, and his fingers hovered over the cards printed with various games.
He drew a card, and his face went carefully blank as he looked at the card. Around him, the family leaned in with the hunger of wolves scenting blood.
"Chess," he said quietly, as if the word itself was a curse. "We have to play chess. You're going to destroy me."
"Almost certainly," Ursula agreed, her eyes glinting with the promise of violence barely concealed beneath civility. The family settled into chairs around the board while Ursula and Conrad took their seats. You moved to stand near Titus, your hand finding his, and his fingers closed around yours, anchoring you.
Conrad played competently, his strategy sound, his defense solid…but he was outmatched. You could see it in the way he began to frown slightly, the way his fingers lingered on pieces before moving them, as if he could somehow alter the outcome through sheer force of will.
It took 37 moves.
Ursula's final move was elegant: a bishop sweep that left Conrad's king with no escape routes. Checkmate. The word hung in the air like a benediction, and the assembled family erupted in applause. Conrad laughed, shaking his head in admiration, and reached across the board to kiss Ursula's hand.
Titus pulled you close as the family began to disperse, heading back to their hotels or respective homes. Ursula and Conrad were jetting off to the Danforth St. Tropez hotel tonight to begin their honeymoon. His lips brushed against your temple.
"Don’t go back to your hotel," he whispered. "Stay the night. Don't leave."
You turned to face him, seeing the vulnerability beneath the demand, the fear that you might vanish like some fever dream.
"Okay," you said simply. "I'll stay."
His exhale was relief incarnate.
FIVE YEARS LATER – MANHATTAN, NEW YORK
Titus sat propped against the headboard, his 3-year-old son nestled against his chest, completely absorbed in the story of Max and his wild rumpus.
The copy of Where the Wild Things Are (gifted by Auntie Ursula) was being read for what had to be the thousandth time. The original gift was a first edition copy for 'display only,' currently sitting on a custom-built walnut bookshelf with a note inside from Uncle Conrad that read: "If he spills juice on it, we’ll simply buy another. Childhood should not be constrained by scarcity." Your son, blissfully unaware of the book’s value, had once used it as a ramp for his toy firetruck.
"Again!" his son demanded as Titus closed the book, his small fists clenching with the desperation only a toddler could muster.
"You have school tomorrow, buddy. It's past your bedtime."
His son's face crumpled in protest—a perfect mirror of your stubborn expression, down to the exact furrow of the brow. Titus lasted approximately 6 seconds before caving completely.
"One more," he sighed, already flipping back to the beginning. "Just one."
Twenty minutes later, after a second book (a pop-up version of The Very Hungry Caterpillar), Titus finally managed to extract himself from his son's room. He kissed the boy's forehead, whispered goodnight, and quietly closed the door. He found you sitting up in bed, re-reading the De Occulta Philosophia libri III by Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa, hand resting on the swell of your belly. Titus found it intoxicating…the way you could lecture on ethics and consequence one moment, then move through the woods during a hunt with lethal grace the next. Your mind, your courage, your refusal to be intimidated by the world he'd been born into. There was something deeply, inexplicably sexy about it: the woman who taught the world about morality while living in its margins. The contradiction itself was arousing—the duality of you. He didn't know what he'd done to deserve you, and he suspected he never would.
The moment he entered, you looked up at him with an expression that could have frozen the Hudson River solid.
"Don't," you said flatly.
"I haven't done anything."
"You're about to do something. I can see it on your face."
Titus held up his hands in surrender as he changed into sleep clothes.
"Storytime was longer than usual," you observed.
"I read him one more book. He gave me your eyes and deployed them as a weapon. I'm a weak man."
"You're a pushover," you corrected, turning a page with perhaps more force than necessary.
He slid into bed beside you carefully because these days, he moved around you like you were made of spun glass. Pregnancy had been harder on you this time with more aches, more exhaustion, more hormones. The family doctor had made the fatal mistake of using the phrase 'geriatric pregnancy,' and you had nearly killed him on the spot when he suggested you stay at home during this pregnancy. You had never wanted the traditional role. Titus had known that from the beginning. No staying home, no surrendering your career or your autonomy. But…Titus had begged you to start maternity leave at 4 months this time. After losing his mother in childbirth (who had been around your age), he was hyper‑vigilant, protective to the point of paranoia, and absolutely unapologetic about it.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"Like I'm carrying a small person who has taken up kickboxing as a hobby," you said tersely. "In my ribs."
"She’s spirited," he said proudly. "Very Danforth of her."
You shot him a look that suggested his attempt at levity was not appreciated. Titus didn’t even blink at the look you gave him. He never did anymore. If anything, he seemed almost amused by it…like he’d long ago accepted that your hormones were a force of nature he would simply endure with gratitude.
Why wouldn’t he? You’d given him everything. Your loyalty, your brilliance, your son, and now your daughter. If the price of that devotion was absorbing every hormone-fueled barb you hurled his way, he would endure them all without complaint. Because you had surrendered your very soul to Mr. Le Bail and the traditions of the High Council, which most people would flee screaming from.
You had chosen him. You were his wife.
His.
And Titus would never forget that.
"You know what Ursula and Conrad sent for the nursery?" he tried, pivoting strategies. "A hand-carved Italian crib. From the 1800s. Apparently, it was blessed by a cardinal."
"Those two are ridiculous," you sighed, accepting the privileges that came with being his.
"Completely ridiculous," Titus lied, because it was totally the type of gift he would give. He was Ursula’s twin after all, and excessive generosity ran in their blood. He reached over to gently place his hand on your belly. "But they're happy. In Paris. No kids. Just art and wine and each other, playing chess at midnight."
His sister had never wanted children. However, she adored being an aunt far too much. Spoiling your son was her sport of choice, and she played it with Olympic‑level dedication.
"Must be nice," you murmured. "Why did we decide to do the whole kid thing again?"
Titus's mouth quirked into that familiar smirk...the one that had gotten you into this situation in the first place.
"Well," he said, leaning closer, "the making them part is fun. Very fun, if I recall correctly. Especially how we made our daughter..."
"I seem to remember you being pretty enthusiastic about the idea," you teased.
"Yes. I take full responsibility for participating in the act you initiated," he grinned, giving you a smug look.
You shot him a look… but it was true, because you had begged for his cock that night during a vacation in Mendoza. Your daughter was conceived (accidentally) from an orgasm that had crashed through you without warning, a sharp, blinding wave that tore a cry from your throat while Titus filled you up, moaning your name after a wine-filled dinner.
He reached out, placing a warm hand on your belly. Your daughter responded immediately with a firm kick.
"You’re going to spoil her just like you spoil him," you exhaled, half‑annoyed, half‑fond.
"Oh, absolutely," Titus said. "I plan to be intolerable about it."
He leaned over carefully and kissed your forehead, then your temple, then your perfect belly. "Goodnight, my princess. Go easy on your mother." From inside, there was another kick against his palm. She loved his voice.
"She says no promises," you translated dryly.
"Let’s get you a nice massage tomorrow."
"The one from that woman in Tribeca?"
Titus's smirk was slow and deliberate. He knew exactly which one you meant. The therapist who charged $1200 per session and whose hands were legendary among Manhattan's elite.
"The one you said was 'obscenely expensive' last month?" His voice was warm with amusement.
You felt heat creep up your neck. "My back is killing me, and she's supposed to be the best for pregnant women. I've heard—"
"Say no more." He was already reaching for his phone. "I'll have it arranged for tomorrow afternoon."
"Titus, you can't just—"
"Already done." He set the phone down, that satisfied smile still playing at his lips. "3 o'clock."
You wanted to argue. You should have argued. There was a time when you would have. When you had practically cried moving out of your Harlem apartment, when you had fought him tooth and nail over every luxury he tried to press into your hands. You wanted to earn your life, not have it handed to you like some kept woman.
So he compromised. He sold his Upper East Side penthouse and let you pick the neighborhood—the charming $15 million brownstone in Greenwich Village you fell in love with at first sight. He let you design every room, choose every detail. Titus let you make it yours. And somewhere between fighting him and building a home with him, you had stopped seeing his generosity as weakness and started seeing it as devotion.
"You're getting soft," he murmured, watching you with those beautiful eyes of his. He reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "My queen, accepting her crown at last."
"I'm being practical," you corrected, but there was no heat in it. "My back hurts. The massage is medical."
"Of course it is." His hand drifted down to rest on your belly again, right where your daughter was growing. "And tomorrow, after your 'medical massage', we're having dinner at that new place in SoHo you mentioned.
That place was impossible to get into. "Titus—"
"Already booked." He kissed your temple. "You're carrying my child. You get whatever you want."
You should have protested. You should have reminded him about normalcy… but instead, you leaned into him and let yourself enjoy the feeling of being taken care of by a man who would move mountains for you and your children.
"You're going to ruin me," you whispered. He already had, but he didn't need to know that.
"Absolutely," he agreed. "That's the plan."
Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | You're reading the final part
Thank you for following me on this journey! <3 I really struggled with this "finale", so I hope it delivered! I ended up using a scene I deleted and archived weeks ago. The writing process is a struggle.
BONUS: DAD TITUS! LOOK AT HIS SMILEY FACE <3. Thank you @wesandresons for these cutie shots of my husband.
I’M AN ASTRONAUT, YOU’RE THE MOON
Summary: When you moved halfway across the world to work nights at PTMC, the last thing you expected was for your soulmate string to lead straight to Dr. Jack Abbot—who’s already happily married to his own soulmate. So you bury your feelings beneath friendship, trauma shifts, and years of silence… until tragedy changes everything, and both of you begin to realize that maybe soulmates were never about fate, but choice. Or, the Soulmate AU with Jack Abbot.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader (Can still be read by anyone! It’s not super specific)
Warnings: 18+ Soulmate String AU, Unrequited Love to Requited Love, Age-Gap Romance (Not Specified), Hospitals, ER, ANGST, Fluff, Crush, Blood, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow(ish) Burn, Eventual Hurt-to-Comfort, Longing, YEARNING, Major Character Death, The Pitt AU, Grief, Tragic Heroine, Tragic Hero, Widow!Abbot, Depressed!Abbot, Anger, Crying, GSW, Happily Ever After, COVID-19, Kissing,
Word Count: 22.5k
A/N: We're gonna take a break from Ducky and Robby for a bit. Welcome, Jack Abbot. You are in my domain now >:D ALSO, I HIT THE LIMIT ON SPACING SOOO THE FORMAT MIGHT BE FUCKED IDK. Sorry :(((
Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/keeryscupid. I’m not a doctor or a nurse. I’m dyslexic, and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!
Songs: Orbiter by Noah Kahan, Brush Fire by Gracie Abrams, and If You Let Me by Maisie Peters (with Marcus Mumford)
| Jack Abbot Masterlist | Main Masterlist |
2018
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
The first thing you notice about the Pitt isn’t the noise.
It’s the pace.
Everything moves fast, but no one looks rushed. People pass each other like they’ve done this a thousand times, sliding through narrow spaces without looking, voices overlapping in half-finished sentences, monitors beeping in uneven rhythms that somehow don’t throw anyone off.
Organized disaster is exactly what an emergency department should feel like. You tighten your grip on the strap of your bag as you follow Lena down the hall, trying not to stare at everything like it’s your first day on Earth.
New country, New hospital, New job.
Night shift.
Your body still hasn’t figured out what time zone it’s supposed to be in, but adrenaline is already kicking in, that familiar hum under your skin that always comes when you step into an ER. You tell yourself you’ve handled worse. That you’ve worked typhoon nights, mass casualty drills, and overcrowded government hospitals with half the supplies you needed.
You can handle this.
Lena pushes the double doors open with her shoulder, not even breaking stride. “ER’s through here,” she says. “You said you worked trauma before, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” you answer automatically.
She glances back at you immediately, “Drop the ma’am. You’ll make everyone feel old.”
Heat creeps up your neck, “Sorry. Habit.”
“You’ll fit in,” she mutters, half amused, half distracted as she scans the room.
You step through the doors behind her—and the sound hits all at once. Phones ringing, a monitor alarming somewhere in the back, sharp and insistent. A patient down the hall is yelling that he’s been waiting for three hours and he’s going to sue somebody.
It’s loud and crowded, but very alive and all too familiar. Your shoulders drop just a little, tension you didn’t realize you were holding easing out of your spine.
Lena stops near the central desk, scanning the board, then jerks her chin toward the far side of the room, “That’s Dr. Jack Abbot. He’s on trauma tonight, so you’ll probably be with him most of the shift.”
You follow her gaze without thinking.
He stands near the counter, scrolling through a chart on an iPad, stethoscope hanging loose around his neck like he forgot it was there. Curly salt and pepper hair slightly messy, the kind of tired that comes from too many night shifts in a row.
He looks up when someone calls his name, and the moment your eyes land on him, your wrist burns.
You suck in a small breath, instinctively looking down. There’s a red string looped around your wrist, thin, bright, and impossible to miss.
Your stomach drops so fast it makes you dizzy. Because what the actual fuck? No. Not here. Not now.
At some point, you’d convinced yourself maybe you simply didn’t have one. Maybe the universe skipped you.
The thread pulls slightly, like something on the other end just moved, and your fingers curl around it before you even realize what you’re doing. A voice in your head tells you not to look… but you look anyway. The string stretches across the room, weaving through people and stretchers and equipment like it doesn’t care about physics; it never has.
Your breath gets stuck in your throat as you follow it as it leads straight to him—Jack Abbot.
Your heart stutters hard enough that you feel it in your ears.
No.
No, no, no.
Lena is still talking beside you, something about assignments, but the words blur together. “…good with procedures, just don’t let him skip charting, he tries— Abbot!”
He looks up again, this time, at you. The string pulls tight between your wrists. For a second, neither of you moves. Then he walks over, casual, pumping sanitizer on his hands like this is just another shift, just another new nurse, nothing important happening at all.
He’s taller up close.
Tired-looking in a way that somehow makes him seem softer instead of intimidating. Curly salt-and-pepper hair slightly messy, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stethoscope hanging around his neck like he forgot it was there hours ago.
“You the new one?” he asks. His voice is warm and easy. Maybe a little rough around the edges from too much coffee and too many overnight shifts.
You force your brain to function.
“Yeah,” you manage. “First night.”
He nods once, then holds out his hand.
“Jack Abbot.”
Your hand hesitates for half a second before you take it. The second your skin touches his—the string snaps tight. It feels like something deep in your bones clicks violently into place.
Your pulse jumps hard beneath your skin, and for one horrifying second you think maybe he can feel it too.
But Jack just smiles politely, completely unaffected.
Because he can’t see it, not fully. The thread only loops faintly around his wrist before disappearing, incomplete and one-sided.
You swallow hard, “Nice to meet you.”
“Welcome to the Pitt,” he says. “Try not to run.” You let out a shaky laugh before you can stop yourself, “Too late for that.”
A faint smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, like he likes your answer. By God, that tiny expression alone nearly kills you.
Then he shifts the iPad under his arm—and you see the ring.
A silver band on his left hand.
Your entire body goes cold.
For a second, you genuinely can’t process what you’re looking at. Of course, he’s married. Because, yes, the universe would do something this cruel.
You force yourself to look away before your face gives you away—and that’s when you notice her.
A woman stands near Central holding a paper bag against her hip, looking around the department with the comfortable familiarity of someone who’s been here a hundred times before.
Waiting for him.
Jack notices her immediately, and his whole face changes. It softens enough for you to understand instantly how much he loves her. “Hey,” he says quietly, already walking toward her.
The incomplete thread around his wrist brightens faintly.
She smiles the second he reaches her, “You forgot dinner again.” Jack laughs softly, taking the bag from her, “I was busy.”
“You’re always busy.”
“Occupational hazard.”
She rolls her eyes affectionately, and he leans down automatically to kiss her cheek. It’s absent-minded and natural. The kind of intimacy built over years. Loving her is as easy as breathing. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist feels unbearably tight. Because the universe already chose—it’s not you. Never you.
Lena nudges your shoulder lightly, “You good?”
You blink quickly, forcing your expression back under control before anyone notices the way your soul feels like it’s collapsing inward. “Yeah,” you say, your voice almost sounds steady. “Just jet lag.”
Lena nods distractedly and turns back toward the board.
Across the room, Jack says something under his breath that makes his wife laugh. The warm and happy sound carries across the department.
You look down at the string around your wrist one last time before pulling your sleeve over it completely.
You can do this—you’ve survived harder things than heartbreak.
You square your shoulders, take the iPad Lena hands you, and step fully into the chaos of the Pitt.
So when Jack glances back at you a moment later, smiling like you’re just another coworker starting a shift, you smile back, pretending that your heart didn’t just fall through the floor.
A FEW MONTHS LATER…
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT SHIFT
By the time the Pitt starts feeling familiar, it’s already too late. You know the rhythm of the department now, the same way you know your own breathing. Which monitor is about to alarm before it starts screaming. Which psych patient is one bad interaction away from throwing a urinal at security, or a resident is about to panic during a difficult intubation.
You know the trauma bay doors stick when it rains, and Lena hides the good coffee above the Pyxis because Ellis steals the decent stuff first, and the fluorescent lights over Hallway C flicker around three in the morning like they’re barely holding on, and you know Jack Abbot’s footsteps before you even see him.
Well, to be honest, that part happens slowly. Shift after shift. Trauma after trauma. Somewhere between your first week and your third month, working beside him stops feeling intimidating and starts feeling natural.
You know how he likes his trauma setups organized. You know he taps his pen twice against the desk when he’s thinking too hard. You know he rubs the back of his neck when he’s exhausted and trying not to show it. And worse—he knows you too.
“Lifeline!” Ellis’ voice cuts across the department as you walk out of Trauma Two carrying an empty suture tray. You stop mid-step. “You people are never letting that nickname die, are you?”
Ellis swivels around in her chair with a grin. “Absolutely not.”
The nickname started during your second week after a pediatric code that had gone catastrophically wrong.
A seven-year-old nearly drowned—no pulse on arrival. The room had dissolved into controlled chaos within seconds—respiratory trying to secure the airway while one of the newer residents nearly froze trying to place an IO line.
Shen, still early enough into residency that panic sometimes beat experience, had looked one second away from completely spiraling.
But through all of it, you had stayed calm.
You’d guided Shen through the tibial IO placement while simultaneously pushing epinephrine prep toward Jack and coordinating compression rotations so nobody burned out too early.
At one point, Ellis had looked up from the monitor and muttered, “Jesus Christ. She’s everybody’s lifeline in here.”
Unfortunately for you, the name stuck. Now, half the ED used it more than your actual name.
“Lifeline, Trauma Two,” Lena calls without looking up from the board.
“On my way.”
Jack steps out of the trauma bay at the same time you do, peeling bloody gloves off his hands. “You steal my nurse again?” he asks Lena.
Lena snorts. “You don’t own her, Abbot.”
“That’s not what I said.”
There’s something easy in the exchange that makes warmth spread unexpectedly through you.
Jack falls into step beside you automatically as you head toward Trauma Two.
“You eat yet?” he asks.
You glance at him suspiciously. “Are you asking because you care or because you need me conscious enough to survive this shift?”
“A little of both.”
You huff out a laugh. Because that’s the problem with Jack. He’s kind in ways that sneak up on you, a quiet attentiveness that drives you nuts. He notices when you haven’t sat down in seven hours or when your hands shake after a bad pediatric trauma and when you’re pushing yourself too hard, and casually hands you a granola bar like he didn’t specifically go looking for one because he knew you skipped dinner.
The kind of doctor who stays with family members after delivering bad news instead of disappearing the second the conversation gets uncomfortable, and the kind of man who wears his wedding ring like it means something sacred.
Which somehow makes all of this hurt even more. Because every soft look. Every quiet joke at three in the morning or moment beside him in a trauma bay—belongs to someone else.
And you know that.
The universe reminds you every single day that the red string hidden beneath the cuff of your scrub jacket pulls tight whenever he gets too close.
You’ve gotten good at ignoring it or pretending to.
TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT
Tonight’s MVA is a disaster. Twenty-six-year-old male. Ejected through the windshield. Hypotensive on arrival. The second EMS wheels him through the ambulance bay doors, and the department shifts gears instantly.
“BP seventy over forty,” Ellis says from the monitor. “Heart rate one-forty.”
“Breath sounds diminished on the left,” Shen adds quickly, trying to keep up.
“Alright, let’s move,” Jack says sharply.
You’re already there.
Trauma shears cut through blood-soaked clothing while respiratory preps for intubation. You place oxygen and start hanging fluids while Jack performs the FAST exam. Free fluid in Morrison’s pouch appears on the screen almost immediately. Internal bleeding, most likely splenic rupture.
“Call OR,” Jack says. “He’s going upstairs.”
“Already on it,” you answer, grabbing the phone before he even finishes speaking. Jack glances toward you over the patient. There’s blood smeared across the sleeve of his scrub top, exhaustion pulled deep into the lines around his eyes. Yet still—that small flicker of trust when he looks at you. He knows you’ll catch whatever he misses.
You hate how much that matters to you.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
By four in the morning, the Pitt settles into its strange version of quiet. You’re charting near Central when the elevator doors open.
Jack’s wife walks out carrying six pizza boxes stacked in her arms.
The entire department visibly brightens.
“Oh thank God,” Ellis says dramatically. “An angel sent from heaven.”
“You people are unbelievable,” she laughs.
Ellis immediately takes two boxes from her. “Respectfully, I would die for you.”
“That’s deeply concerning,” Lena mutters.
“You’re just jealous she likes me more.”
“I absolutely am not.”
You can’t help laughing softly under your breath. There it is again— that awful ache in your heart. Because she’s truly, genuinely wonderful. The universe could’ve at least made her cold, cruel, or difficult.
Instead, she remembers everyone’s coffee orders and asks about your family back home, and brings food for the night shift because she knows none of you remember to eat unless somebody forces you.
“You must be Lifeline.”
You blink, startled when you realize she’s suddenly standing beside you.
Up close, her smile is warm and effortless. You force yourself to smile back. “That obvious, huh?”
“Oh, very,” she says easily. “Jack talks about you all the time.”
Your heart stumbles painfully against your ribs.
Before you can recover, she continues casually, “Apparently, you’re the only reason this department functions after midnight.”
You laugh weakly. “That gives me way too much credit. Obviously, Lena holds everything down.”
“Have you met these people?” she asks quietly, glancing around Central. “I’m pretty sure Shen would eat expired yogurt if left unsupervised.”
“That happened one time,” Shen shouts.
“You were hallucinating by hour two,” Ellis replies.
You laugh again before you can stop yourself, and somehow, talking to her is easy. Isn’t that cruel? Because you like her immediately, she asks about the Philippines, about your family, and how you plan on surviving Pittsburgh winters.
You’re halfway through explaining that black ice feels like a personal attack when Jack walks out of Trauma Two. He tosses his gloves into the biohazard bin before sanitizing his hands automatically. His curls are damp with sweat at the temples now, scrub top wrinkled from the shift.
Then he looks up to find the two of you talking and smiles—soft around the edges in a way that makes your eyes water.
“Well,” his wife says immediately, “there he is.”
Jack points toward the pizza boxes. “You bribing my staff again?”
“Your staff?” Lena repeats flatly from across the desk.
Jack ignores her completely.
His wife gestures toward you. “Lifeline and I decided you’re actually the problem in this department.” You blink. “We did?”
“We did now.”
Jack looks genuinely betrayed, “That was fast.”
“She’s nice,” his wife says simply. Jack’s eyes flick toward you for half a second, warm and amused. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “She is.”
Your pulse skips hard enough you nearly miss it. Coward, coward, coward.
You look away first while his wife grins triumphantly. “See? I win.”
“You gang up on me constantly.”
“Because you’re easy to bully,” you say before thinking.
Jack stares at you in mock offense. “Wow. Okay.”
“You walked into that one,” Ellis says.
“You’re all terrible people.”
His wife reaches up automatically to straighten the collar of his scrub shirt. Such a small gesture, absent-minded and intimate. The kind of touch that only exists between people who know each other completely.
Your wrist aches beneath your sleeve as the string pulls tighter. Still connected to him. So very impossible and still wrong. But somehow, standing there laughing with both of them at four in the morning, you realize something infinitely more dangerous than loving him.
You’re becoming part of their lives.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — LATER
The shift slows near dawn as you’re charting near Central when Jack drops into the chair beside you with a tired exhale.
“You ever think about leaving emergency medicine?” he asks suddenly. You glance sideways. “Every shift.”
“That’s healthy.”
“I think about becoming a florist at least twice a week.”
Jack huffs out a tired laugh. “You’d last six days.”
“Rude.”
“You yelled at a surgeon yesterday.”
“He was wrong.” You pointed out.
“He was technically right.”
“He was spiritually wrong.”
That earns a real laugh from him, the low and warm kind. God. You hold onto sounds like that more than you should. Silence settles comfortably between you afterward—the kind that only exists between people who know each other well. Then, almost absentmindedly, Jack asks, “Have you met your soulmate yet?”
Your fingers stop over the keyboard. For one horrible second, your entire body forgets how to function. But your face stays calm, because years in emergency medicine have made you terrifyingly good at composure. You keep typing as you reply, “Nope.”
Jack glances sideways at you. “At all?” You shrug lightly, forcing your voice steady. “Might just not be in the cards for me.”
Something softens in his expression immediately. Jack looks at people like he wants to understand them, not fix them. “I doubt that,” he says quietly. You stare at the chart on the screen because looking at him feels too dangerous. The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly heavy.
“I mean it,” he continues softly. “Whoever ends up with you is gonna be lucky.”
Your throat tightens painfully as you force a laugh under your breath before the emotion can show on your face. “Smooth.”
“I’m serious.”
The worst part is—he means it. You finally risk looking at him. His eyes are tired and honest in that devastating way that makes lying to him feel terrible.
“I hope whoever you love…” he says quietly, almost like he’s thinking out loud, “loves you back just as much.”
The cruel irony nearly splits you open. Because you already know exactly what loving him feels like. It feels like swallowing it down every single day, pretending friendship is enough because it has to be, while standing three feet away from your soulmate, while he talks about his wife with soft eyes and absolute devotion.
Your eyes sting suddenly, and you blink hard before he notices. “Me too, Jack,” you whisper. You mean it so much it hurts.
“Me too.”
2020, COVID PANDEMIC
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
The world changes fast. One week, people are joking about a virus overseas between trauma calls and coffee runs, and then the next week, the Pitt is overflowing.
Then, suddenly, every hallway smells like bleach and sanitizer, strong enough to burn your nose through the mask. Every shift feels like drowning—N95s cutting grooves into your skin, face shields fogging every time you breathe, and isolation gowns crackling every time you move.
The emergency department transforms into something unrecognizable almost overnight. There are no visitors or waiting rooms full of family. Alarms, intubations, oxygen sats dropping, and the sound of ventilators become part of the background noise of your life. Everyone starts looking exhausted, and then everyone starts looking haunted. You stop recognizing your coworkers without PPE. Even you stop recognizing yourself.
Through all of it, Jack keeps working.
You think maybe the entire world could collapse around him and he’d still show up for trauma shift fifteen minutes early with coffee in one hand and exhaustion carved into his face. Some nights, the two of you barely talk beyond patient updates. There isn’t time. Not anymore. Every room is full, and the waiting room looks like a war zone; people are dying faster than you can process. But even through the masks and face shields and layers of plastic, you still know him.
You know the crease between his brows when he’s worried and the exhaustion in his posture. The look in his eyes when a patient reminds him too much of somebody else.
To add to that, around the beginning of the pandemic, his wife dies. Not from COVID, which somehow makes it more merciless.
Pedestrian versus drunk driver—DOA. The call comes in just after midnight. You don’t know it’s her at first. Female in her late thirties. Severe head trauma. Massive internal injuries. CPR in progress.
The paramedics wheel her through the doors while respiratory rushes to clear Trauma One. For one horrible second, before you even see her face, the red string around Jack’s wrist burns.
You freeze, not because you understand yet. Because something deep inside you already does.
Then Jack steps into the trauma room, and everything stops. You watch recognition hit him in real time, the way his body locks up and how color drains from his face beneath the mask.
“No,” he says immediately, as if he says it softly enough, maybe reality will change its mind.
“No.”
Lena moves first.
“Jack—”
“That’s my wife.”
The room goes dead silent. Even with monitors alarming and compressions ongoing, along with Shen asking for another round of epi.
It all disappears under the sound of Jack’s voice breaking.
You’ve seen grief before—you work in emergency medicine, so you see it every day. But nothing prepares you for the sound a person makes when their entire life shatters in front of them. Jack tries to step forward, but Lena catches him immediately. “Jack.”
“No, let me—”
“Jack.”
“She’s still warm—”
His voice cracks apart on the words. The paramedic quietly says they found no pulse on scene. Prolonged downtime. Non-survivable head trauma. You can’t breathe—nobody can.
Jack looks at his wife lying on the trauma bed like he genuinely cannot understand what he’s seeing; his brain refuses to process it. Blood in her hair and on the sheet, with her wedding ring still on her hand. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist pulls painfully tight—before snapping loose.
Jack stares at his own wrist instinctively. The string tied there—gone. His face crumples. All that’s left is a man realizing the universe just took something from him that it can never give back.
COVID restrictions mean none of you are allowed at the funeral. No gathering or reception. No sitting beside him in church or placing a hand on his shoulder in comfort; bringing food to his house while relatives fill the rooms with noise and stories and grief.
Only Zoom.
Fucking Zoom.
You sit alone in your apartment at three in the afternoon after night shift, still in scrubs because you were too tired to change, laptop balanced on your kitchen table.
Everyone’s little squares flicker on-screen. Lena is crying silently, Ellis is muted, while Shen is trying and failing not to cry. Multiple other night shift staff are trying their best to pull themselves together—to be brave for Jack.
While Jack is sitting alone in a black button-down shirt in a house that suddenly looks too empty.
He looks hollow. That’s the only word for it. Hollowed out from the inside. You realize halfway through the service that he hasn’t stopped twisting his wedding ring around his finger once. Maybe he believes that if he keeps touching it, maybe she’s still here somehow.
You cry with your microphone muted.
Afterward, nobody knows what to say. There are no casseroles or hugs. No standing together in shared grief. Only little squares blink off one by one until Jack is the last person left in the call.
You stay after everyone disconnects. “You should sleep,” you say quietly. Jack lets out a humorless laugh, “Yeah.”
But he doesn’t move, and neither do you. Finally, he says, “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
There it is… the unbearable part, because she died instantly—no final words or closure. She was there one second—gone the next.
You press your lips together hard enough that they hurt as you faintly say, “I’m so sorry, Jack.”
He nods once because he’s heard it too many times already. Then his face folds inward suddenly, grief cracking through whatever fragile composure he’s been holding together. You’ve never seen him cry before, not really. Now he looks destroyed by it.
“I keep thinking she’s gonna walk through the door,” he whispers. “I keep forgetting for like… five seconds.”
Your lungs ache so violently that it feels unbearable.
Because despite everything—despite the string and the guilt and all the ways you tried to keep your distance—you love him. And loving someone means you cannot stand there and watch them suffer alone.
Not him.
Never him.
So you stay.
At first casually, then constantly, you start checking on him between shifts. You bring coffee, he forgets to drink, and force him to eat crackers during overnight shifts because grief has hollowed him thin. You sit beside him in the break room when he can’t sleep between traumas.
Some nights he talks, and there are nights he doesn’t. Later on, you learn grief has moods. Some days he’s numb, and some days he’s angry. Or days, a patient wearing the same perfume as his wife nearly sends him spiraling mid-shift. Once, after losing a COVID patient around his wife’s age, Jack locks himself in the stairwell for twenty minutes.
You find him there eventually. Still in PPE with his face shield shoved onto the top of his head, breathing hard like he’s trying not to come apart.
You sit beside him without saying anything. For a long time, neither of you speaks. The stairwell is cold through your scrub pants, concrete hard beneath you. Somewhere beyond the heavy metal door, the hospital keeps moving. Monitors alarming. Phones ringing. Ventilators hissing.
Life continued like his world didn’t just end.
Jack sits one step below you, elbows braced against his knees, surgical cap shoved halfway off his head. His N95 hangs loose around his neck now, leaving angry red pressure marks across his skin. He appears worn out in a manner unrelated to sleep. The type of tiredness that becomes bone-deep.
For a while, all you hear is his controlled breathing, but then, you know, if he lets himself lose control for even a second, he’ll never stop. Then quietly, without looking at you, Jack says, “I don’t know who I am without her.”
You nearly shatter at his confession, because it’s proof he loved her so completely. You saw it every day in small, ordinary ways. In the way his face softened when she walked into the department carrying takeout, or the absent-minded way he leaned toward her without realizing it. In the wedding ring, he twisted whenever he talked about her during quieter shifts. He loved her with the kind of certainty people spend their whole lives searching for, and somehow that only makes you love him more.
You look down at your hands, clasped tightly in your lap.
“At work?” you say softly after a moment. “You’re still Jack.” A weak laugh escapes him, humorless and tired, “Very inspirational speech.”
“I’m serious.”
You glance toward him carefully. Even now, he’s still wearing blood on the sleeve of his isolation gown from the code downstairs. His curls are damp with sweat, exhaustion carved deep into the lines around his eyes.
"When everything hurts," you say carefully, "you don't have to figure out how to survive the next ten years."
Jack finally looks up, with his eyes bloodshot, red-rimmed, and devastatingly tired. "You just find the next thing." His brow furrows slightly as you keep going, "The next cup of coffee that tastes okay."
A faint huff of breath leaves him.
"The next shift." You offer a small smile. "The next stupid joke Shen makes that isn't actually funny."
That earns the ghost of an eye roll—you take it.
"The next hour. The next day." Your throat tightens, but you push through it, "And eventually..." Your voice softens. "Eventually you realize you've made it farther than you thought you could."
Jack stares at you, fully paying attention and listening.
"The pain doesn't disappear," you admit quietly. "Some losses stay with you forever. But one day you wake up, and it isn't the first thing you feel."
The stairwell falls silent again, and you watch as Jack's eyes close briefly as if the possibility of hope hurts. When he opens them again, there's something unbearably raw there—something stripped bare. "You really believe that?" The question comes out almost broken, and you don't hesitate as you reply, "Yes."
Because you have to, for him, for yourself, and for every patient you've ever watched claw their way through impossible things.
"Yes," you repeat softly. Jack studies your face for a long moment—searching for something there. Maybe hope or permission. Or proof that somebody still sees him underneath all the grief. Then he gives one small, fragile nod, because he's trying very hard to believe you, too.
A softer shared silence settles between you again afterward. You remain beside him on the stairwell steps while the hospital hums around you. Two exhausted healthcare workers in the middle of a pandemic. One grieving the loss of the love of his life. The other grieving quietly beside him. Then, after a long time, you speak again.
Your voice barely rises above a whisper, "I don't think there's such a thing as a good goodbye." Jack doesn't look away, but you stare at the concrete floor.
"People say it gets easier. That you find closure. That eventually you make peace with it." Your fingers tighten together. "But I think losing someone just becomes part of you. You learn how to carry it." Your throat burns, "There are days when you think you're okay. Days when you laugh and work and breathe normally." You glance toward him. "And then something happens. A song, a smell, maybe a memory.” Blinking back your tears, you revealed, "The grief finds you again."
Jack's eyes shine slightly as you continue softly, "Not because you failed to move on." Your voice wavers. "But because they mattered."
A long silence follows. Then, quietly—"So what am I supposed to do?" When he asks the question, it sounds incredibly trivial.
You look at Jack—at the man who spent years helping everyone else survive. He stayed with frightened soldiers, and loved his wife so completely that even death couldn't erase her from him.
"Keep loving her," you say softly, and Jack's breath catches. "Just don't let her be the reason you stop living, too."
The silence that follows feels sacred, somewhere beneath your sleeve, hidden from the world, the red string wrapped around your wrist aches. Not because it hurts, but because for the first time since she died, you realize you would carry his grief with him for as long as he needed.
Even if he never knew.
2021
YOUR APARTMENT — NIGHT
By late 2021, you recognize the symptoms almost immediately. The exhaustion first. Not normal exhaustion—the kind every ER nurse carries around like a second heartbeat—but something meaner. The sort that becomes deeply ingrained in your bones and wears you out just by standing straight.
Then the fever, then it’s the cough that follows soon after, and the body aches that feel like somebody took a hammer to every joint you have.
You take the rapid test in your bathroom with trembling hands, already knowing what the result will be before the second line even appears.
Positive.
You stare at it for a long moment anyway, “Fuck.”
You’d been vaccinated months ago. Healthcare workers got priority access early on, one of the very few benefits of spending every shift neck-deep in a pandemic. And thank God for that, because without it, you’re almost certain this would’ve landed you intubated in an ICU somewhere.
Still—it hits you hard.
Your immune system has never exactly been reliable. Too many years of stress, skipped meals, night shifts, and pushing yourself past exhaustion had seen to that long before COVID ever existed.
So you quarantine immediately with no qualms or arguments. Immediately, you text Lena and Dana to tell them that you’ve contracted COVID-19. Then you lock yourself inside your apartment and prepare to wait it out.
The loneliness settles in fast after that. The first day isn’t terrible, but the second day is worse. By the third day, you genuinely feel like you’re losing your mind. Your apartment suddenly feels too small and too quiet. Every surface smells faintly of disinfectant and cough drops. Empty Gatorade bottles and medication wrappers clutter your coffee table because you’re too exhausted to clean properly.
You sleep in fragments. Wake up drenched in sweat. Cough until your ribs ache. Then fall asleep again, only to wake up disoriented an hour later. You try texting your family back home once, but hearing your mother’s worried voice over FaceTime nearly makes you cry, so you stop answering calls after that.
You tell everyone you’re fine. You’re not.
One particularly bad night, you sit on the bathroom floor wrapped in a blanket because the cold tiles feel good against your feverish skin, genuinely debating at what oxygen saturation you’d finally call an ambulance.
Ninety-three? Ninety-two?
You know too much…that’s the problem. You’re aware exactly how quickly patients can crash, and what respiratory distress looks like. You know what COVID sounds like when it starts settling deeper into the lungs. And alone in your apartment at two in the morning, feverish and exhausted and struggling not to spiral, you think: If this gets worse, I’m gonna end up at Presby or PTMC.
By day five, your phone is full of unread texts. Lena is checking in, Shen is sending memes, and Ellis is threatening to physically fight you if you don’t hydrate. But then there’s Jack calling twice… then three times.
You don’t answer any of them. Not intentionally. Your brain feels too foggy to function most of the time. Looking at your phone takes effort you barely have energy for. So when there’s suddenly a knock at your apartment door that evening, you frown from beneath your blanket without moving.
Probably the wrong apartment.
Another knock. Then—your real name, muffled through the door in a voice you’d recognize half-asleep.
“Hey.”
Your stomach drops.
No.
Absolutely not.
You push yourself upright too quickly and immediately regret it when dizziness crashes over you. You stumble toward the door anyway, coughing into your elbow before peeking through the peephole.
And there he is.
Jack Abbot. Standing outside your apartment in full PPE. N95. Face shield. Gloves. Isolation gown. Holding a plastic takeout bag in one hand. You stare at him in complete disbelief before yanking yourself back from the door. “Jack?!”
“Oh, good,” his voice comes through the other side, dry with relief. “You’re alive.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” you hiss through the door. “How did you even find where I live?”
“Lena told me… and Dana.”
Traitors.
You lean your forehead briefly against the door, exhausted. “You can’t be here,” you argue weakly. “You could get sick.” Jack snorts softly from the hallway, “Lifeline, we work in an emergency department.”
“That is not comforting!”
“Also,” he continues, ignoring you completely, “is there a reason you’ve been ignoring my texts and calls?”
You close your eyes briefly. Honestly, you hadn’t even realized how many messages you missed.
“Jack—”
“Open the door.”
You blink as you screech, “Are you fucking insane? No.” His voice lowers slightly then, gentler but firmer somehow. “Lifeline.”
Somewhere behind your ribs, the moniker settles heated and perilous.
“Open the door.”
You stare at the wood for a long moment. Then, against every ounce of common sense you possess, you unlock it. The second the door cracks open, Jack’s eyes immediately scan over you clinically. You can practically see the ER doctor in him assessing your flushed skin, fatigue, and mild shortness of breath. The way you’re subtly bracing yourself against the wall to stay upright. In an instant, his face tightens.
"Oh," he murmurs. Somehow, that soft little sound embarrasses you more than if he’d outright said you looked terrible. You cross your arms defensively, “I look worse than I feel.”
“That’s concerning, because you look awful.”
You let out a tired laugh despite yourself, immediately coughing afterward. Jack’s eyes narrow behind the face shield, “How high’s the fever?”
“It’s fine.”
“Temperature.”
“One-oh-one earlier.”
“And oxygen?”
You hesitate half a second too long, and Jack notices immediately, “Lifeline.”
“Ninety-four. I’ve been checking my Apple Watch.”
His jaw tightens, “Okay.”
You step aside reluctantly. “There’s hand sanitizer and ethyl alcohol everywhere. I’ve been disinfecting the place whenever I can.”
Jack walks inside carefully, setting the takeout bag down near the kitchen counter. Your apartment suddenly feels unbearably small with him standing in it. Messy blankets on the couch. Medications scattered across the coffee table. Laundry you’ve been too sick to fold. You suddenly want the earth to swallow you whole. “Sorry,” you mutter. “It’s kind of a disaster.”
Jack glances around once before looking back at you. “I’ve seen residents cry over missing lab results. This is nothing.” That earns another weak laugh out of you while he pulls out one of the dining chairs and gestures toward it, “Sit down before you fall down.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“You almost passed out opening the door.”
Rude.
You sit anyway because standing suddenly feels impossible, and Jack immediately starts fussing. Taking your temperature again. Checking your pulse ox. Asking when you last ate.
In a manner that hurts your core, it's somehow intimate. After observing him in silence for a while, you gently inquire, "Why are you here?"
Jack pauses before he shrugs one shoulder like the answer should be obvious. “Because I know you.”
“You don’t have family here,” he continues quietly. “No roommates. No neighbors you’re close enough with to help if things go bad.” He leans back slightly in the chair across from you.
“You moved halfway across the world by yourself,” he says. “So yeah. I came to do a welfare check.” Something warm and painful twists in your chest all at once, so you try covering it with humor. “Am I that unlucky or just that special?”
Jack looks at you for a long moment. Then, softly, he replies, “Just that special.” The room goes very still while your pulse stutters painfully against your ribs. Jack clears his throat first, looking away. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.”
He gives you a tired, unimpressed look immediately, “Don’t start with me.” You sigh, shoulders slumping. “I feel…” You swallow hard. “Honestly? Like I got hit by a truck.”
Jack nods once like he expected that answer. “My chest hurts when I cough,” you admit quietly. “And I’m exhausted all the time. Walking to the bathroom feels like running a 10k.”
Jack’s expression softens instantly to concern. “Okay,” he says gently. “That sounds about right for breakthrough COVID.”
You laugh weakly, “Reassuring.”
“You’re vaccinated. Your sats are holding. Fever sucks, but you’re stable.” His voice shifts into that calm doctor cadence you’ve heard him use with terrified patients a hundred times before.
“You’re gonna feel miserable for a little while,” he says softly. “But you’re not dying.”
The ridiculous thing is—you believe him immediately. Maybe because it’s Jack, he always sounds certain even when the world is falling apart. Or maybe because after spending almost a week alone in your apartment feeling terrified and sick and invisible—having somebody show up for you feels dangerously close to relief.
Somewhere beneath the fever and exhaustion and the red string hidden under your sleeve, you realize this is the first time since his wife died that Jack has willingly stepped into somebody else’s home again.
The thought nearly breaks your heart.
Grief has a way of shrinking people's worlds—you'd watched it happen to Jack in real time. After his wife died, he stopped inviting people over. Stopped talking about home or lingering after conversations that might eventually end with someone asking how he was doing outside of work. The walls had gone up slowly. Brick by brick. Most people probably never noticed, but you did. Yet here he is, standing in your cluttered apartment with a stethoscope in one hand and a grocery bag full of electrolyte drinks in the other.
"Drink."
You stare at the bottle he shoves toward you, "You're very bossy outside the hospital."
"Drink." He insists.
"Is this because I ignored your texts?"Jack gives you a look, the one he usually reserves for patients actively making terrible decisions. "Partly."
You sigh dramatically and take the bottle, "Happy?"
"No."
That catches your attention. You look up, and Jack is standing near the kitchen counter, arms folded across his chest. The concern on his face isn't hidden anymore. Hasn't been since he walked through the door. "You should've told somebody you were this sick." Your laugh comes out hoarse, "I did."
"No." Jack shakes his head, "You told people you were fine."
"...I was trying not to worry anyone."
"You had a one-oh-one fever and couldn't walk to your bathroom without getting winded."
You look away because when he says it like that, it sounds bad. "It sounds worse when you say it."
"That's because it is worse."
You can't help smiling, but that only seems to annoy him more.
"Why are you smiling?"
"You care."
Jack stares and then immediately looks away. Your fever-addled brain doesn't miss the faint flush creeping up his neck. "Of course I care."
The answer comes too naturally, and for some reason, that makes something warm settle beneath your body. The television murmurs faintly in the background, forgotten as Jack eventually disappears into your kitchen. You hear cabinets opening and then closing. A frustrated sigh leaves him, "How do you have absolutely no food?"
"I have food."
"You have soy sauce and olive oil."
"That's food-adjacent."
Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. "You work in healthcare."
"So do you."
"I know."
"Have you seen what doctors eat?"
He points at you from across the room, "Deflection."
You grin while Jack shakes his head again, but he opens the takeout containers anyway and pours you soup. Then make sure you actually eat it and wait until you're halfway through before finally sitting down. The quiet and unexpected realization sneaks up on him that somehow—he likes taking care of you. Because it shouldn't feel this good. It shouldn't feel this natural to be here. To fuss over your fever, refill your water glass, and check your pulse ox every twenty minutes because he doesn't trust you not to lie about your symptoms.
Yet every time he glances up and sees you curled beneath a blanket on the couch, alive and stubborn and complaining—something in his heart eases. The same feeling he gets when a trauma patient finally stabilizes. When someone he was worried about turns out okay. Only different. This time, it’s more personal and complicated.
You cough suddenly, and Jack is moving before he even realizes it, quickly handing you water. Waiting until the coughing fit passes. Your eyes lift toward him over the rim of the glass. It’s soft and sleepy. "Thank you." Your words are quiet and sincere.
And God help him—that does something to him. Something he doesn't examine too closely.
Because if he does—he might have to ask himself questions he's not ready to answer. Questions like why spending an afternoon taking care of you feels better than spending it anywhere else, or why your apartment already feels strangely familiar. Why did the idea of you being here alone all week bother him so much?
Instead, he focuses on something safer—annoyance. "You know," he says, sitting back in his chair, "your soulmate's doing a terrible job."
You blink at that, frowning, "What?" Jack shrugs, "If they're out there somewhere, they're slacking." A surprised laugh escapes you. "What does that even mean?"
"It means," he says, gesturing vaguely toward your blanket burrito state, "you're sick. Alone. Living on cough drops and spite."
"I had soup."
"You had olive oil."
"That was one time."
Jack rolls his eyes, "My point stands." A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "They should've shown up by now." The joke is spoken carelessly, and he doesn't know it nearly stops your heart.
You look away first, toward the rain-streaked window, literally anywhere but him. Because if you look at Jack right now—if you look at the man sitting in your apartment, taking care of you, worrying over you, complaining about a soulmate who never appeared—you might break.
The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly burdensome. But Jack doesn't notice, he's too busy opening another bottle of water and making sure your fever isn't climbing again. Somewhere in the quiet warmth of your apartment, he doesn’t realize the irony. Jack is sitting exactly where he should be. Doing exactly what he was supposed to do, and somehow, he can’t see it yet.
2023
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
Five years ago, you were the new nurse from the Philippines. Now you're simply part of the Pitt. Nobody really introduces you anymore. You're just there, part of the machinery. You know where everything is and everyone's habits. Or when Ellis is pretending to chart and is actually looking for the next best place to nap for her double. You know when Shen is about to spiral before he even realizes it himself. By now, you have memorized Lena's "I'm not mad, I'm disappointed" face is significantly more terrifying than actual anger.
Somewhere along the way—you became one of the safest places in Jack's life. Neither of you meant for that to happen.
It just did.
There are hundreds of tiny moments, none of which seem important on their own. But together, they're devastating. A patient's husband is screaming in the hallway after a failed resuscitation. Security is trying to de-escalate, family members are crying, and the entire department feels tense. Then, appearing devastated, Jack leaves the room but not in a noticeable way. Most people wouldn't recognize it, but you do.
You don't say anything; instead, you simply hand him a cup of coffee. Exactly how he takes it. He looks down at it, then at you. "Mind reader?" You shrug, "You looked like you needed caffeine." The corner of his mouth twitches, "Thanks."
Somehow, that small smile stays with him the rest of the shift.
Another night, it’s three in the morning. Everyone's fucking exhausted. You're sitting on the floor of the supply room because it's the only place nobody can find you for five minutes. Jack opens the door and stops. He finds you sitting there cross-legged, eating stale vending machine pretzels. "You hiding?"
"No."
"You are literally hiding."
You hold up a pretzel, defensive, "This is self-care." Jack stares at you, then, to your horror, he sits beside you on the floor. Like it's completely normal. "You know we're adults, right?" he asks.
"Says the man eating peanut butter crackers for dinner." Jack looks offended; he scoffs, "I had a protein bar." You roll your eyes at that, "Oh. Well, that's different."
His laugh echoes through the tiny room. It’s warm and unrestrained. The sound settles somewhere dangerous inside your chest. Then the days keep passing by, and then the days turn into months, then it’s another shift, another trauma.
Another impossible night.
A frightened little girl refuses to let go of your hand while waiting for stitches. You're sitting beside her bed, explaining every step of the procedure. Making balloon animals out of gloves while telling ridiculous stories.
By the time you're finished, she's laughing. You don't notice Jack standing in the doorway watching or the expression on his face either. The one that lingers long after he walks away. Because somewhere over the years, admiration has quietly become affection.
Affection has started becoming something else—something he doesn't have a name for yet. Jack's issue is that he doesn't immediately feel things. Without thinking, he simply begins searching for you first.
A difficult trauma comes in? His eyes automatically find yours. A bad shift? He looks for you at Central. A joke occurs to him? He wants to tell you. A patient reminds him of something sad? Somehow, you're the person he ends up talking to.
It happens gradually enough that neither of you notices.
Until everyone else does.
"You know Abbot's gonna have a breakdown if Lifeline ever leaves, right?" Ellis says it casually while charting. You nearly choke on your coffee, "What?" Across the desk, Shen immediately nods. "Oh, absolutely."
"Parker."
"I'm serious."
You point threateningly, "Stop." Parker raises both hands. "Hey, I don't make the rules."
You refuse to acknowledge the strange warmth crawling up your neck. Because if you acknowledge it—you'll have to acknowledge the way your heart still skips whenever Jack smiles at you. After all these years, that feels pathetic.
2024
PTMC, MAIN ENTRANCE — DAY
The rain starts sometime around six in the morning. Not a drizzle—a proper Pittsburgh downpour. The kind that turns streets silver and pounds against windows hard enough to drown out conversation.
After twelve hours of chaos, the entire department begins filtering out toward the parking garage and bus stops. You finally clock out around seven—exhausted and half-awake, absolutely ready for sleep.
When you step outside, you immediately spot Jack standing beneath the small emergency department awning.
Watching the rain… alone with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. Looking at him, you pause, "You're still here?"
Jack glances over, "My car's in the shop."
That explains it.
"How'd you get here?"
"Rideshare."
You look out toward the street, and the rain is somehow worse now. Jack follows your gaze, "Trying to decide how miserable walking home is gonna be." You glance over, "What happened to your ride?"
Jack lets out a tired breath, "Canceled."
"What?"
"Driver got stuck downtown." You wince at that, and he pulls his phone from his pocket and turns the screen toward you. The rideshare app is a disaster—surge pricing, long wait times. One estimate says thirty-eight minutes, while another says unavailable. Apparently, every exhausted healthcare worker in Pittsburgh had the same idea after shift. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Yeah." Jack stuffs his phone away again. "I've been refreshing it for ten minutes."
You look back toward the rain, then down at the umbrella dangling from your wrist, and then back at him. You ask, "No umbrella?"
"Nope."
You stare at him, then at the rain… and then at the very obvious lack of any workable plan. So, without thinking twice, you hold the umbrella out. Jack blinks, looks at the umbrella, and then at you. Then back at the umbrella. It's baby pink and covered in tiny Miffy rabbits. The ears are even printed around the trim—the thing looks aggressively cheerful.
"You serious?"
"Very."
A laugh escapes him, a real one. Low and surprised and completely unguarded. It's probably the first genuine laugh you've heard from him all shift, maybe longer. You feel absurdly proud of yourself as you snort, "Sorry about the color."
Jack studies the umbrella again, "I think I'll survive."
"You sure? Might destroy your reputation."
"My reputation was already questionable."
"Fair."
You press the handle into his hand without hesitation, because that's just who you are. Someone needs help, so you help; it's that simple. Jack looks genuinely baffled. "Wait."
You pause.
"What about you?" He asks, concerned. You shrug. The rain is cold, and the morning is gray. You've worked twelve hours, and your back hurts, along with your feet. But somehow none of that feels important. "I live closer than you do."
"Lifeline."
"Jack."
"You'll get soaked."
You smile, bright and softly. The same smile you've given frightened patients, overwhelmed residents, and grieving family members. You shrug, "It's rain."
His brow furrows, "You say that like hypothermia isn't a thing." You laugh at that, "I'm from the Philippines. Rain and I have a long-standing relationship."
"That's not remotely reassuring."
"It shouldn't be."
Jack shakes his head, but he's smiling now, which gives you a bit of peace. His eyes linger on you a second too long. Or maybe you're imagining it. You probably are—you usually are. Then you add quietly, "Besides, sometimes life is easier when you stop trying to avoid every uncomfortable thing."
Jack's expression softens, and you glance toward the rain. "Sometimes you just accept you're gonna get soaked and go home anyway." Neither of you says anything for a little bit. Because you both know that your words aren't really about the rain, neither of you acknowledges it. A laugh escapes him again, and he shakes his head, "You always have an answer for everything."
"No." You step backward toward the edge of the awning, and the cold rain immediately spatters against your scrub pants while you grin. "You just have to trust you'll be okay once you get there."
That gets another laugh out of him, the kind that reaches his eyes. You would do almost anything to keep hearing that sound. The umbrella remains clutched in his hand. Pink, ridiculous, and entirely yours. But for some reason, he can't stop staring at it. Or at you, standing in the rain, completely unapologetically yourself. No performance or hidden agenda. Only your kindness offered freely, as if giving away the only thing keeping you dry is the most natural decision in the world.
The thing is—Jack has spent years watching people take. Watching grief take, life and death take. And you...You are always giving… your time, your patience, and your terrible vending machine snacks. Your heart, if someone needed it badly enough. Now, it’s your umbrella.
Something warm twists unexpectedly inside of him, and he feels tingling all over his skin, as well as his mouth begins to dry. You lift a hand in farewell, "See you tomorrow, Dr. Abbot."
Then you turn and jog into the rain, water immediately drenches your hair, and you laugh when your shoe splashes into a puddle. You keep running anyway. While Jack just stands there—watching, until you disappear around the corner. Long after you're gone, he remains beneath the awning with your pink umbrella still hanging from his hand.
The rideshare app was forgotten entirely, and the rain pounded against the pavement as the morning traffic crawled by. For the first time in a very long time—the thought of going home doesn't feel quite as lonely. He looks down at the ridiculous little umbrella again. Then, despite himself, he smiles. Because somehow the damn thing feels exactly like you.
2025
NIGHTCLUB, PITTSBURGH — NIGHT
The music is loud enough to vibrate through your ribs. Honestly, you're having fun, a rare occurrence these days. Between night shifts and overtime and trying to maintain some semblance of a social life outside of the Pitt, opportunities to be a normal twenty-something are increasingly rare.
So when a few friends invited you out, you said yes. You danced, drank, and laughed. You let yourself forget about work for a few hours, and somewhere between your second drink and the realization that your feet hurt, you discovered a very important problem.
Your apartment keys were gone—completely vanished, you checked your purse three times. Your jacket pockets twice, then the bathroom counter, next the bar, and still nothing. Which is how you found yourself sitting in a booth near the back of the club with your phone pressed to your ear.
Waiting for Jack to answer.
He picks up on the second ring, "Everything okay?" You immediately relax, which is probably a problem. "Maybe."
Jack sighs, the sound of a man who has known you far too long, "What happened?" You look mournfully into your drink, "I lost my keys." A pause on the other end, and then, "You what?"
"They're gone."
"Lifeline."
"They disappeared."
"Keys don't disappear."
"They absolutely do."
The music swells around you, and someone screams happily near the dance floor. Through the phone, Jack suddenly goes quiet. He asks, "Where are you?"
You blink, "Huh?"
"Where are you?"
You frown, then glance up at the neon sign hanging over the bar, "Oh." You tell him the club's name. The silence on the other end lasts approximately two seconds before you hear him ask, "How are you getting home?"
You wave a hand vaguely despite the fact he can't see you, "M'gonna Uber." The words come out more slurred than intended. Silence... a long silence, then you hear him sigh, "Jesus Christ."
"It’s not that bad—"
"No."
You open your mouth to argue, but Jack beats you to it. "I'm picking you up." You immediately sober, exclaiming, "What?"
"Do not leave with anybody."
"Jack—"
"Do not get into a stranger's car."
"That's literally what Uber is." You throw back in response.
"Lifeline." The warning in his voice makes you sit up straighter. "I'm serious. Stay where you are."
"Jack—"
"I'm already grabbing my keys."
Your stomach flips unexpectedly as you point out, "You're working tomorrow."
"So are you."
"Jack."
His voice drops lower, gentler as he begs, "Please." And that ends the argument before it starts. You stare at your drink and reluctantly reply, "...Okay."
"Good." A beat and then you hear, "Don't hang up."
Twenty-five minutes later, Jack walks into the club and promptly forgets how to breathe, because he has never seen you like this before. At work, you're always in scrubs, with your hair pulled back, minimal makeup, and practical shoes.
Tonight—tonight you look nothing like the nurse who steals his coffee and argues with surgeons. Your hair is down, and your makeup catches the flashing lights every time you move. The outfit you're wearing should probably be illegal—at least that's what his traitorous brain immediately decides. Far too much skin and too beautiful—too distracting.
Jack stares for half a second too long, but then immediately hates himself for it. Because he's Jack and you're you. You're his friend, and he's forty-something years old and should absolutely know better. But the sudden realization that other people are staring at you, too, fills him with an entirely unreasonable amount of irritation. There are multiple reasons he hates that realization—none of them are good. You spot him immediately, and relief floods your face, "Jack!"
Somehow that's worse—because you're happy to see him, you always are. Jack pushes through the crowd toward your booth. He asks, "You okay?"
You grin, a little tipsy and a little tired, "Hi."
"That's not an answer."
"I lost my keys."
"You mentioned."
You immediately point at him, "I looked."
"I believe you."
"I looked everywhere."
Jack softens despite himself, "I know."
Just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The amount of trust you've placed in him over the years—it sneaks up on him sometimes, along with the amount he's placed in you. Neither of you ever talks about it—it's just simply there.
"Where are your friends?"
You blink.
"Oh."
You glance toward the dance floor, where your group has completely disappeared into the crowd. One of them is standing on a platform dancing with a stranger. Another appears to be attempting karaoke despite there being no karaoke machine. Honestly, nobody looks remotely concerned about your whereabouts. You point vaguely, "Over there." Jack follows your finger, and immediately regrets it. "Jesus."
You laugh, "They're having fun."
"They look like a liability."
"They are." A pause, then you smile warmly at him. The kind of smile that's become increasingly difficult for him to ignore lately.
"You ready to head home?" The question comes out gentler than he intended. Your expression softens immediately. "Mhm."
There’s no argument because the answer was always going to be yes. After all, it's him asking. Something in Jack's chest tightens unexpectedly. You climb out of the booth and wobble slightly when your heel catches on the edge of the floor. His hand is on your elbow before either of you thinks about it. It’s steady and instinctive—the contact lasts barely a second, but you both notice. Your eyes flick down to his hand, then back up to his face. Neither of you says anything, and Jack clears his throat first before he lets go, "You good?"
You nod immediately, "Mhm. Yep." Then point at him. "I need to go tell them I'm not being kidnapped by you."
The laugh that escapes him is helpless, "You go do that."
You grin, "Okay.” Before turning toward the dance floor, you lightly tap his arm. It’s a small gesture, mindless and affectionate. The kind of touch friends make without thinking. Yet Jack feels it long after you've disappeared into the crowd. He watches you weave through the dancers. Watch you throw your arms around one of your friends.
You laugh at something that makes your whole face light up, and standing there in the middle of a crowded nightclub, surrounded by strangers and flashing lights and music loud enough to shake the floor—Jack suddenly realizes he's smiling. He's smiling because you're happy and somewhere deep down, in a place he has been carefully avoiding for a very long time—he knows that's becoming a problem.
You weave your way through the crowd, dodging dancers and spilled drinks, until you finally find your friends near the center of the dance floor. One of them immediately grabs your arm, "There you are!" You laugh, "Apparently, I'm leaving."
"What?" another groans theatrically. "Already?"
You point toward the edge of the club—toward Jack. Standing near the entrance with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, waiting. The second your friends spot him, several heads swivel at once. Then all of them turn suspiciously slowly back toward you.
"Ohhh."
You immediately know that tone, you shake your head, "No."
"That's the doctor."
"No."
"The hot doctor."
You cover your face, "Oh my God." One of them leans closer, asking, "Is he your boyfriend?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Very."
"Because he definitely looks like he's here to pick up his girlfriend." Heat floods your face instantly, "No, he does not."
Across the room, Jack glances over, as if sensing he's being talked about. But when he spots you, his expression visibly relaxes. And unfortunately, your friends see that too. "Oh my God."
You groan, "Stop."
"He likes you."
"He does not."
"He drove here to rescue you from yourself."
"That's called friendship."
"That's called middle-aged pining." You nearly choke, "Please never say those words again."
Laughter follows you all the way back toward the entrance, and Jack looks mildly concerned the closer you get. "You okay?"
"Apparently not."
He narrows his eyes at your response, "What happened?"
"My friends are terrible people."
"Fair."
You point at him, "Don't encourage them."
"I'm not encouraging anybody."
"Liar."
The corner of his mouth twitches, and just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The simple fact that he's here has solved half the problem already. Then you take two steps toward the exit, but Jack is moving before he even thinks about it. One hand catches your elbow, and the other settles briefly at your waist, steadying you. The contact is innocent, but your breath catches anyway. It’s practical and necessary, at least that's what both of you tell yourselves.
"Whoa there." Jack says, and you blink up at him, then immediately start laughing, "I think the floor moved."
"The floor did not move."
"It absolutely moved."
"Lifeline."
"I'm just saying." Jack shakes his head, and his hand doesn't immediately leave your waist. Neither of you seems to notice. Or maybe both of you notice too much. "Come on."
You allow him to guide you outside, and the cool night air hits immediately. Rain lingers on the pavement, turning the streets into rivers of reflected neon. You inhale deeply, then sway again. Jack catches you before it becomes a problem. His hand settles more firmly against your side this time, and your body immediately relaxes into the contact like it's familiar.
Jack notices that too. "You good?" He asked, and you nod, "Mhm." A beat, and then you add, "The ground's still suspicious."
That earns a real laugh out of him, and you love that sound.
The parking lot isn't far, but Jack keeps his hand on your waist the entire walk there. Just in case… well, at least that's what he tells himself. Not because he likes the feeling of you beside him or how perfectly you fit there.
Just in case. That's all…. at least for tonight.
Jack sighs. The long-suffering sigh of a man who spends his life dealing with stubborn people. "Come on."
You allow him to guide you… well. at least until you nearly walk directly into a group of people entering the club. Jack catches your shoulder and redirects you gently, "Okay."
"What?"
His hand settles more firmly against your back, "Maybe we're graduating from independent walking." You gasp dramatically, "I am fully capable." But your words come out slightly slurred.
Jack raises an eyebrow, "You just tried to walk through three people."
"They were in my way."
A laugh escapes him. God. You're something truly special.
Now he has a new problem. Namely, getting you safely into his truck before you attempt something stupid.
The passenger-side door swings open, and you stare at it, then back at the seat. Jack immediately knows what's happening. "Need help?"
"No." A pause as you squint at the truck suspiciously. "Maybe."
"It's higher than it looked five seconds ago, isn't it?"
"It definitely wasn't this tall before."
Jack bites the inside of his cheek, hard, trying not to laugh.
"Okay."
Before you can protest, his firm hands settle at your waist, and suddenly you're being lifted just enough to get into the passenger seat. The whole thing takes maybe two seconds, except neither of you feels normal afterward. You freeze, and Jack also freezes. His hands are still on your waist, and you're looking directly at each other—far too close.
For a brief, dangerous moment, neither of you moves. Then Jack clears his throat, immediately stepping back. "Seatbelt."
Your brain takes several seconds to reboot, "What?"
"Seatbelt."
"Oh."
Of course, duh. You fumble with it and miss the buckle twice before Jack reaches over and clicks it into place. His face is suddenly very near again. Near enough to see the tiny scar near his jaw, and that your heart starts doing things it absolutely should not be doing. "There." His voice comes out lower than usual. You swallow, "Thanks."
Neither of you acknowledges how strange the moment felt and the warmth lingering where his hands had been. Or the way Jack has to grip the steering wheel a little tighter once he's behind it. Because some things are easier left alone. At least for now.
JACK ABBOT’S APARTMENT — NIGHT
The drive back to your apartment is quieter than the nightclub. The city has settled into that strange hour between night and morning, when the roads are mostly empty, and the traffic lights seem to change for no one. Rain taps softly against the windshield as Jack drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. You are attempting to stay awake. Attempting being the important word here. Every few minutes, your head tips toward the window before jerking upright again.
Jack notices every single time, "You can sleep."
"I'm not sleeping."
"You were asleep thirty seconds ago."
"I was thinking."
"You were drooling."
You gasp in offense, and Jack doesn't even look at you as he commands, "Go to sleep."
"You're mean." A laugh escapes him at your comment. He realizes that he’s been doing it a lot when he’s around you.
By the time you arrive at your apartment, you’re humming a song, trying to stay awake. Then Jack pats his pocket, and freezes when he realizes, "...Shit."
You blink, "What?" He closes his eyes, "I forgot your spare key." You stare, then immediately start laughing.
Jack groans, "Oh my God."
"You drove all the way there."
“Don’t.”
"You forgot the whole reason you picked me up."
"Don't."
Your laughter gets worse, and for the first time in years, Jack lets out a full belly laugh too. He begins to drive to his apartment, and since it’s late, he offers for you to crash at his place.
By the time he pulls into his apartment complex, you're visibly losing the fight against exhaustion and alcohol—mostly alcohol. The second you step through the front door, you kick your heels off exaggeratedly. One lands near the couch, and the other somehow ends up halfway down the hallway. Jack silently watches this happen. Then watches you attempt to unbuckle whatever complicated contraption is keeping your outfit together. "Okay," he says immediately.
"What?"
"Maybe let's not do that."
You frown at him, "Why?"
Because you're drunk—very drunk, and apparently completely unaware that you're standing in the middle of his apartment trying to peel yourself out of an outfit that has occupied far too much of his attention already. Jack suddenly finds the ceiling fascinating, the wall too. Actually, maybe the floor. Anywhere except you.
"Because," he says carefully, "you need pajamas."
"Oh." You consider this, then nod solemnly. "Pajamas are smart."
"Thank you."
"I am smart."
"You are." He nods, and you point at him, "I knew you'd agree."
Jack presses his lips together. God help him. Somehow, over the years, you've become one of his favorite people. A few minutes later, after much negotiation and several failed attempts to convince you that sleeping in sequins is a terrible idea, Jack disappears into his bedroom closet. He returns holding an old Army shirt—worn soft with age, the fabric faded from years of washing, along with a pair of boxers. You stare, then grin. "These yours?" Jack immediately regrets everything, "Yes."
"Cool."
Then, before he can stop you—you start changing.
"Jesus Christ."
You blink, "What?"
Jack is staring firmly at the opposite wall. "You could've warned me."
"Why?"
Because you're still drunk enough that embarrassment hasn't caught up with you yet. Meanwhile, Jack is discovering entirely new levels of self-control.
"Bathroom," he says.
"Right." You pause, then gesture wildly. "The bathroom."
"Correct."
Five minutes later, you emerge wearing the oversized shirt. The hem brushes your thighs while sleeves hang past your hands. The sight nearly kills him, because you look comfortable—like you belong here. Which is a thought he immediately shoves into a locked box and throws into the ocean. Nope. Not touching that. Absolutely not. That’s reserved for a future therapy session. Boy, is his therapist going to love that.
"Sit."
You immediately sit on the edge of his bed.
"Drink."
You obediently accept the water bottle, and Jack blinks, "That's new."
"What?"
"You listened."
You point at him, "You're bossy."
"Drink the water."
You drink the water, then he hands you a spare toothbrush and makes sure you actually use it. Then spends several minutes making certain you don't accidentally fall asleep face-first into the sink. By the time he's satisfied you're hydrated and functional enough not to accidentally die overnight, you're sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed, wrapped in one of his old shirts and looking increasingly sleepy.
You dig through your purse. "There are makeup wipes in here."
Jack pauses, asks, "You carry those around?"
"My eyeliner smudges." You shrug. "My mascara too."
Jack shakes his head, "Prepared for everything."
"It's literally why we carry purses."
"Pretty sure that's not why."
"It absolutely is."
He finds the packet eventually and pulls one free, then gestures to you, "Come here." You blink, dazed, "What?"
"Your mascara's halfway down your face."
Well, that’s fucking mortifying—immediately you cover your face, "Oh my God." Jack laughs softly; the sound is low and warm. "You're fine."
"No, I'm not."
"You really are."
Gently, he pulls your hand away and carefully brushes the wipe across your cheek. His touch is light, patient, and unhurried. The same hands that place chest tubes and suture wounds and perform procedures under pressure somehow become impossibly gentle. They always do around people he cares about. You go strangely still, and the room suddenly feels too quiet and small. Jack is close enough that the details become impossible to ignore. The silver was woven through his hair. The exhaustion that never quite leaves his eyes. The traces of loss he carries with him even now. And still, despite all of it—or maybe because of it—he remains devastatingly, painfully beautiful.
"You've done this before." The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.
Jack's hand stills briefly, then resumes. "Mmm." His voice is soft, a little distant. "She hated taking her makeup off."
The ache arrives instantly—it’s deep and familiar.
"She'd fall asleep on the couch." A small smile touches his mouth. "Every time." His gaze drops to the wipe in his hand, "Eventually, it was easier to do it myself."
A tender silence settles over the room, and suddenly your eyes sting. Because even now—all these years later—he still misses her. Of course he does, he always will.
"Jack." He looks up, and you swallow hard. "I'm sorry."
His hand pauses, and he asks, "For what?"
Your throat tightens painfully, "I know you miss her." The words come out small, but completely honest, and are barely above a whisper. Jack looks at you, and what he sees nearly unravels him. Because you're crying for him—not for yourself, or because you're drunk. You're crying because his pain hurts you. Because somehow you've always carried pieces of everyone else's heartbreak as if it belongs to you too.
A tear slips down your cheek, and before you can wipe it away, Jack reaches up, his thumb tenderly brushes gently across your skin.
The touch lingers slightly.
"Hey." His voice is impossibly soft, "Don't cry, honey."
The endearment slips out before he can stop it. The second it does, the room changes. Your breath catches, and Jack freezes. Neither of you moves. For one suspended second, the entire world narrows to that single point of contact. His hand against your cheek, your eyes locked on his. The silence between you is suddenly filled with things neither of you knows how to say. Then Jack does the only thing he can think of—he opens his arms, and you go willingly. The hug is immediate, warm, and safe. Your forehead presses against his shoulder, and his strong arms wrap around you while you melt into him without hesitation. Trusting him completely, the way you always have. Fuck—that might be the most dangerous thing of all. For a moment, neither of you lets go, because none of you wants to. Jack can feel your heartbeat through the thin cotton of his shirt and feel your breathing gradually slowing. He can feel himself becoming far too aware of how perfectly you fit against him.
He closes his eyes for a second.
A mistake.
Because the truth waits for him there—the truth that somewhere along the way, you stopped being just his friend and just his favorite nurse. Stopped being just the person he trusted most and became something he doesn't know what to do with.
Eventually, your breathing evens out. Then slows….then slows again. Jack glances down and realizes you've fallen asleep curled against him. Carefully, he shifts and lowers you onto the bed, pulls the blanket over you, and tucks it beneath your shoulder. The motion is automatic, and for a moment, guilt rises sharp and sudden. Not because you remind him of his late wife. You don't, and you never have. You never will. But somehow that realization doesn't hurt. It simply feels true. You are different—entirely your own person. Entirely your own place in his life. Jack stands there for a long moment, watching you sleep peacefully. Then quietly, he reaches for his crutches resting beside the nightstand.
The apartment is dark now, silent, as he pauses at the doorway, looks back one last time, at you sleeping in his bed. Wrapped in his shirt, breathing softly against his pillow, and despite every effort not to—Jack smiles. Then he switches off the light and heads toward the couch. Completely unaware that he's already fallen far deeper than he ever intended to.
JACK ABBOT'S APARTMENT — MORNING
The first thing you notice when you wake up is that you're comfortable. Suspiciously comfortable. Wrapped in sheets that smell faintly of clean laundry and something familiar you can't quite place. For a few blissful seconds, you remain exactly where you are, half-buried beneath the blankets, eyes still closed. Then your brain starts working slowly… like an old computer booting up. Your mouth is dry, your head hurts, and you have absolutely no idea where the hell you are.
You crack one eye open, and a ceiling you don't recognize stares back. Your stomach immediately drops. "Oh no."
Then the memories start returning. The nightclub, losing your keys, calling Jack… Jack picking you up. The drive to his apartment, the makeup wipes, and the hug. Oh God. The hug.
Your eyes fly open, fully awake now. Mortification floods your entire body with terrifying speed. "No, no, no, no..."
You immediately bury your face in your hands. Maybe if you stay here long enough, you'll evaporate, and the earth will open up and swallow you whole. Maybe cardiac arrest—you'd accept cardiac arrest. Slowly, you peek out from between your fingers, and a glass of water sits on the nightstand. Beside it is a bottle of ibuprofen and a neatly folded note in Jack's handwriting.
Drink water before standing up.
Your heart does something deeply unhelpful as you groan, "Oh, my God."
Because that's such a Jack thing to do, he’s practical, thoughtful, and annoyingly sweet. You whimper and flop backward onto the pillow.
Unfortunately, reality remains—and reality is that you are currently in Jack Abbot's bed. His bed—his actual bed, the place where he sleeps. The place where—You immediately shove that thought into a dumpster and set it on fire. Nope. Absolutely not. Not going there.
You drag yourself upright before your imagination can make things worse. The oversized Army shirt hanging off your shoulders shifts as you move. Your eyes immediately drop. Jack's shirt. You are wearing Jack's shirt. You consider throwing yourself out of the nearest window.
The bathroom is somehow worse. Because now you're sober, fully sober. Which means you remember everything… mostly. You splash cold water onto your face repeatedly. Trying to wash away the embarrassment and the memory of crying. The image of him calling you honey and you falling asleep against him.
"Oh, I'm never recovering from this." You groan into the sink before you force yourself to look in the mirror. You survive trauma shifts and twelve-hour nights. You went through fucking COVID. So… you can survive breakfast. Probably.
After one final pep talk that accomplishes absolutely nothing, you step out of the bathroom and immediately stop. A framed photograph sits atop the dresser, Jack and his wife, both smiling. The picture looks old, well-loved, the edges slightly worn. Guilt arrives like a punch to the ribs. Because no matter how much time has passed, she's still here. In photographs, memories, and the quiet spaces, he doesn't talk about. You stare at the picture for a moment longer, then look away. The guilt lingers anyway.
The smell hits you before you reach the living room. Coffee, eggs, and toast, along with something frying in a pan. Your stomach growls traitorously, then you turn the corner, and nearly walk directly into a wall. Because Jack is standing at the stove, shirtless. You stop functioning completely. Gone. No thoughts. Head empty. Just panic. Because somehow, in all the years you've known him, you've never actually seen him like this.
At work, he's always covered by scrubs, layers, a jacket, and PPE. Now—now he's standing barefoot in his kitchen wearing nothing but athletic shorts and his prosthetic. Morning sunlight spills through the apartment windows. Across broad shoulders, freckled skin, and muscle earned through years of physical therapy, stubbornness, and sheer determination. The prosthetic is already attached as part of him, as familiar and unremarkable as breathing. You know the story and what happened, and understand now the work it takes to live with it.
Still—seeing him outside the hospital feels strangely intimate, and very human. Your jaw nearly hits the floor as Jack turns. He immediately catches your expression, and to his eternal satisfaction, you look horrified. Not by him, but by being caught staring. His mouth twitches, "Morning."
You blink once, then twice, and you begin rapidly looking anywhere else.
"Morning." Your voice cracks. Well, that’s spectacular. Jack's eyebrow rises, "Rough landing?" You clear your throat. "Oh, absolutely."
His smile grows slightly. "There are worse hangovers."
"Don't."
"You called me at midnight because you lost your keys."
"Jack."
"You accused the floor of moving."
"Jack."
"You tried to negotiate with a coat rack."
Your eyes widen as you sputter, "I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"Oh my fucking God."
Jack laughs—there it is again, a little lighter than it used to be. "Come eat." You hesitate, still standing awkwardly in his shirt, and painfully aware you're in his apartment—his space. Then Jack glances over his shoulder, "You need food before your headache gets worse."
There it is. His doctor voice—the one that brooks absolutely no argument. You sigh dramatically and obey. Because apparently that's become a habit. Jack places a plate in front of you. Eggs, toast, fruit, and a giant glass of water.
You stare, and then at him, then back at the plate, "You made breakfast."
"You sound surprised."
"You made breakfast."
"You were hungover." You blink because he says it so simply, as if taking care of you is the most natural thing in the world, and maybe that's what gets you. It's how easy it seems for him—the quiet way he shows up. Again, and again. So instead of saying any of that, you pick up a piece of toast. "Thanks." Jack glances up from his coffee, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. "Anytime, Lifeline."
You lower your gaze quickly and focus on your breakfast instead. Unfortunately, that only makes things worse because now you're sitting at Jack's dining table, in Jack's apartment—wearing Jack's shirt.
Eating breakfast, he made for you. The domesticity of it settles wrong inside your conscience. Not because you or him have done anything wrong. But because it feels like you're standing in a place that once belonged to someone else. Your eyes drift toward the bookshelf across the room. A framed photograph sits among the books, showing Jack and his late wife. They’re smiling and happy.
The familiar guilt immediately curls around your throat. You look away, and your appetite suddenly harder to find. Jack notices and asks, "You okay?"
You force a smile, "Mhm." Jack raises an eyebrow. The same look he gives patients who claim their pain is a three out of ten while actively dying. "Lifeline."
You sigh at being caught, again. "It's stupid."
"If you're saying that, it probably isn't."
The concern in his voice makes the guilt worse. You stare down at your plate, picking apart a piece of toast. "You've done so much for me."
Jack frowns immediately, "Okay."
"And I kind of crashed into your life last night."
His confusion visibly increases as he points out the obvious, "You lost your keys."
"I know."
"You called me."
"I know."
Jack waits as you groan softly because this sounds ridiculous out loud. "It just feels like I'm imposing."
Jack's expression softens as he says, "Lifeline." You hate it when he says your nickname like that—as if he's trying to talk you down from something.
"You are not imposing."
You look away, stubbornly mutter, "Still."
"No." His answer comes immediately.
You glance up, and Jack is looking directly at you now. Completely serious. "You called because you needed help. That's what people do."
"But—"
"It's not a burden."
You open your mouth; however, Jack cuts you off again. "You would've done the same thing for me."
And unfortunately—he's right. You would've, without hesitation. At three in the morning, or in the middle of a thunderstorm. Without a second thought.
Jack sees the realization cross your face. A faint smile touches the corner of his mouth.
"Exactly."
You look back down at your plate, suddenly embarrassed. Because he's making it sound so simple. Meanwhile, your brain is spiraling. You risk a glance upward and immediately regret it. Because Jack is leaning against the counter. Coffee mug in hand. Morning sunlight spilling through the kitchen windows behind him. Now that you're sober, you're trying very hard not to notice things. Like the freckles scattered across his shoulders. Or the way years of physical therapy and hospital shifts have built quiet strength into him. Maybe the fact that he looks unfairly good for someone standing barefoot in his kitchen at eight in the morning. Your eyes immediately dart back to your eggs because you’re a coward.
"So." Jack takes another sip of coffee. The amusement in his voice is impossible to miss. "You gonna keep staring at your breakfast like it’s inedible?"
You nearly choke, "What?"
"The eggs."
"Oh." Your face feels suspiciously warm. "They're intimidating."
Jack stares at you, then laughs.
Somehow and somewhere along the way, Jack stopped being your soulmate, the impossible person at the end of a red string, and became Jack. The man who remembers your coffee order, and the one who checked on you when you had COVID, who keeps spare electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at taking care of yourself. The man who made you breakfast because you were hungover, and the man who still loves his wife. The guilt returns instantly. You glance toward the photograph again. Jack follows your gaze this time. His expression changes subtly. The smile faded into something quieter, more thoughtful. Neither of you says anything for a moment. The apartment settles into a small, comfortable, sad silence. The kind that comes from old grief that never fully disappears. Finally, you clear your throat. "I'm sorry."
Jack immediately looks confused. "For what?" You gesture vaguely around the apartment. "Sleeping in your room." His expression somehow becomes even more confused. "Lifeline."
"I'm serious."
"Why?"
You stare at him, "Because it's your room."
"Correct."
"And your bed."
"Also correct."
You narrow your eyes because Jack is enjoying this. The asshole. "Jack."
"What?"
"I feel bad."
His expression softens immediately into a quiet gentleness. "It's fine." He replied. You shake your head, "But—"
"No." His voice is calm. "I wasn't going to wake you up so you could sleep on the couch." You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. You try to rebut, "But—" Jack points toward your coffee, "You would've fallen asleep sitting upright."
"That's not true."
"It absolutely is."
"It happened one time."
"It happened three times."
"Allegedly."
Jack laughs into his coffee, and for a moment, just a moment, the guilt eases. Because he's looking at you like you're welcome here. As if your presence isn't an intrusion or that helping you wasn't an obligation. It was just something he wanted to do. That realization follows you for the rest of breakfast. Maybe that's why loving him has always felt so dangerous. It's the spare apartment key he keeps on his keyring. The electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at remembering to drink water. The bottle of ibuprofen is waiting on the nightstand before you even wake up. The way he remembers—he doesn't even realize he's doing it.
Eventually, breakfast ends, and you help carry plates to the sink despite Jack's protests. "I'm perfectly capable of washing a plate."
"I know."
"You sounded doubtful."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
Jack rolls his eyes, and you grin.
For a moment, it feels normal. As if this is something the two of you do all the time. Then Jack glances toward the hallway. "I should shower."
Your eyes immediately dart away.
Why are you suddenly embarrassed? You've seen this man covered in blood during trauma activations, and somehow, showering is what's awkward.
"Okay." Jack nods, then pauses, a small frown appearing. "You don't have clothes."
You blink, "Oh." You hadn't actually thought that far ahead. Your club outfit is currently somewhere in the apartment and likely smells like spilled alcohol, perfume, and poor decisions.
Jack disappears down the hallway before you can offer a solution. A moment later he returns carrying a pair of gray sweatpants and another shirt. You immediately recognize the Army logo faded across the front. "Here."
You stare at him, then back at the clothes. "I can't take your clothes."
"You're already wearing my clothes." Unfortunately, he has a point. You glance down at the oversized shirt hanging off your shoulders. Jack's mouth twitches, "The sweats have a drawstring."
"Oh, good."
"They should fit."
"Should?"
"Mostly." You narrow your eyes, but Jack looks entirely unapologetic. "You can keep the shirt." Your heart immediately forgets how to function, breathless, "What?" Jack casually shrugs, "It's old." You can’t fucking breathe, so you settle for, "Oh."
The thought of keeping it, taking it home, and sleeping in it. Smelling his laundry detergent every time you wear it is incredibly intimate. "Thanks."
Across his expression is as soft as his response, "You're welcome." Then he gestures toward the hallway. "I'm gonna shower."
You nod, "Okay."
"The shower chair's in my bathroom, so I'll be in there awhile." The statement is matter-of-fact and unremarkable. The same way he always talks about it. Not because it doesn't matter. But because Jack long ago learned there was no point treating every accommodation like a tragedy. It's simply part of his life—part of him. You nod again, "Take your time."
Jack studies you for a second; he's checking for lingering hangover symptoms. Then apparently decides you'll survive. "I'll drive you home after."
"Sounds good." You agree. There’s a pause before Jack says, "Try not to break anything while I'm gone." Your gasp is immediate, "Rude."
"I know you."
"You wound me."
Jack laughs, then walks down the hallway. A few moments later, you hear the bathroom door close. The apartment becomes quiet—the one that only exists in the homes of people who live alone. You wander slowly—absolutely not snooping. You were observing, there's a difference. The apartment itself feels like Jack. Comfortable, practical, and unpretentious. Bookshelves line one wall of the living room. Medical textbooks, military history, and novels with dog-eared pages. A few framed photographs scattered throughout the apartment—friends, coworkers, and people who matter.
You pause near one shelf. A photograph sits there. Jack and his late wife, when they were younger, were laughing. The picture caught in the middle of a moment rather than a pose. She has her head tipped toward him, and Jack is looking at her like she hung the moon.
Your stomach lurches. Because even now—years later—she still belongs here. Of course she does. This was their home, their life. You gently set the frame back exactly where you found it. Suddenly feeling like an intruder again, your gaze drifts around the apartment. There are signs of her everywhere if you know where to look. It isn’t overwhelming or frozen in time. There’s a photograph, a ceramic mug, and a framed postcard tucked between books. Evidence that she existed, and you hate yourself a little. Because standing here, wrapped in Jack's clothes, waiting for him to finish showering, part of you wishes things were different. Part of you wishes you weren't standing in the aftermath of someone else's great love story. The guilt settles heavily, along with the red string hidden beneath your sleeve. You glance toward the hallway, and the sound of running water. Toward the man you've loved for years. Because no matter how badly you want him—you've never wanted to replace her. Not for a second. Never. You just...wanted him to be happy, even if it was never with you.
The drive back to your apartment is quiet, but not uncomfortable. You sit curled into the passenger seat, your folded dress resting on your lap alongside your heels. The sleeves of Jack's old Army shirt hang past your wrists, and the sweatpants are too big with the drawstring pulled tight enough to keep them from falling. You feel ridiculous, like a child playing dress-up. Outside the window, Pittsburgh drifts by in shades of gray. You keep your eyes fixed on it. Because every time you glance at Jack, your heart hurts. Especially after last night… the makeup wipes, the hug, his hand on your face, honey. You don't trust yourself anymore, not even a little. Beside you, Jack steals another glance. You're unusually quiet, and that alone is enough to make him nervous. Normally, even hungover, you'd be talking, making terrible jokes, or complaining about your headache.
Instead, you're staring out the window like you're already somewhere else. His fingers tighten slightly on the steering wheel as he asks, "You okay?" You nod immediately, humming, "Mhm."
A lie that Jack recognizes instantly, but he lets it go for now. When he finally pulls up in front of your apartment building, neither of you moves immediately. The truck idles softly as silence stretches, then you suddenly unbuckle. Before Jack can process what's happening, you lean across the center console and wrap your arms around him. The hug catches him completely off guard, and for a moment, he freezes. Then instinct takes over. His arms come around you automatically. Your face presses briefly against his shoulder. Jack's heart does something strange and painful. Because it feels like goodbye, and he has absolutely no idea why.
"Hey." His voice comes out softer than intended. You squeeze him once before you let go, because if you hold on any longer, you won't be able to leave.
"Thanks," you whisper. Your eyes sting immediately, but you force a smile anyway. "For everything." The words shouldn't sound final, but they do. "Anytime, honey." The endearment slips out effortlessly and naturally now. Neither of you acknowledges it. Jack studies your face, trying to figure out what's wrong, to understand why you suddenly look like you're trying not to cry. So he asks carefully, "I'll see you later at work, yeah?"
Your throat tightens while you nod. "Mhm." It's not technically a lie. The second you step out of the truck, you don't look back. You can't. Because if you do, you'll stay. So you practically run inside your apartment building.
Leaving Jack staring after you, confused, worried, and somehow strangely unsettled.
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — DAY
Dana and Lena listen quietly. The three of you sit in an empty conference room before shift change. You make it approximately halfway through your explanation before you start crying. Not graceful tears, pretty tears, but the ugly kind. The tears you've spent years swallowing, "I'm sorry."
Dana immediately reaches for you, "Hey." You shake your head, "I'm sorry."
"Hon." Dana rubs circles against your back, her voice gentle, maternal. "Why are you apologizing?" You laugh through your tears because the answer feels obvious and impossible. "Because I'm in love with him."
The room falls silent as Lena and Dana exchange a glance. A look. One that says they already knew. Everyone always knows except the people involved. "It's just for a little while," you whisper while you wipe furiously at your face. "I just need some space." Dana's expression softens. She asks, "And what about your heart?"
That's the problem, isn't it? Your heart—your stupid, stubborn heart. You stare down at your hands, "Until it relearns how to stop beating for him." Then quietly you hear Lena ask, "So you're not gonna tell him?" You shake your head immediately, "I can't."
Because how do you tell someone that you've been tethered to them for seven years? That you've loved them through a marriage, grief, and loss. Through healing. How do you tell someone that? Especially when he never chose you. So you don't.
THREE DAYS LATER…
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
Three days later, Jack notices immediately, the second he walks into the ED, you're gone. No coffee sitting beside your workstation and sarcastic comments from Central—there’s no you. He finds Lena first and asks, "Where is she?" Lena doesn't even look up from her charting, "Where's who?” Jack stares, "Lifeline."
"Oh." She clicks something on her computer. "Day shift." His stomach drops, "What?"
"She switched."
"When?" Lena shrugs at him, "A few days ago."
Jack blinks slowly. "Why?"
"Ask Dana." Suddenly, Lena becomes very interested in her chart.
A week passes, then two, and Jack begins losing his mind. Because you are avoiding him, deliberately and aggressively. You leave before he arrives, or arrive before he leaves. You disappear down hallways and take lunch at different times. Find literally any excuse not to be alone with him. The few times he manages to catch sight of you—you smile and wave.
Then vanish again, like smoke, as if you're afraid of him, and that hurts. Because Jack keeps replaying that night. The club, his apartment, the hug, and the morning after. What did he miss? What did he do? Did he cross a line? Did he make you uncomfortable? Did he somehow ruin the one friendship he can't bear to lose? Every answer leads nowhere, and every day you drift a little farther away. Three weeks later, during shift change, Jack finally spots you. Walking quickly through the corridor, badge swinging from the clip of your scrub pocket, and iced coffee in hand.
He immediately changes direction. "Lifeline." You freeze for a second, then keep walking. Fuck. Jack follows and calls after you, "Lifeline." Your pace somehow gets faster, and now he's genuinely irritated and hurt. "Hey."
Finally, you stop, turning around, with a careful smile already in place, too careful. But not him, never him, not until now. "Hi, Jack." The distance between you feels enormous as he asks, "What is going on?" Nothing. Everything. You force a shrug, "Nothing."
That’s bullshit, and Jack knows it's bullshit. You know he knows, but neither of you says it. Then somebody calls your name from down the hallway, and relief floods your face at escaping him. The realization dawns on him like a punch.
"I gotta go."
"Lifeline—"
"See you around." Then you're gone, again. Practically running.
That's when it happens—Jack stares after you, heart pounding, confused, angry, and hurt. Suddenly—pain flares around his wrist. It’s sharp and hot. He physically flinches, "What the—"
A red thread appears beneath his skin, bright and impossible, but all too real. Jack freezes as the world tilts. No. No. No. The string winds itself slowly around his wrist. As it has always belonged there, it was simply waiting.
His breath catches because he knows what it is; everybody knows what it is. His pulse begins hammering. The thread stretches down the hallway, past nurses, residents, and stretchers, straight toward—You. Jack stumbles, his hand slamming against the wall to keep himself upright as the hallway blurs and his vision tunnels.
No. No, that's impossible. His heart pounds so hard it hurts. The red string glows softly between his wrist and yours, unbroken. Years… all these years. Every conversation, every shift, every cup of coffee, and every moment. Every time you'd looked at him and then looked away, or when you'd disappeared when things became too close. All the times you'd chosen distance. The truth crashes into him all at once. You knew. Oh God. You knew, and somewhere down the hallway—completely unfazed—you kept walking.
While Jack stands frozen in place, one hand braced against the wall, staring at the impossible thread connecting him to the woman he's been desperately trying not to admit he's fallen in love with.
2025
6:00 PM
PTMC, CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY
The emergency department shifts from busy to catastrophic in less than thirty seconds. One moment, people are charting the next—every television screen in the department lights up with breaking news.
There’s an active shooter at PittFest—mass casualty incident. Every healthcare worker in the room recognizes it instantly. The moment before impact… before disaster arrives.
"Hey, what's going on?" McKay asks.
Robby strides into Central, already moving and planning. Carrying the weight of what is coming. "Mass casualty at PittFest."
Samira looks up sharply, "How many victims?"
"We don't know." Robby's face is grim. "Expect the worst.” A terrible silence settles, while someone else immediately reaches for a phone. "Did the police find David?" McKay asks. Robby shakes his head, then raises his voice, "Okay, everybody, listen up."
Every head turns to pay attention to Robby.
"There is an active shooter at PittFest. As the nearest trauma center, we are going to be getting the majority of the victims." The room goes completely still. "We don't know yet how many we're getting, but we are instituting hospital-wide emergency protocols. We need to move every patient out of here. Either home, upstairs, or Family Medicine. Call your loved ones now if you need to."
Robby glances toward the windows, toward the city. Towards the disaster unfolding somewhere beyond it. "I can guarantee cell service will soon be overwhelmed. Eat something. Stay hydrated. Use the bathroom while there's time and meet back here for a full briefing in five minutes."
Then his gaze lands on someone entering through the ambulance bay doors, relief flashes across his face.
"Brother." Robby exhales. "I'm so fucking glad to see you." Jack, carrying his backpack and wearing his black scrubs, briefly hugs Robby, "Heard it on the scanner."
Jack drops his bag onto a workstation. "How many are we expecting?"
"I don't know." Robby's expression darkens. "But it doesn't sound good."
After placing his things down, Jack looks up directly at you. The breath leaves your lungs. Already focused entirely on you.
Your stomach drops. Oh no. No. No. No. He knows. The realization slams into you so hard it feels physical. You don't know how or when. But something in his expression tells you immediately.
He knows about the string—your secret. The thing you've spent seven years burying. Your pulse begins hammering, and blood rushes up to your ears. Across Central, Jack doesn't look away; his jaw flexes, hard, angry. You know that look—you've seen it directed at negligent parents, reckless drivers, people who made choices that hurt others.
Five minutes. That's all you have before the briefing. Before the entire hospital erupts into chaos. Apparently five minutes is all Jack needs. The second he catches you alone, a hand closes firmly around your elbow. "Lifeline." You freeze, your heart immediately dropping into your stomach. "Jack—"
"We need to talk." The words come out low and controlled. He steers you toward an empty supply room. A narrow space lined with IV fluids and sterile procedure kits. The door swings shut behind you, and the silence is deafening.
You turn toward him, trying to keep your face neutral, and completely fall apart. "What's going on?" The question sounds pathetic even to your own ears. Jack stares, and for a moment, he says nothing. Which makes everything worse, because his eyes are furious.
Furious at being hurt and at being lied to. At realizing something important happened without him knowing. His jaw clenches, "You knew." Your vision immediately blurs, "Jack—"
"You knew." The repetition is softer, devastated. You feel your tears threatening already.
"Don't." Your voice cracks. "Don't look at me like that." Something flashes across his face—pain, but then anger returns to cover it. "So what was the plan?" His words come out sharp.
"Jack—"
"What?" His voice rises, years of confusion finally boiling over. "What were you doing?"
You flinch, and Jack immediately hates himself for it, but he can't stop, not now. "Were you just waiting?" The accusation hangs between you, ugly, unfair, and born entirely from hurt. "Were you waiting for your chance?"
Your eyes widen as the tears come instantly, and suddenly you're angry too. Years of restraint snap all at once.
"No." The word echoes off the walls. "No." You step toward him, furious, heartbroken, and shaking.
"I buried it." Your voice breaks. "I buried every part of it." Jack freezes as you keep going, "You don't get to stand there and act like I wanted this." The tears are falling freely now. It’s hot and humiliating. "I buried every chance of loving you so deep I could barely breathe around it."
The room goes silent as Jack stares while you choke on the next words, because they're true, every single one. "I buried my wanting for you." Your voice cracks again. "And don't you dare accuse me of waiting." The anger disappears, leaving only raw, ancient grief. "You don't get to accuse me of that when I respected it."
Jack's face changes back to confusion and regret. But you're not finished, "I respected her." The words nearly destroy you while you wipe at your face, failing miserably. "I respected both of you."
A photograph flashes through your mind. Then she laughed in the department, bringing Jack lunch, loving him. Being loved by him, the woman you'd genuinely cared about. The woman who had never done anything except be kind to you.
"She was brilliant." You laugh bitterly as another tear slips free. "Beautiful. And I knew I'd never measure up."
Jack physically recoils, as if you'd struck him. "What?" The word comes out strangled. You look away because you can't bear seeing his face. "I know that."
"No." Pain flashes across his expression. "No, you don't." You laugh again, broken, "I do." Then quietly, you add, "The first time I saw the end of the string." Jack goes completely still at your admission.
"The first time I saw it unfinished." Your voice drops, barely above a whisper. "I knew I was going to lose you either way."
Silence—absolute silence. Jack feels like the floor has vanished beneath him, because suddenly, he understands. All those years, smiles, retreats, your careful boundaries. How you'd chosen distance instead of possibility. You weren't waiting. You were grieving the entire time.
The supply room door suddenly swings open, and Robby appears, already halfway through speaking. "Abbot, I need—"
Then he stops, immediately, because you're crying, and Jack looks wrecked. The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.
"...Whoa." Robby looks between both of you a few times, then decides he absolutely does not want whatever this is. "What the hell is—"
You move first, past Robby and Jack. Past all of it. Your shoulder brushes the doorframe as you leave. You don't stop, and can’t look back. Because if you do, you'll fall apart. While Jack just stands there, watching you go, understanding too late. For the first time in seven years, understanding exactly how much it must have hurt. Then, somewhere outside the room—an overhead page sounds. The first ambulances are arriving, signaling that the mass casualty has begun. However, the conversation isn't over. Not even close.
7:00 PM
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
All at once, the emergency department is already overflowing. Trauma bays filled, hallways lined with stretchers, and blood smeared across floors that Environmental Services doesn't have time to clean. The overhead speakers haven't stopped paging for nearly twenty minutes. Victims keep coming. Gunshot wounds, shrapnel injuries, and crush injuries from the stampede that followed.
The air feels thick with adrenaline and fear. Every single person in the department is running on instinct, training, and experience.
You haven't looked at Jack since the supply room, not really. You can feel him occasionally, like a gravitational force somewhere at the edge of your awareness. A pull you refuse to acknowledge. Every time your eyes accidentally find his across Central, you immediately look away. You don't have the luxury of falling apart right now, because people are dying, you know that, and so does Jack.
So, whatever happened between you has been shoved aside by necessity.
"Let's go!" Langdon's voice cuts through the noise. Another victim on a gurney in Central. Male, approximately late twenties, multiple injuries, semi-conscious, and blood soaking through his shirt. Samira immediately moves to the stretcher, "Who do you have?"
"Semi-conscious. Responds only to pain. Decent carotid."
"Strip him." Mateo reaches for trauma shears, and so does Tim, "Let's go." The team descends immediately, beginning to cut clothing, assessing injuries, checking his airway, and breathing. Everything is moving with practiced efficiency. Then—something feels wrong. You don't know why, it’s just a feeling. A prickling sensation along the back of your neck.
The patient suddenly jerks, and the nurses yelp. A hand disappears beneath the shredded remains of his shirt. Langdon freezes, then shouts. "Whoa!" Everything happens at once.
"Gun!" The word detonates through Central. "Gun! He's going for his gun!"
Every person in the room reacts instantly; some hit the floor, and others dive behind workstations. The patient somehow manages to yank a handgun free. His eyes are wild, disoriented, and terrified. The muzzle swings wildly across the room and lands directly toward Robby and Jack.
Time slows for you as you watch. Later, you'll never be able to explain why you moved, whether it was instinct, training, love… or something much darker. A part of you wonders if maybe you were simply tired—tired of carrying this, of loving him, maybe of being afraid. You never figure it out, because your body moves before your brain does.
One second, you're standing near Central, the next you're running.
The gun fires, and the sound is deafening. A violent crack that echoes through the department. For one suspended moment—nobody moves or breathes. Then pain explodes through you, white-hot, blinding.
You stagger as your knees immediately buckle while the floor rushes upward. Somewhere nearby, people are screaming while others are shouting for security. The world becomes noise, blurred shapes, blood—too much blood. Then, you hear Jack scream your name, and it tears straight out of him. Raw, animal, nothing like you've ever heard before. The resident beside him barely has time to react before Jack is already moving. He’s running—ignoring everyone and everything. None of it matters, not anymore. Because you're on the floor, and you're bleeding. Suddenly, the worst thing Jack has ever imagined is happening right in front of him.Again.
He drops to his knees beside you, not caring that his stump is aching, hands immediately searching, assessing, locating the wound, trying to stop the bleeding while SWAT restrains the man who shot you. His trauma training takes over automatically, even while the rest of him is breaking apart.
"Pressure!" Somebody throws him gauze, Jack slams it hard against the wound. Too much blood—so much fucking blood, and the sight makes his stomach turn. "No."
Your vision swims, and you can barely focus. But somehow—somehow—Jack is all you see. Always him, maybe it was always going to be him. His face is pale, terrified—more terrified than you've ever seen him, and somehow that hurts worse than the bullet.
You manage a weak laugh, and blood touches your lips. Jack immediately hates the sound, "Don't." Your eyes find his, and for the first time in years, you stop hiding. "It was painful."
Jack freezes, "Lifeline—"
"When you looked at me." Your voice trembles, blood continues soaking through the gauze. "When you smiled at me."
"No." His hands shake, just slightly, but you feel it. "When you believed in me." Tears blur your vision. "It hurt."
Jack's face completely crumples because now he understands all of it.
"It tore me apart." The words barely make it out, and an unfiltered sob escapes him. Because you're dying, and he just found you. He spent seven years standing beside you without seeing it. "No." His voice breaks. "No, no, no."
Someone is calling for Trauma One and bringing a stretcher. The department is moving around him. But Jack doesn't care, because the world has narrowed to you—only you.
"I just got you." The words rip from his throat, his eyes shine, desperate, furious, and every bit terrified. "I just got you." Your breath catches. You love him, you always will. So maybe—maybe honesty won't kill you now. "I love you."
Jack closes his eyes, as if the words physically hurt. You smile weakly, doubling down, "I love you, Jack Abbot."
Silence for a moment, then, firmly, "No." The answer comes instantly, violently, as if he's rejecting reality itself. "No." His forehead presses briefly against yours. "You're not doing this."
Tears slide down his face, but he doesn't even notice. "You hear me?" His voice cracks. "You're not doing this to me."
The stretcher arrives, and Robby appears, blood on his gloves. Panic hidden beneath professionalism. "Jack." Nothing… Jack doesn't move. "Jack." Still nothing.
"Abbot!" Finally, Jack looks up, and Robby immediately understands. Oh. Oh no. "We need Trauma One." Robby's voice softens. "Now."
Jack nods once, then helps lift you onto the stretcher himself. Refuses to let go or step away. He refuses to leave your side as they race down the hallway. Trauma One is already being prepared. Blood products, thoracotomy tray, massive transfusion protocol—Everything and anything. Whatever it takes.
Dana meets them at the door, and one look at Jack's face tells her everything, every awful piece of it. "Oh, honey." Jack doesn't even hear her; his eyes never leave you, not once. Dana steps close, careful. "Jack." No response from him, so she tries again, "You need to let them work."
His jaw tightens, "No."
"Jack."
"No." His voice breaks again. Because he knows—he knows exactly how bad this is. Knows every possible complication, terrible outcome, and statistic. Every nightmare, and he cannot survive another one. Not you, God, please, especially not after all this—after finally finding you.
The trauma team begins crowding around the bed. Voices overlap, orders fly, blood pressure dropping, airway concerns, surgical consult from Garcia, massive transfusion. Yet, Jack refuses to move, standing beside your stretcher, his hand wrapped around yours. As if letting go might somehow allow death to take you, or sheer stubbornness can keep you here.
As if love might finally be enough this time around.
PTMC, ICU — DAY
The surgery lasts hours—too many hours, long enough for the adrenaline to burn away, and for exhaustion to settle into everyone's bones. Long enough for Jack to memorize every crack in the ICU waiting room floor.
The bullet had done catastrophic damage. A through-and-through gunshot wound with massive internal bleeding. Multiple units of blood transfused. Emergency surgery. Complications halfway through that had nearly sent the entire operating room into a panic. At one point, Robby had physically forced Jack to sit down because he looked seconds away from collapsing. Jack couldn't remember most of it afterward, only fragments. Your blood on his hands. Your voice. I love you, Jack Abbot.
The terror of watching your blood pressure disappear from the monitor. The awful realization that he might lose you before he'd ever gotten the chance to tell you—I love you too. But somehow, you survive. The surgeons manage to stop the bleeding and repair the damage. They brought you back. It feels less like medicine and more like a miracle.
Three days later, you're still asleep, intubated, and hooked to enough machines to make the room hum softly around you. But you're alive, and right now, that's enough.
Jack hasn't left at all. Dana, Robby, Lena, and even Whitaker—all of them fail. Because every time someone tells him to go home, he looks at you lying in that hospital bed and refuses. The man is impossible when he decides on something, and he decided he was staying.
So he stays, wearing scrubs more often than not. Surviving almost entirely on hospital coffee and vending machine food, and sleeping in the uncomfortable chair beside your bed. If you could see him, you'd probably yell at him. Tell him he's being ridiculous, and that he should shower. To stop looking like a man who personally lost a fight against a tornado. Unfortunately, you're unconscious, which means nobody can stop him.
The red string remains, that impossible thread winding around his wrist before disappearing into yours, completely visible now. Neither of you is hiding anymore. Sometimes Jack simply stares at it, as if he's afraid it'll disappear—a chance he'll wake up and discover this was some cruel fever dream. Because for years he believed he'd had his soulmate, then he lost her. And now—now the universe has somehow handed him another sacred thing. A second chance he never expected. One he's terrified of losing before it even begins.
The ICU room is quiet that afternoon as sunlight spills through the window. Your face is pale against the white pillow. Your hair is messy, and there's bruising along your neck from procedures, tape securing lines, and dressings. Evidence of how close death came for you. Jack reaches forward, his fingers brushing gently through your hair. The movement reverent, as if touching something precious. Something fragile and almost lost.
His thumb traces softly across your cheek. "You scared the hell out of me." His voice is rough, sleep-deprived, and broken around the edges. You don't answer, but that never stops him.
The door opens quietly as Robby steps inside, coffee in one hand and concern written all over his face. He pauses immediately, taking in the scene. Jack slumped beside your bed, wearing his scrubs, faintly stained with blood—your blood. His hand wrapped around yours, and the red string was visible between them. For a moment, Robby says nothing, simply watches. Understanding settling over him piece by piece. Then finally, he asks, "How's she doing?"
Jack glances up. His eyes are bloodshot and exhausted. "Stable." The word comes out cautious. Because saying it too loudly might somehow jinx everything.
Robby nods, steps closer, looking down at you, at the monitors, then at Jack. A realization flickers across his face. "Is she also..." His voice softens. "...your soulmate?"
The question hangs quietly between them, and Jack's gaze immediately drops to your hand. To the red thread wrapped around both wrists. He can't speak for a little while, then he nods once.
"I think so." The words sound ridiculous even now. "I didn't think..." His voice catches as he looks down at you. At the woman he'd spent seven years loving without understanding why it felt different. Not understanding why losing your friendship hurt more than it should, or why seeing you happy mattered so much. Why he'd kept showing up, again and again. "I didn't think it was possible."
The rRobby remains silent, letting him continue as Jack swallows. "I didn't think it would happen to me." The confession comes out almost embarrassed—he's admitting something shameful. Robby exhales slowly, nods. "There've been a few reports."
Jack glances up.
"A few studies." Robby shrugs. "The theory is that some soulmate bonds don't form immediately." His eyes drift toward the red string, toward your intertwined hands. "Sometimes they form after loss."
The room falls quiet, neither of them says the obvious thing. That his late had been Jack's soulmate too, and loving her had been real, complete, and true. That none of this erased her.
Jack looks back at your sleeping face, the rise and fall of your chest, and the steady rhythm on the monitor. Alive and still here. His fingers slide gently through your hair again, careful not to disturb anything, as his hand cups your cheek. The gesture impossibly tender. Robby immediately looks away, because some moments aren't meant for witnesses.
Jack leans forward, pressing a kiss against your forehead, lingering there for a second, eyes closed and relieved. Terrified and very in love. When he finally pulls back, his thumb brushes across your skin. And for the first time since the shooting, a small smile appears. Fragile, hopeful, like he's allowing himself to believe it. Just a little.
"Come back to me, Lifeline." His voice is barely above a whisper. The red string glows softly between your wrists, and Jack squeezes your hand gently, as if you're already listening. As if somewhere beneath the machines and medications and healing wounds, you can hear him. Maybe, for the first time in a very long time, he isn't asking fate for anything. He's only asking for you.
PTMC, ICU — DAY
The first thing you become aware of is discomfort, not pain, well, not yet anyway, just wrongness. A strange pressure lodged in your throat—something foreign. Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy, as if someone glued them shut. The effort required to open them feels monumental. Slowly, painstakingly—you manage it, and the world arrives in fragments. White ceiling, muted sunlight, the rhythmic beeping of monitors, and the steady hiss of oxygen.
A hospital room—your hospital room, and immediately your nursing brain starts putting pieces together. ICU, you're in the ICU, which means—Oh. Oh no, the shooting. Memory crashes back all at once: the gun, Jack, blood, Trauma One. I love you, Jack Abbot.
Your eyes widen immediately as panic flares. Because there is definitely a tube down your throat, a ventilator tube, and suddenly every survival instinct in your body starts screaming. You try to move—a mistake, as pain explodes through your abdomen. Pain that says somebody has spent several hours trying very hard to keep you alive. A strangled sound leaves you; your heart monitor immediately speeds up.
Then you feel it, a hand, wrapped around yours. You turn your head, slowly, and there he is… Jack. Curled awkwardly in the chair beside your bed, wearing his black scrubs, asleep. His head was resting against folded arms near your mattress, one hand tangled with yours, the red string winding quietly between your wrists. For a moment, you just stare because he looks awful. His curls are a mess, dark circles shadow his eyes, his jaw is covered in stubble, his scrubs are wrinkled because he hasn't slept properly in days, and he hasn't left. This whole time, he stayed. Your fingers twitch, weakly, barely enough movement to count. Then you squeeze his hand.
Jack jerks awake instantly, years of emergency medicine, and years of sleeping lightly. His head snaps upward, disoriented and confused. Then his eyes land on yours, and the entire world stops. For a moment, he doesn't move or breathe. Doesn't seem capable of either. He just stares, afraid you're another dream, or another hallucination born from exhaustion.
"Hey." The word comes out rough, barely audible, and your eyes immediately fill with tears. Because he's crying, relief floods his face so quickly it looks painful. His hand tightens around yours.
"My Lifeline." His voice cracks completely, and suddenly, tears are sliding down his cheeks, unashamed. Jack laughs once, a choked sound halfway between a sob and a prayer. "Oh, my God."
You try to answer, then immediately regret it, because the tube is still there. Panic spikes again.
Jack notices instantly, "Hey." His hand cups the side of your face, gentle and grounding. "Hey, hey." His thumb brushes your cheek, "You're okay." Your breathing becomes faster, the ventilator alarms immediately begin protesting. "You're okay." Jack is already reaching for the call button, never taking his eyes off you. "You're okay."
Within seconds, the room fills with people. Garcia arrives first. Followed by respiratory therapy, a nurse, and half the ICU, apparently. "Well, look at that." Garcia's grin is immediate. "About time."
You want to roll your eyes, but unfortunately, you still have a breathing tube. The respiratory therapist immediately begins assessing and following commands. Checking your neurological status. Making sure you're strong enough for extubation. You squeeze hands, follow fingers with your eyes, nod appropriately. All while Jack hovers nearby. Trying desperately not to interfere, and failing miserably.
"She's ready." The therapist glances toward Garcia, and then Garcia nods. "Let's do it."
Jack immediately moves closer, instinctively. Like he physically cannot help himself. The ventilator disconnects, the securing device is removed, and the respiratory therapist gives instructions. You barely hear any of them; your entire focus is on the tube. Then—it's out. Immediately, you cough violently because your throat burns. Every breath feels strange and uncomfortable, but you're breathing on your own.
Jack is already helping support you upright, one arm behind your shoulders, the other holding a cup with ice chips. "Easy." His voice is impossibly soft. "Slow down."
You cough again, eyes watering. Jack looks ready to fight somebody on your behalf. Possibly the tube or the entire ICU. Eventually, the coughing settles enough for you to breathe comfortably, and the monitors stabilize, everyone visibly relaxing.
Garcia steps forward, professional mode fully activated. "Okay. The surgery went well." She begins carefully. "You sustained a gunshot wound to the abdomen." Jack's jaw tightens visibly as she continues, "There was significant internal bleeding." Garcia continues. "We had to perform an emergency exploratory laparotomy."
Your nurse brain immediately fills in blanks, searching for damage, complications, and probabilities. Garcia notices this and says, "We repaired injuries to your small bowel and controlled several bleeding vessels."
Your stomach drops.
Jesus.
"You required multiple transfusions." Garcia continues. "But you're stable now."
Stable—the most beautiful word in medicine. You glance toward Jack; he's staring at the floor, hearing the details physically hurts. Garcia notices that, too, a tiny smile appears. One that says she understands far more than she's commenting on.
"Recovery's going to suck." You manage a weak laugh; the sound comes out raspy. Garcia points immediately. "There she is. Don't make me regret taking that tube out."
For the first time since waking, you actually smile. Garcia gathers her chart and steps toward the door, then pauses, looking between you. Then Jack, the red string, then back again.
"Oh." A knowing expression crosses her face. "Right."
Jack immediately looks uncomfortable, which is almost impressive considering everything that's happened.
Garcia grins. "Try not to stress her out." Then she points at you. "And try not to get shot again."
The door closes behind her, and the room suddenly feels much quieter. Much smaller and more intimate. Silence settles; neither of you quite knows what to say. Because there are too many things, seven years' worth.
Jack remains seated beside the bed, his hand never leaving yours, not once. He's afraid the second he lets go, you'll disappear again.
Your throat hurts—everything hurts, but somehow none of it matters right now. Because Jack is looking at you, really looking at you, and there are tears still caught in his eyelashes. Evidence of how terrified he'd been, your fingers tighten weakly around his. "Hi." The word comes out hoarse, barely audible. A wet laugh escapes him, disbelieving, and relieved. "Hi."
His thumb brushes across your knuckles, again and again. As if he needs the contact—he needs proof. Then Jack lowers his head, pressing his forehead gently against your joined hands, his eyes closing. Breathing shakily, and in that moment, you realize he was just as afraid of losing you as you'd always been of losing him.
Finally, Jack swallows hard, then asks quietly, "How long?" You know exactly what he means, not the shooting or the string. All of it. You stare down at your intertwined hands. At the red thread winding around both wrists, then back at him, and answer honestly. "Since my first day.”
Jack blinks, once and twice. He genuinely thought he'd misheard you, "Your first day?" You nod, a sad laugh escaping. "Yeah."
His mouth opens, then closes, and opens again. The physician in him is clearly attempting to process impossible information. Unfortunately for him, he's currently operating as a man in love, not a doctor, which means none of this is going well.
"Seven years?" The words come out strangled, and you give a tiny nod. Jack leans back in his chair, looking dizzy. "Jesus Christ."
A weak laugh escapes you. "That was more or less my reaction too." His hand tightens around yours to reassure himself.
"Why didn't you tell me?" The question is quiet, not accusing anymore, only hurt. He’s trying to understand. You look away first, toward the window. Because this part is harder. "You were married." The words are simple, obvious, and true, Jack's expression immediately softens.
"You loved her." You smile sadly. "Of course you did." Because he had, you'd seen it, every day, in every smile or phone call, at the mere mention of her.
"I wasn't going to be the woman who showed up and destroyed that." Your voice trembles. "I couldn't. It's why I never said anything." A tear slips free, and you don't bother wiping it away.
"I respected her too much." Your laugh cracks. "And honestly?" You finally look at him, unwaveringly, you admit, "I loved you too much.” Jack closes his eyes, processing the truth of it all. "I knew you were happy." You smile weakly. "I thought… I thought if I couldn't be the person you loved, then I'd settle for being someone you trusted."
Jack stares at you, completely speechless. Suddenly, every memory makes sense, every retreat or careful boundary. You chose distance over possibility. You weren't waiting. You weren't hoping for his wife to die. Goddamit. The thought makes him sick now. You were protecting him—protecting both of them, at the expense of yourself, for seven years.
"That's insane." The words slip out before he can stop them. You blink, offended. "Excuse me?" Jack actually laughs, a wet, exhausted sound. "You loved me for seven years."
"You make it sound like a disease." You frowned.
"It kind of is."
You point weakly, "I got shot."
"Exactly." For the first time since waking up—you both laugh. The sound fades slowly, leaving only the truth behind. Jack shifts closer, his chair scrapes softly against the floor, until he's sitting right beside the bed, close to you, so that there's nowhere left to hide.
"I need you to understand something." His voice lowers, gentler now, and more vulnerable than you've ever heard it. Jack looks down briefly, then back up. "She was my soulmate." The words settle softly between you, simply true and not at all cruel. You nod, because you know—you've always known.
"I loved her." His eyes shine, "I'll always love her."
You squeeze his hand, "I know." Jack exhales shakily, then continues, "But somewhere along the way..." His voice falters, and you can’t recall if you've ever seen him this scared. His thumb brushes your cheek, the same way it did the night you almost died. "You became my favorite part of the day. The first person I wanted to talk to." Another stroke of his thumb. "The person I looked for first." His eyes never leave yours. "And when you started avoiding me..."
He laughs once, humorless and every bit painful. "It felt like somebody was ripping pieces off me." The confession steals the air from your lungs, and Jack leans forward slightly, and your heart starts racing.
"I thought I was losing my mind." A tiny smile appears at the corners of his mouth. "Turns out I was just in love with you."
Everything disappears—leaving just him and tears blur your vision instantly.
"Oh." It's all you can manage. Jack smiles, soft, beautiful, it’s entirely his. "Yeah."
Suddenly, you're crying. Because after seven years—after all that grief and silence and fear—he chose you. Not because of the string or fate. Or because destiny told him to. But because he loved you.
"You idiot." Your words wobble and Jack laughs, "I know."
"You absolute idiot."
"I've been told."
You laugh through your tears, and somehow, he wipes them away before they can fall. The gentlest touch imaginable, as if you're something precious. Then his forehead rests against yours, and neither of you speaks. You don't need to. The red string glows softly between your wrists, a silent witness, and for the first time—it doesn't feel like a chain. It feels like a beginning.
Jack's gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then immediately back to your eyes. Giving you every opportunity to stop him. Every opportunity to say no. You don't. Not even a little.
So, he kisses you, softly, as if you're something holy. Something he spent seven years searching for without realizing it. His hand cups your cheek, while yours finds his wrist. Right where the string wraps around him, the kiss is gentle and tender. A promise rather than a fire.
When he finally pulls back, neither of you moves very far, foreheads touching, breathing the same air. Jack smiles, the kind of smile you've spent years secretly collecting. "Hi."
A laugh escapes you, "Hi." Then his eyes soften, filled with something warm enough to last a lifetime. "There you are."
After seven years of loving him in silence—you finally get to stay.
End Notes:
Where do I even begin? This idea has been cooking in my head for MONTHS. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how I wanted this story to go. But then you know how things just suddenly click and fall into place? That’s exactly what happened.
It was absolutely euphoric—once I got the plot beats down, I just couldn’t stop writing lol.
I wanted you, the reader, to know how much you respected Jack’s wife and that you weren’t trying to replace her.
Also.. do you get it? Lifeline = Line = String…. Ha ha ha. You are his Line…
Everyone blame Noah Kahan for making me cry to Orbiter.
LOWKEY, wasn’t expecting a lot of people to read this…
Taglist: @gennywennypenny @kneelforloki @unknownhuman102 @thebewitchingvagabond @danah-20 @i-do-not-care-bear @nerdgirljen @silksepia @rathatosy @proudlyvastlake @coconuthoneyandjaguars @acciotwinz @thefemininemystiquee @rei-scorpio @buckystwilight
LMAO I SAW THE TAGS ON THIS THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!
I’M AN ASTRONAUT, YOU’RE THE MOON
Summary: When you moved halfway across the world to work nights at PTMC, the last thing you expected was for your soulmate string to lead straight to Dr. Jack Abbot—who’s already happily married to his own soulmate. So you bury your feelings beneath friendship, trauma shifts, and years of silence… until tragedy changes everything, and both of you begin to realize that maybe soulmates were never about fate, but choice. Or, the Soulmate AU with Jack Abbot.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader (Can still be read by anyone! It’s not super specific)
Warnings: 18+ Soulmate String AU, Unrequited Love to Requited Love, Age-Gap Romance (Not Specified), Hospitals, ER, ANGST, Fluff, Crush, Blood, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow(ish) Burn, Eventual Hurt-to-Comfort, Longing, YEARNING, Major Character Death, The Pitt AU, Grief, Tragic Heroine, Tragic Hero, Widow!Abbot, Depressed!Abbot, Anger, Crying, GSW, Happily Ever After, COVID-19, Kissing,
Word Count: 22.5k
A/N: We're gonna take a break from Ducky and Robby for a bit. Welcome, Jack Abbot. You are in my domain now >:D ALSO, I HIT THE LIMIT ON SPACING SOOO THE FORMAT MIGHT BE FUCKED IDK. Sorry :(((
Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/keeryscupid. I’m not a doctor or a nurse. I’m dyslexic, and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!
Songs: Orbiter by Noah Kahan, Brush Fire by Gracie Abrams, and If You Let Me by Maisie Peters (with Marcus Mumford)
| Jack Abbot Masterlist | Main Masterlist |
2018
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
The first thing you notice about the Pitt isn’t the noise.
It’s the pace.
Everything moves fast, but no one looks rushed. People pass each other like they’ve done this a thousand times, sliding through narrow spaces without looking, voices overlapping in half-finished sentences, monitors beeping in uneven rhythms that somehow don’t throw anyone off.
Organized disaster is exactly what an emergency department should feel like. You tighten your grip on the strap of your bag as you follow Lena down the hall, trying not to stare at everything like it’s your first day on Earth.
New country, New hospital, New job.
Night shift.
Your body still hasn’t figured out what time zone it’s supposed to be in, but adrenaline is already kicking in, that familiar hum under your skin that always comes when you step into an ER. You tell yourself you’ve handled worse. That you’ve worked typhoon nights, mass casualty drills, and overcrowded government hospitals with half the supplies you needed.
You can handle this.
Lena pushes the double doors open with her shoulder, not even breaking stride. “ER’s through here,” she says. “You said you worked trauma before, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” you answer automatically.
She glances back at you immediately, “Drop the ma’am. You’ll make everyone feel old.”
Heat creeps up your neck, “Sorry. Habit.”
“You’ll fit in,” she mutters, half amused, half distracted as she scans the room.
You step through the doors behind her—and the sound hits all at once. Phones ringing, a monitor alarming somewhere in the back, sharp and insistent. A patient down the hall is yelling that he’s been waiting for three hours and he’s going to sue somebody.
It’s loud and crowded, but very alive and all too familiar. Your shoulders drop just a little, tension you didn’t realize you were holding easing out of your spine.
Lena stops near the central desk, scanning the board, then jerks her chin toward the far side of the room, “That’s Dr. Jack Abbot. He’s on trauma tonight, so you’ll probably be with him most of the shift.”
You follow her gaze without thinking.
He stands near the counter, scrolling through a chart on an iPad, stethoscope hanging loose around his neck like he forgot it was there. Curly salt and pepper hair slightly messy, the kind of tired that comes from too many night shifts in a row.
He looks up when someone calls his name, and the moment your eyes land on him, your wrist burns.
You suck in a small breath, instinctively looking down. There’s a red string looped around your wrist, thin, bright, and impossible to miss.
Your stomach drops so fast it makes you dizzy. Because what the actual fuck? No. Not here. Not now.
At some point, you’d convinced yourself maybe you simply didn’t have one. Maybe the universe skipped you.
The thread pulls slightly, like something on the other end just moved, and your fingers curl around it before you even realize what you’re doing. A voice in your head tells you not to look… but you look anyway. The string stretches across the room, weaving through people and stretchers and equipment like it doesn’t care about physics; it never has.
Your breath gets stuck in your throat as you follow it as it leads straight to him—Jack Abbot.
Your heart stutters hard enough that you feel it in your ears.
No.
No, no, no.
Lena is still talking beside you, something about assignments, but the words blur together. “…good with procedures, just don’t let him skip charting, he tries— Abbot!”
He looks up again, this time, at you. The string pulls tight between your wrists. For a second, neither of you moves. Then he walks over, casual, pumping sanitizer on his hands like this is just another shift, just another new nurse, nothing important happening at all.
He’s taller up close.
Tired-looking in a way that somehow makes him seem softer instead of intimidating. Curly salt-and-pepper hair slightly messy, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stethoscope hanging around his neck like he forgot it was there hours ago.
“You the new one?” he asks. His voice is warm and easy. Maybe a little rough around the edges from too much coffee and too many overnight shifts.
You force your brain to function.
“Yeah,” you manage. “First night.”
He nods once, then holds out his hand.
“Jack Abbot.”
Your hand hesitates for half a second before you take it. The second your skin touches his—the string snaps tight. It feels like something deep in your bones clicks violently into place.
Your pulse jumps hard beneath your skin, and for one horrifying second you think maybe he can feel it too.
But Jack just smiles politely, completely unaffected.
Because he can’t see it, not fully. The thread only loops faintly around his wrist before disappearing, incomplete and one-sided.
You swallow hard, “Nice to meet you.”
“Welcome to the Pitt,” he says. “Try not to run.” You let out a shaky laugh before you can stop yourself, “Too late for that.”
A faint smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, like he likes your answer. By God, that tiny expression alone nearly kills you.
Then he shifts the iPad under his arm—and you see the ring.
A silver band on his left hand.
Your entire body goes cold.
For a second, you genuinely can’t process what you’re looking at. Of course, he’s married. Because, yes, the universe would do something this cruel.
You force yourself to look away before your face gives you away—and that’s when you notice her.
A woman stands near Central holding a paper bag against her hip, looking around the department with the comfortable familiarity of someone who’s been here a hundred times before.
Waiting for him.
Jack notices her immediately, and his whole face changes. It softens enough for you to understand instantly how much he loves her. “Hey,” he says quietly, already walking toward her.
The incomplete thread around his wrist brightens faintly.
She smiles the second he reaches her, “You forgot dinner again.” Jack laughs softly, taking the bag from her, “I was busy.”
“You’re always busy.”
“Occupational hazard.”
She rolls her eyes affectionately, and he leans down automatically to kiss her cheek. It’s absent-minded and natural. The kind of intimacy built over years. Loving her is as easy as breathing. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist feels unbearably tight. Because the universe already chose—it’s not you. Never you.
Lena nudges your shoulder lightly, “You good?”
You blink quickly, forcing your expression back under control before anyone notices the way your soul feels like it’s collapsing inward. “Yeah,” you say, your voice almost sounds steady. “Just jet lag.”
Lena nods distractedly and turns back toward the board.
Across the room, Jack says something under his breath that makes his wife laugh. The warm and happy sound carries across the department.
You look down at the string around your wrist one last time before pulling your sleeve over it completely.
You can do this—you’ve survived harder things than heartbreak.
You square your shoulders, take the iPad Lena hands you, and step fully into the chaos of the Pitt.
So when Jack glances back at you a moment later, smiling like you’re just another coworker starting a shift, you smile back, pretending that your heart didn’t just fall through the floor.
A FEW MONTHS LATER…
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT SHIFT
By the time the Pitt starts feeling familiar, it’s already too late. You know the rhythm of the department now, the same way you know your own breathing. Which monitor is about to alarm before it starts screaming. Which psych patient is one bad interaction away from throwing a urinal at security, or a resident is about to panic during a difficult intubation.
You know the trauma bay doors stick when it rains, and Lena hides the good coffee above the Pyxis because Ellis steals the decent stuff first, and the fluorescent lights over Hallway C flicker around three in the morning like they’re barely holding on, and you know Jack Abbot’s footsteps before you even see him.
Well, to be honest, that part happens slowly. Shift after shift. Trauma after trauma. Somewhere between your first week and your third month, working beside him stops feeling intimidating and starts feeling natural.
You know how he likes his trauma setups organized. You know he taps his pen twice against the desk when he’s thinking too hard. You know he rubs the back of his neck when he’s exhausted and trying not to show it. And worse—he knows you too.
“Lifeline!” Ellis’ voice cuts across the department as you walk out of Trauma Two carrying an empty suture tray. You stop mid-step. “You people are never letting that nickname die, are you?”
Ellis swivels around in her chair with a grin. “Absolutely not.”
The nickname started during your second week after a pediatric code that had gone catastrophically wrong.
A seven-year-old nearly drowned—no pulse on arrival. The room had dissolved into controlled chaos within seconds—respiratory trying to secure the airway while one of the newer residents nearly froze trying to place an IO line.
Shen, still early enough into residency that panic sometimes beat experience, had looked one second away from completely spiraling.
But through all of it, you had stayed calm.
You’d guided Shen through the tibial IO placement while simultaneously pushing epinephrine prep toward Jack and coordinating compression rotations so nobody burned out too early.
At one point, Ellis had looked up from the monitor and muttered, “Jesus Christ. She’s everybody’s lifeline in here.”
Unfortunately for you, the name stuck. Now, half the ED used it more than your actual name.
“Lifeline, Trauma Two,” Lena calls without looking up from the board.
“On my way.”
Jack steps out of the trauma bay at the same time you do, peeling bloody gloves off his hands. “You steal my nurse again?” he asks Lena.
Lena snorts. “You don’t own her, Abbot.”
“That’s not what I said.”
There’s something easy in the exchange that makes warmth spread unexpectedly through you.
Jack falls into step beside you automatically as you head toward Trauma Two.
“You eat yet?” he asks.
You glance at him suspiciously. “Are you asking because you care or because you need me conscious enough to survive this shift?”
“A little of both.”
You huff out a laugh. Because that’s the problem with Jack. He’s kind in ways that sneak up on you, a quiet attentiveness that drives you nuts. He notices when you haven’t sat down in seven hours or when your hands shake after a bad pediatric trauma and when you’re pushing yourself too hard, and casually hands you a granola bar like he didn’t specifically go looking for one because he knew you skipped dinner.
The kind of doctor who stays with family members after delivering bad news instead of disappearing the second the conversation gets uncomfortable, and the kind of man who wears his wedding ring like it means something sacred.
Which somehow makes all of this hurt even more. Because every soft look. Every quiet joke at three in the morning or moment beside him in a trauma bay—belongs to someone else.
And you know that.
The universe reminds you every single day that the red string hidden beneath the cuff of your scrub jacket pulls tight whenever he gets too close.
You’ve gotten good at ignoring it or pretending to.
TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT
Tonight’s MVA is a disaster. Twenty-six-year-old male. Ejected through the windshield. Hypotensive on arrival. The second EMS wheels him through the ambulance bay doors, and the department shifts gears instantly.
“BP seventy over forty,” Ellis says from the monitor. “Heart rate one-forty.”
“Breath sounds diminished on the left,” Shen adds quickly, trying to keep up.
“Alright, let’s move,” Jack says sharply.
You’re already there.
Trauma shears cut through blood-soaked clothing while respiratory preps for intubation. You place oxygen and start hanging fluids while Jack performs the FAST exam. Free fluid in Morrison’s pouch appears on the screen almost immediately. Internal bleeding, most likely splenic rupture.
“Call OR,” Jack says. “He’s going upstairs.”
“Already on it,” you answer, grabbing the phone before he even finishes speaking. Jack glances toward you over the patient. There’s blood smeared across the sleeve of his scrub top, exhaustion pulled deep into the lines around his eyes. Yet still—that small flicker of trust when he looks at you. He knows you’ll catch whatever he misses.
You hate how much that matters to you.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
By four in the morning, the Pitt settles into its strange version of quiet. You’re charting near Central when the elevator doors open.
Jack’s wife walks out carrying six pizza boxes stacked in her arms.
The entire department visibly brightens.
“Oh thank God,” Ellis says dramatically. “An angel sent from heaven.”
“You people are unbelievable,” she laughs.
Ellis immediately takes two boxes from her. “Respectfully, I would die for you.”
“That’s deeply concerning,” Lena mutters.
“You’re just jealous she likes me more.”
“I absolutely am not.”
You can’t help laughing softly under your breath. There it is again— that awful ache in your heart. Because she’s truly, genuinely wonderful. The universe could’ve at least made her cold, cruel, or difficult.
Instead, she remembers everyone’s coffee orders and asks about your family back home, and brings food for the night shift because she knows none of you remember to eat unless somebody forces you.
“You must be Lifeline.”
You blink, startled when you realize she’s suddenly standing beside you.
Up close, her smile is warm and effortless. You force yourself to smile back. “That obvious, huh?”
“Oh, very,” she says easily. “Jack talks about you all the time.”
Your heart stumbles painfully against your ribs.
Before you can recover, she continues casually, “Apparently, you’re the only reason this department functions after midnight.”
You laugh weakly. “That gives me way too much credit. Obviously, Lena holds everything down.”
“Have you met these people?” she asks quietly, glancing around Central. “I’m pretty sure Shen would eat expired yogurt if left unsupervised.”
“That happened one time,” Shen shouts.
“You were hallucinating by hour two,” Ellis replies.
You laugh again before you can stop yourself, and somehow, talking to her is easy. Isn’t that cruel? Because you like her immediately, she asks about the Philippines, about your family, and how you plan on surviving Pittsburgh winters.
You’re halfway through explaining that black ice feels like a personal attack when Jack walks out of Trauma Two. He tosses his gloves into the biohazard bin before sanitizing his hands automatically. His curls are damp with sweat at the temples now, scrub top wrinkled from the shift.
Then he looks up to find the two of you talking and smiles—soft around the edges in a way that makes your eyes water.
“Well,” his wife says immediately, “there he is.”
Jack points toward the pizza boxes. “You bribing my staff again?”
“Your staff?” Lena repeats flatly from across the desk.
Jack ignores her completely.
His wife gestures toward you. “Lifeline and I decided you’re actually the problem in this department.” You blink. “We did?”
“We did now.”
Jack looks genuinely betrayed, “That was fast.”
“She’s nice,” his wife says simply. Jack’s eyes flick toward you for half a second, warm and amused. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “She is.”
Your pulse skips hard enough you nearly miss it. Coward, coward, coward.
You look away first while his wife grins triumphantly. “See? I win.”
“You gang up on me constantly.”
“Because you’re easy to bully,” you say before thinking.
Jack stares at you in mock offense. “Wow. Okay.”
“You walked into that one,” Ellis says.
“You’re all terrible people.”
His wife reaches up automatically to straighten the collar of his scrub shirt. Such a small gesture, absent-minded and intimate. The kind of touch that only exists between people who know each other completely.
Your wrist aches beneath your sleeve as the string pulls tighter. Still connected to him. So very impossible and still wrong. But somehow, standing there laughing with both of them at four in the morning, you realize something infinitely more dangerous than loving him.
You’re becoming part of their lives.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — LATER
The shift slows near dawn as you’re charting near Central when Jack drops into the chair beside you with a tired exhale.
“You ever think about leaving emergency medicine?” he asks suddenly. You glance sideways. “Every shift.”
“That’s healthy.”
“I think about becoming a florist at least twice a week.”
Jack huffs out a tired laugh. “You’d last six days.”
“Rude.”
“You yelled at a surgeon yesterday.”
“He was wrong.” You pointed out.
“He was technically right.”
“He was spiritually wrong.”
That earns a real laugh from him, the low and warm kind. God. You hold onto sounds like that more than you should. Silence settles comfortably between you afterward—the kind that only exists between people who know each other well. Then, almost absentmindedly, Jack asks, “Have you met your soulmate yet?”
Your fingers stop over the keyboard. For one horrible second, your entire body forgets how to function. But your face stays calm, because years in emergency medicine have made you terrifyingly good at composure. You keep typing as you reply, “Nope.”
Jack glances sideways at you. “At all?” You shrug lightly, forcing your voice steady. “Might just not be in the cards for me.”
Something softens in his expression immediately. Jack looks at people like he wants to understand them, not fix them. “I doubt that,” he says quietly. You stare at the chart on the screen because looking at him feels too dangerous. The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly heavy.
“I mean it,” he continues softly. “Whoever ends up with you is gonna be lucky.”
Your throat tightens painfully as you force a laugh under your breath before the emotion can show on your face. “Smooth.”
“I’m serious.”
The worst part is—he means it. You finally risk looking at him. His eyes are tired and honest in that devastating way that makes lying to him feel terrible.
“I hope whoever you love…” he says quietly, almost like he’s thinking out loud, “loves you back just as much.”
The cruel irony nearly splits you open. Because you already know exactly what loving him feels like. It feels like swallowing it down every single day, pretending friendship is enough because it has to be, while standing three feet away from your soulmate, while he talks about his wife with soft eyes and absolute devotion.
Your eyes sting suddenly, and you blink hard before he notices. “Me too, Jack,” you whisper. You mean it so much it hurts.
“Me too.”
2020, COVID PANDEMIC
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
The world changes fast. One week, people are joking about a virus overseas between trauma calls and coffee runs, and then the next week, the Pitt is overflowing.
Then, suddenly, every hallway smells like bleach and sanitizer, strong enough to burn your nose through the mask. Every shift feels like drowning—N95s cutting grooves into your skin, face shields fogging every time you breathe, and isolation gowns crackling every time you move.
The emergency department transforms into something unrecognizable almost overnight. There are no visitors or waiting rooms full of family. Alarms, intubations, oxygen sats dropping, and the sound of ventilators become part of the background noise of your life. Everyone starts looking exhausted, and then everyone starts looking haunted. You stop recognizing your coworkers without PPE. Even you stop recognizing yourself.
Through all of it, Jack keeps working.
You think maybe the entire world could collapse around him and he’d still show up for trauma shift fifteen minutes early with coffee in one hand and exhaustion carved into his face. Some nights, the two of you barely talk beyond patient updates. There isn’t time. Not anymore. Every room is full, and the waiting room looks like a war zone; people are dying faster than you can process. But even through the masks and face shields and layers of plastic, you still know him.
You know the crease between his brows when he’s worried and the exhaustion in his posture. The look in his eyes when a patient reminds him too much of somebody else.
To add to that, around the beginning of the pandemic, his wife dies. Not from COVID, which somehow makes it more merciless.
Pedestrian versus drunk driver—DOA. The call comes in just after midnight. You don’t know it’s her at first. Female in her late thirties. Severe head trauma. Massive internal injuries. CPR in progress.
The paramedics wheel her through the doors while respiratory rushes to clear Trauma One. For one horrible second, before you even see her face, the red string around Jack’s wrist burns.
You freeze, not because you understand yet. Because something deep inside you already does.
Then Jack steps into the trauma room, and everything stops. You watch recognition hit him in real time, the way his body locks up and how color drains from his face beneath the mask.
“No,” he says immediately, as if he says it softly enough, maybe reality will change its mind.
“No.”
Lena moves first.
“Jack—”
“That’s my wife.”
The room goes dead silent. Even with monitors alarming and compressions ongoing, along with Shen asking for another round of epi.
It all disappears under the sound of Jack’s voice breaking.
You’ve seen grief before—you work in emergency medicine, so you see it every day. But nothing prepares you for the sound a person makes when their entire life shatters in front of them. Jack tries to step forward, but Lena catches him immediately. “Jack.”
“No, let me—”
“Jack.”
“She’s still warm—”
His voice cracks apart on the words. The paramedic quietly says they found no pulse on scene. Prolonged downtime. Non-survivable head trauma. You can’t breathe—nobody can.
Jack looks at his wife lying on the trauma bed like he genuinely cannot understand what he’s seeing; his brain refuses to process it. Blood in her hair and on the sheet, with her wedding ring still on her hand. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist pulls painfully tight—before snapping loose.
Jack stares at his own wrist instinctively. The string tied there—gone. His face crumples. All that’s left is a man realizing the universe just took something from him that it can never give back.
COVID restrictions mean none of you are allowed at the funeral. No gathering or reception. No sitting beside him in church or placing a hand on his shoulder in comfort; bringing food to his house while relatives fill the rooms with noise and stories and grief.
Only Zoom.
Fucking Zoom.
You sit alone in your apartment at three in the afternoon after night shift, still in scrubs because you were too tired to change, laptop balanced on your kitchen table.
Everyone’s little squares flicker on-screen. Lena is crying silently, Ellis is muted, while Shen is trying and failing not to cry. Multiple other night shift staff are trying their best to pull themselves together—to be brave for Jack.
While Jack is sitting alone in a black button-down shirt in a house that suddenly looks too empty.
He looks hollow. That’s the only word for it. Hollowed out from the inside. You realize halfway through the service that he hasn’t stopped twisting his wedding ring around his finger once. Maybe he believes that if he keeps touching it, maybe she’s still here somehow.
You cry with your microphone muted.
Afterward, nobody knows what to say. There are no casseroles or hugs. No standing together in shared grief. Only little squares blink off one by one until Jack is the last person left in the call.
You stay after everyone disconnects. “You should sleep,” you say quietly. Jack lets out a humorless laugh, “Yeah.”
But he doesn’t move, and neither do you. Finally, he says, “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
There it is… the unbearable part, because she died instantly—no final words or closure. She was there one second—gone the next.
You press your lips together hard enough that they hurt as you faintly say, “I’m so sorry, Jack.”
He nods once because he’s heard it too many times already. Then his face folds inward suddenly, grief cracking through whatever fragile composure he’s been holding together. You’ve never seen him cry before, not really. Now he looks destroyed by it.
“I keep thinking she’s gonna walk through the door,” he whispers. “I keep forgetting for like… five seconds.”
Your lungs ache so violently that it feels unbearable.
Because despite everything—despite the string and the guilt and all the ways you tried to keep your distance—you love him. And loving someone means you cannot stand there and watch them suffer alone.
Not him.
Never him.
So you stay.
At first casually, then constantly, you start checking on him between shifts. You bring coffee, he forgets to drink, and force him to eat crackers during overnight shifts because grief has hollowed him thin. You sit beside him in the break room when he can’t sleep between traumas.
Some nights he talks, and there are nights he doesn’t. Later on, you learn grief has moods. Some days he’s numb, and some days he’s angry. Or days, a patient wearing the same perfume as his wife nearly sends him spiraling mid-shift. Once, after losing a COVID patient around his wife’s age, Jack locks himself in the stairwell for twenty minutes.
You find him there eventually. Still in PPE with his face shield shoved onto the top of his head, breathing hard like he’s trying not to come apart.
You sit beside him without saying anything. For a long time, neither of you speaks. The stairwell is cold through your scrub pants, concrete hard beneath you. Somewhere beyond the heavy metal door, the hospital keeps moving. Monitors alarming. Phones ringing. Ventilators hissing.
Life continued like his world didn’t just end.
Jack sits one step below you, elbows braced against his knees, surgical cap shoved halfway off his head. His N95 hangs loose around his neck now, leaving angry red pressure marks across his skin. He appears worn out in a manner unrelated to sleep. The type of tiredness that becomes bone-deep.
For a while, all you hear is his controlled breathing, but then, you know, if he lets himself lose control for even a second, he’ll never stop. Then quietly, without looking at you, Jack says, “I don’t know who I am without her.”
You nearly shatter at his confession, because it’s proof he loved her so completely. You saw it every day in small, ordinary ways. In the way his face softened when she walked into the department carrying takeout, or the absent-minded way he leaned toward her without realizing it. In the wedding ring, he twisted whenever he talked about her during quieter shifts. He loved her with the kind of certainty people spend their whole lives searching for, and somehow that only makes you love him more.
You look down at your hands, clasped tightly in your lap.
“At work?” you say softly after a moment. “You’re still Jack.” A weak laugh escapes him, humorless and tired, “Very inspirational speech.”
“I’m serious.”
You glance toward him carefully. Even now, he’s still wearing blood on the sleeve of his isolation gown from the code downstairs. His curls are damp with sweat, exhaustion carved deep into the lines around his eyes.
"When everything hurts," you say carefully, "you don't have to figure out how to survive the next ten years."
Jack finally looks up, with his eyes bloodshot, red-rimmed, and devastatingly tired. "You just find the next thing." His brow furrows slightly as you keep going, "The next cup of coffee that tastes okay."
A faint huff of breath leaves him.
"The next shift." You offer a small smile. "The next stupid joke Shen makes that isn't actually funny."
That earns the ghost of an eye roll—you take it.
"The next hour. The next day." Your throat tightens, but you push through it, "And eventually..." Your voice softens. "Eventually you realize you've made it farther than you thought you could."
Jack stares at you, fully paying attention and listening.
"The pain doesn't disappear," you admit quietly. "Some losses stay with you forever. But one day you wake up, and it isn't the first thing you feel."
The stairwell falls silent again, and you watch as Jack's eyes close briefly as if the possibility of hope hurts. When he opens them again, there's something unbearably raw there—something stripped bare. "You really believe that?" The question comes out almost broken, and you don't hesitate as you reply, "Yes."
Because you have to, for him, for yourself, and for every patient you've ever watched claw their way through impossible things.
"Yes," you repeat softly. Jack studies your face for a long moment—searching for something there. Maybe hope or permission. Or proof that somebody still sees him underneath all the grief. Then he gives one small, fragile nod, because he's trying very hard to believe you, too.
A softer shared silence settles between you again afterward. You remain beside him on the stairwell steps while the hospital hums around you. Two exhausted healthcare workers in the middle of a pandemic. One grieving the loss of the love of his life. The other grieving quietly beside him. Then, after a long time, you speak again.
Your voice barely rises above a whisper, "I don't think there's such a thing as a good goodbye." Jack doesn't look away, but you stare at the concrete floor.
"People say it gets easier. That you find closure. That eventually you make peace with it." Your fingers tighten together. "But I think losing someone just becomes part of you. You learn how to carry it." Your throat burns, "There are days when you think you're okay. Days when you laugh and work and breathe normally." You glance toward him. "And then something happens. A song, a smell, maybe a memory.” Blinking back your tears, you revealed, "The grief finds you again."
Jack's eyes shine slightly as you continue softly, "Not because you failed to move on." Your voice wavers. "But because they mattered."
A long silence follows. Then, quietly—"So what am I supposed to do?" When he asks the question, it sounds incredibly trivial.
You look at Jack—at the man who spent years helping everyone else survive. He stayed with frightened soldiers, and loved his wife so completely that even death couldn't erase her from him.
"Keep loving her," you say softly, and Jack's breath catches. "Just don't let her be the reason you stop living, too."
The silence that follows feels sacred, somewhere beneath your sleeve, hidden from the world, the red string wrapped around your wrist aches. Not because it hurts, but because for the first time since she died, you realize you would carry his grief with him for as long as he needed.
Even if he never knew.
2021
YOUR APARTMENT — NIGHT
By late 2021, you recognize the symptoms almost immediately. The exhaustion first. Not normal exhaustion—the kind every ER nurse carries around like a second heartbeat—but something meaner. The sort that becomes deeply ingrained in your bones and wears you out just by standing straight.
Then the fever, then it’s the cough that follows soon after, and the body aches that feel like somebody took a hammer to every joint you have.
You take the rapid test in your bathroom with trembling hands, already knowing what the result will be before the second line even appears.
Positive.
You stare at it for a long moment anyway, “Fuck.”
You’d been vaccinated months ago. Healthcare workers got priority access early on, one of the very few benefits of spending every shift neck-deep in a pandemic. And thank God for that, because without it, you’re almost certain this would’ve landed you intubated in an ICU somewhere.
Still—it hits you hard.
Your immune system has never exactly been reliable. Too many years of stress, skipped meals, night shifts, and pushing yourself past exhaustion had seen to that long before COVID ever existed.
So you quarantine immediately with no qualms or arguments. Immediately, you text Lena and Dana to tell them that you’ve contracted COVID-19. Then you lock yourself inside your apartment and prepare to wait it out.
The loneliness settles in fast after that. The first day isn’t terrible, but the second day is worse. By the third day, you genuinely feel like you’re losing your mind. Your apartment suddenly feels too small and too quiet. Every surface smells faintly of disinfectant and cough drops. Empty Gatorade bottles and medication wrappers clutter your coffee table because you’re too exhausted to clean properly.
You sleep in fragments. Wake up drenched in sweat. Cough until your ribs ache. Then fall asleep again, only to wake up disoriented an hour later. You try texting your family back home once, but hearing your mother’s worried voice over FaceTime nearly makes you cry, so you stop answering calls after that.
You tell everyone you’re fine. You’re not.
One particularly bad night, you sit on the bathroom floor wrapped in a blanket because the cold tiles feel good against your feverish skin, genuinely debating at what oxygen saturation you’d finally call an ambulance.
Ninety-three? Ninety-two?
You know too much…that’s the problem. You’re aware exactly how quickly patients can crash, and what respiratory distress looks like. You know what COVID sounds like when it starts settling deeper into the lungs. And alone in your apartment at two in the morning, feverish and exhausted and struggling not to spiral, you think: If this gets worse, I’m gonna end up at Presby or PTMC.
By day five, your phone is full of unread texts. Lena is checking in, Shen is sending memes, and Ellis is threatening to physically fight you if you don’t hydrate. But then there’s Jack calling twice… then three times.
You don’t answer any of them. Not intentionally. Your brain feels too foggy to function most of the time. Looking at your phone takes effort you barely have energy for. So when there’s suddenly a knock at your apartment door that evening, you frown from beneath your blanket without moving.
Probably the wrong apartment.
Another knock. Then—your real name, muffled through the door in a voice you’d recognize half-asleep.
“Hey.”
Your stomach drops.
No.
Absolutely not.
You push yourself upright too quickly and immediately regret it when dizziness crashes over you. You stumble toward the door anyway, coughing into your elbow before peeking through the peephole.
And there he is.
Jack Abbot. Standing outside your apartment in full PPE. N95. Face shield. Gloves. Isolation gown. Holding a plastic takeout bag in one hand. You stare at him in complete disbelief before yanking yourself back from the door. “Jack?!”
“Oh, good,” his voice comes through the other side, dry with relief. “You’re alive.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” you hiss through the door. “How did you even find where I live?”
“Lena told me… and Dana.”
Traitors.
You lean your forehead briefly against the door, exhausted. “You can’t be here,” you argue weakly. “You could get sick.” Jack snorts softly from the hallway, “Lifeline, we work in an emergency department.”
“That is not comforting!”
“Also,” he continues, ignoring you completely, “is there a reason you’ve been ignoring my texts and calls?”
You close your eyes briefly. Honestly, you hadn’t even realized how many messages you missed.
“Jack—”
“Open the door.”
You blink as you screech, “Are you fucking insane? No.” His voice lowers slightly then, gentler but firmer somehow. “Lifeline.”
Somewhere behind your ribs, the moniker settles heated and perilous.
“Open the door.”
You stare at the wood for a long moment. Then, against every ounce of common sense you possess, you unlock it. The second the door cracks open, Jack’s eyes immediately scan over you clinically. You can practically see the ER doctor in him assessing your flushed skin, fatigue, and mild shortness of breath. The way you’re subtly bracing yourself against the wall to stay upright. In an instant, his face tightens.
"Oh," he murmurs. Somehow, that soft little sound embarrasses you more than if he’d outright said you looked terrible. You cross your arms defensively, “I look worse than I feel.”
“That’s concerning, because you look awful.”
You let out a tired laugh despite yourself, immediately coughing afterward. Jack’s eyes narrow behind the face shield, “How high’s the fever?”
“It’s fine.”
“Temperature.”
“One-oh-one earlier.”
“And oxygen?”
You hesitate half a second too long, and Jack notices immediately, “Lifeline.”
“Ninety-four. I’ve been checking my Apple Watch.”
His jaw tightens, “Okay.”
You step aside reluctantly. “There’s hand sanitizer and ethyl alcohol everywhere. I’ve been disinfecting the place whenever I can.”
Jack walks inside carefully, setting the takeout bag down near the kitchen counter. Your apartment suddenly feels unbearably small with him standing in it. Messy blankets on the couch. Medications scattered across the coffee table. Laundry you’ve been too sick to fold. You suddenly want the earth to swallow you whole. “Sorry,” you mutter. “It’s kind of a disaster.”
Jack glances around once before looking back at you. “I’ve seen residents cry over missing lab results. This is nothing.” That earns another weak laugh out of you while he pulls out one of the dining chairs and gestures toward it, “Sit down before you fall down.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“You almost passed out opening the door.”
Rude.
You sit anyway because standing suddenly feels impossible, and Jack immediately starts fussing. Taking your temperature again. Checking your pulse ox. Asking when you last ate.
In a manner that hurts your core, it's somehow intimate. After observing him in silence for a while, you gently inquire, "Why are you here?"
Jack pauses before he shrugs one shoulder like the answer should be obvious. “Because I know you.”
“You don’t have family here,” he continues quietly. “No roommates. No neighbors you’re close enough with to help if things go bad.” He leans back slightly in the chair across from you.
“You moved halfway across the world by yourself,” he says. “So yeah. I came to do a welfare check.” Something warm and painful twists in your chest all at once, so you try covering it with humor. “Am I that unlucky or just that special?”
Jack looks at you for a long moment. Then, softly, he replies, “Just that special.” The room goes very still while your pulse stutters painfully against your ribs. Jack clears his throat first, looking away. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.”
He gives you a tired, unimpressed look immediately, “Don’t start with me.” You sigh, shoulders slumping. “I feel…” You swallow hard. “Honestly? Like I got hit by a truck.”
Jack nods once like he expected that answer. “My chest hurts when I cough,” you admit quietly. “And I’m exhausted all the time. Walking to the bathroom feels like running a 10k.”
Jack’s expression softens instantly to concern. “Okay,” he says gently. “That sounds about right for breakthrough COVID.”
You laugh weakly, “Reassuring.”
“You’re vaccinated. Your sats are holding. Fever sucks, but you’re stable.” His voice shifts into that calm doctor cadence you’ve heard him use with terrified patients a hundred times before.
“You’re gonna feel miserable for a little while,” he says softly. “But you’re not dying.”
The ridiculous thing is—you believe him immediately. Maybe because it’s Jack, he always sounds certain even when the world is falling apart. Or maybe because after spending almost a week alone in your apartment feeling terrified and sick and invisible—having somebody show up for you feels dangerously close to relief.
Somewhere beneath the fever and exhaustion and the red string hidden under your sleeve, you realize this is the first time since his wife died that Jack has willingly stepped into somebody else’s home again.
The thought nearly breaks your heart.
Grief has a way of shrinking people's worlds—you'd watched it happen to Jack in real time. After his wife died, he stopped inviting people over. Stopped talking about home or lingering after conversations that might eventually end with someone asking how he was doing outside of work. The walls had gone up slowly. Brick by brick. Most people probably never noticed, but you did. Yet here he is, standing in your cluttered apartment with a stethoscope in one hand and a grocery bag full of electrolyte drinks in the other.
"Drink."
You stare at the bottle he shoves toward you, "You're very bossy outside the hospital."
"Drink." He insists.
"Is this because I ignored your texts?"Jack gives you a look, the one he usually reserves for patients actively making terrible decisions. "Partly."
You sigh dramatically and take the bottle, "Happy?"
"No."
That catches your attention. You look up, and Jack is standing near the kitchen counter, arms folded across his chest. The concern on his face isn't hidden anymore. Hasn't been since he walked through the door. "You should've told somebody you were this sick." Your laugh comes out hoarse, "I did."
"No." Jack shakes his head, "You told people you were fine."
"...I was trying not to worry anyone."
"You had a one-oh-one fever and couldn't walk to your bathroom without getting winded."
You look away because when he says it like that, it sounds bad. "It sounds worse when you say it."
"That's because it is worse."
You can't help smiling, but that only seems to annoy him more.
"Why are you smiling?"
"You care."
Jack stares and then immediately looks away. Your fever-addled brain doesn't miss the faint flush creeping up his neck. "Of course I care."
The answer comes too naturally, and for some reason, that makes something warm settle beneath your body. The television murmurs faintly in the background, forgotten as Jack eventually disappears into your kitchen. You hear cabinets opening and then closing. A frustrated sigh leaves him, "How do you have absolutely no food?"
"I have food."
"You have soy sauce and olive oil."
"That's food-adjacent."
Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. "You work in healthcare."
"So do you."
"I know."
"Have you seen what doctors eat?"
He points at you from across the room, "Deflection."
You grin while Jack shakes his head again, but he opens the takeout containers anyway and pours you soup. Then make sure you actually eat it and wait until you're halfway through before finally sitting down. The quiet and unexpected realization sneaks up on him that somehow—he likes taking care of you. Because it shouldn't feel this good. It shouldn't feel this natural to be here. To fuss over your fever, refill your water glass, and check your pulse ox every twenty minutes because he doesn't trust you not to lie about your symptoms.
Yet every time he glances up and sees you curled beneath a blanket on the couch, alive and stubborn and complaining—something in his heart eases. The same feeling he gets when a trauma patient finally stabilizes. When someone he was worried about turns out okay. Only different. This time, it’s more personal and complicated.
You cough suddenly, and Jack is moving before he even realizes it, quickly handing you water. Waiting until the coughing fit passes. Your eyes lift toward him over the rim of the glass. It’s soft and sleepy. "Thank you." Your words are quiet and sincere.
And God help him—that does something to him. Something he doesn't examine too closely.
Because if he does—he might have to ask himself questions he's not ready to answer. Questions like why spending an afternoon taking care of you feels better than spending it anywhere else, or why your apartment already feels strangely familiar. Why did the idea of you being here alone all week bother him so much?
Instead, he focuses on something safer—annoyance. "You know," he says, sitting back in his chair, "your soulmate's doing a terrible job."
You blink at that, frowning, "What?" Jack shrugs, "If they're out there somewhere, they're slacking." A surprised laugh escapes you. "What does that even mean?"
"It means," he says, gesturing vaguely toward your blanket burrito state, "you're sick. Alone. Living on cough drops and spite."
"I had soup."
"You had olive oil."
"That was one time."
Jack rolls his eyes, "My point stands." A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "They should've shown up by now." The joke is spoken carelessly, and he doesn't know it nearly stops your heart.
You look away first, toward the rain-streaked window, literally anywhere but him. Because if you look at Jack right now—if you look at the man sitting in your apartment, taking care of you, worrying over you, complaining about a soulmate who never appeared—you might break.
The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly burdensome. But Jack doesn't notice, he's too busy opening another bottle of water and making sure your fever isn't climbing again. Somewhere in the quiet warmth of your apartment, he doesn’t realize the irony. Jack is sitting exactly where he should be. Doing exactly what he was supposed to do, and somehow, he can’t see it yet.
2023
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
Five years ago, you were the new nurse from the Philippines. Now you're simply part of the Pitt. Nobody really introduces you anymore. You're just there, part of the machinery. You know where everything is and everyone's habits. Or when Ellis is pretending to chart and is actually looking for the next best place to nap for her double. You know when Shen is about to spiral before he even realizes it himself. By now, you have memorized Lena's "I'm not mad, I'm disappointed" face is significantly more terrifying than actual anger.
Somewhere along the way—you became one of the safest places in Jack's life. Neither of you meant for that to happen.
It just did.
There are hundreds of tiny moments, none of which seem important on their own. But together, they're devastating. A patient's husband is screaming in the hallway after a failed resuscitation. Security is trying to de-escalate, family members are crying, and the entire department feels tense. Then, appearing devastated, Jack leaves the room but not in a noticeable way. Most people wouldn't recognize it, but you do.
You don't say anything; instead, you simply hand him a cup of coffee. Exactly how he takes it. He looks down at it, then at you. "Mind reader?" You shrug, "You looked like you needed caffeine." The corner of his mouth twitches, "Thanks."
Somehow, that small smile stays with him the rest of the shift.
Another night, it’s three in the morning. Everyone's fucking exhausted. You're sitting on the floor of the supply room because it's the only place nobody can find you for five minutes. Jack opens the door and stops. He finds you sitting there cross-legged, eating stale vending machine pretzels. "You hiding?"
"No."
"You are literally hiding."
You hold up a pretzel, defensive, "This is self-care." Jack stares at you, then, to your horror, he sits beside you on the floor. Like it's completely normal. "You know we're adults, right?" he asks.
"Says the man eating peanut butter crackers for dinner." Jack looks offended; he scoffs, "I had a protein bar." You roll your eyes at that, "Oh. Well, that's different."
His laugh echoes through the tiny room. It’s warm and unrestrained. The sound settles somewhere dangerous inside your chest. Then the days keep passing by, and then the days turn into months, then it’s another shift, another trauma.
Another impossible night.
A frightened little girl refuses to let go of your hand while waiting for stitches. You're sitting beside her bed, explaining every step of the procedure. Making balloon animals out of gloves while telling ridiculous stories.
By the time you're finished, she's laughing. You don't notice Jack standing in the doorway watching or the expression on his face either. The one that lingers long after he walks away. Because somewhere over the years, admiration has quietly become affection.
Affection has started becoming something else—something he doesn't have a name for yet. Jack's issue is that he doesn't immediately feel things. Without thinking, he simply begins searching for you first.
A difficult trauma comes in? His eyes automatically find yours. A bad shift? He looks for you at Central. A joke occurs to him? He wants to tell you. A patient reminds him of something sad? Somehow, you're the person he ends up talking to.
It happens gradually enough that neither of you notices.
Until everyone else does.
"You know Abbot's gonna have a breakdown if Lifeline ever leaves, right?" Ellis says it casually while charting. You nearly choke on your coffee, "What?" Across the desk, Shen immediately nods. "Oh, absolutely."
"Parker."
"I'm serious."
You point threateningly, "Stop." Parker raises both hands. "Hey, I don't make the rules."
You refuse to acknowledge the strange warmth crawling up your neck. Because if you acknowledge it—you'll have to acknowledge the way your heart still skips whenever Jack smiles at you. After all these years, that feels pathetic.
2024
PTMC, MAIN ENTRANCE — DAY
The rain starts sometime around six in the morning. Not a drizzle—a proper Pittsburgh downpour. The kind that turns streets silver and pounds against windows hard enough to drown out conversation.
After twelve hours of chaos, the entire department begins filtering out toward the parking garage and bus stops. You finally clock out around seven—exhausted and half-awake, absolutely ready for sleep.
When you step outside, you immediately spot Jack standing beneath the small emergency department awning.
Watching the rain… alone with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. Looking at him, you pause, "You're still here?"
Jack glances over, "My car's in the shop."
That explains it.
"How'd you get here?"
"Rideshare."
You look out toward the street, and the rain is somehow worse now. Jack follows your gaze, "Trying to decide how miserable walking home is gonna be." You glance over, "What happened to your ride?"
Jack lets out a tired breath, "Canceled."
"What?"
"Driver got stuck downtown." You wince at that, and he pulls his phone from his pocket and turns the screen toward you. The rideshare app is a disaster—surge pricing, long wait times. One estimate says thirty-eight minutes, while another says unavailable. Apparently, every exhausted healthcare worker in Pittsburgh had the same idea after shift. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Yeah." Jack stuffs his phone away again. "I've been refreshing it for ten minutes."
You look back toward the rain, then down at the umbrella dangling from your wrist, and then back at him. You ask, "No umbrella?"
"Nope."
You stare at him, then at the rain… and then at the very obvious lack of any workable plan. So, without thinking twice, you hold the umbrella out. Jack blinks, looks at the umbrella, and then at you. Then back at the umbrella. It's baby pink and covered in tiny Miffy rabbits. The ears are even printed around the trim—the thing looks aggressively cheerful.
"You serious?"
"Very."
A laugh escapes him, a real one. Low and surprised and completely unguarded. It's probably the first genuine laugh you've heard from him all shift, maybe longer. You feel absurdly proud of yourself as you snort, "Sorry about the color."
Jack studies the umbrella again, "I think I'll survive."
"You sure? Might destroy your reputation."
"My reputation was already questionable."
"Fair."
You press the handle into his hand without hesitation, because that's just who you are. Someone needs help, so you help; it's that simple. Jack looks genuinely baffled. "Wait."
You pause.
"What about you?" He asks, concerned. You shrug. The rain is cold, and the morning is gray. You've worked twelve hours, and your back hurts, along with your feet. But somehow none of that feels important. "I live closer than you do."
"Lifeline."
"Jack."
"You'll get soaked."
You smile, bright and softly. The same smile you've given frightened patients, overwhelmed residents, and grieving family members. You shrug, "It's rain."
His brow furrows, "You say that like hypothermia isn't a thing." You laugh at that, "I'm from the Philippines. Rain and I have a long-standing relationship."
"That's not remotely reassuring."
"It shouldn't be."
Jack shakes his head, but he's smiling now, which gives you a bit of peace. His eyes linger on you a second too long. Or maybe you're imagining it. You probably are—you usually are. Then you add quietly, "Besides, sometimes life is easier when you stop trying to avoid every uncomfortable thing."
Jack's expression softens, and you glance toward the rain. "Sometimes you just accept you're gonna get soaked and go home anyway." Neither of you says anything for a little bit. Because you both know that your words aren't really about the rain, neither of you acknowledges it. A laugh escapes him again, and he shakes his head, "You always have an answer for everything."
"No." You step backward toward the edge of the awning, and the cold rain immediately spatters against your scrub pants while you grin. "You just have to trust you'll be okay once you get there."
That gets another laugh out of him, the kind that reaches his eyes. You would do almost anything to keep hearing that sound. The umbrella remains clutched in his hand. Pink, ridiculous, and entirely yours. But for some reason, he can't stop staring at it. Or at you, standing in the rain, completely unapologetically yourself. No performance or hidden agenda. Only your kindness offered freely, as if giving away the only thing keeping you dry is the most natural decision in the world.
The thing is—Jack has spent years watching people take. Watching grief take, life and death take. And you...You are always giving… your time, your patience, and your terrible vending machine snacks. Your heart, if someone needed it badly enough. Now, it’s your umbrella.
Something warm twists unexpectedly inside of him, and he feels tingling all over his skin, as well as his mouth begins to dry. You lift a hand in farewell, "See you tomorrow, Dr. Abbot."
Then you turn and jog into the rain, water immediately drenches your hair, and you laugh when your shoe splashes into a puddle. You keep running anyway. While Jack just stands there—watching, until you disappear around the corner. Long after you're gone, he remains beneath the awning with your pink umbrella still hanging from his hand.
The rideshare app was forgotten entirely, and the rain pounded against the pavement as the morning traffic crawled by. For the first time in a very long time—the thought of going home doesn't feel quite as lonely. He looks down at the ridiculous little umbrella again. Then, despite himself, he smiles. Because somehow the damn thing feels exactly like you.
2025
NIGHTCLUB, PITTSBURGH — NIGHT
The music is loud enough to vibrate through your ribs. Honestly, you're having fun, a rare occurrence these days. Between night shifts and overtime and trying to maintain some semblance of a social life outside of the Pitt, opportunities to be a normal twenty-something are increasingly rare.
So when a few friends invited you out, you said yes. You danced, drank, and laughed. You let yourself forget about work for a few hours, and somewhere between your second drink and the realization that your feet hurt, you discovered a very important problem.
Your apartment keys were gone—completely vanished, you checked your purse three times. Your jacket pockets twice, then the bathroom counter, next the bar, and still nothing. Which is how you found yourself sitting in a booth near the back of the club with your phone pressed to your ear.
Waiting for Jack to answer.
He picks up on the second ring, "Everything okay?" You immediately relax, which is probably a problem. "Maybe."
Jack sighs, the sound of a man who has known you far too long, "What happened?" You look mournfully into your drink, "I lost my keys." A pause on the other end, and then, "You what?"
"They're gone."
"Lifeline."
"They disappeared."
"Keys don't disappear."
"They absolutely do."
The music swells around you, and someone screams happily near the dance floor. Through the phone, Jack suddenly goes quiet. He asks, "Where are you?"
You blink, "Huh?"
"Where are you?"
You frown, then glance up at the neon sign hanging over the bar, "Oh." You tell him the club's name. The silence on the other end lasts approximately two seconds before you hear him ask, "How are you getting home?"
You wave a hand vaguely despite the fact he can't see you, "M'gonna Uber." The words come out more slurred than intended. Silence... a long silence, then you hear him sigh, "Jesus Christ."
"It’s not that bad—"
"No."
You open your mouth to argue, but Jack beats you to it. "I'm picking you up." You immediately sober, exclaiming, "What?"
"Do not leave with anybody."
"Jack—"
"Do not get into a stranger's car."
"That's literally what Uber is." You throw back in response.
"Lifeline." The warning in his voice makes you sit up straighter. "I'm serious. Stay where you are."
"Jack—"
"I'm already grabbing my keys."
Your stomach flips unexpectedly as you point out, "You're working tomorrow."
"So are you."
"Jack."
His voice drops lower, gentler as he begs, "Please." And that ends the argument before it starts. You stare at your drink and reluctantly reply, "...Okay."
"Good." A beat and then you hear, "Don't hang up."
Twenty-five minutes later, Jack walks into the club and promptly forgets how to breathe, because he has never seen you like this before. At work, you're always in scrubs, with your hair pulled back, minimal makeup, and practical shoes.
Tonight—tonight you look nothing like the nurse who steals his coffee and argues with surgeons. Your hair is down, and your makeup catches the flashing lights every time you move. The outfit you're wearing should probably be illegal—at least that's what his traitorous brain immediately decides. Far too much skin and too beautiful—too distracting.
Jack stares for half a second too long, but then immediately hates himself for it. Because he's Jack and you're you. You're his friend, and he's forty-something years old and should absolutely know better. But the sudden realization that other people are staring at you, too, fills him with an entirely unreasonable amount of irritation. There are multiple reasons he hates that realization—none of them are good. You spot him immediately, and relief floods your face, "Jack!"
Somehow that's worse—because you're happy to see him, you always are. Jack pushes through the crowd toward your booth. He asks, "You okay?"
You grin, a little tipsy and a little tired, "Hi."
"That's not an answer."
"I lost my keys."
"You mentioned."
You immediately point at him, "I looked."
"I believe you."
"I looked everywhere."
Jack softens despite himself, "I know."
Just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The amount of trust you've placed in him over the years—it sneaks up on him sometimes, along with the amount he's placed in you. Neither of you ever talks about it—it's just simply there.
"Where are your friends?"
You blink.
"Oh."
You glance toward the dance floor, where your group has completely disappeared into the crowd. One of them is standing on a platform dancing with a stranger. Another appears to be attempting karaoke despite there being no karaoke machine. Honestly, nobody looks remotely concerned about your whereabouts. You point vaguely, "Over there." Jack follows your finger, and immediately regrets it. "Jesus."
You laugh, "They're having fun."
"They look like a liability."
"They are." A pause, then you smile warmly at him. The kind of smile that's become increasingly difficult for him to ignore lately.
"You ready to head home?" The question comes out gentler than he intended. Your expression softens immediately. "Mhm."
There’s no argument because the answer was always going to be yes. After all, it's him asking. Something in Jack's chest tightens unexpectedly. You climb out of the booth and wobble slightly when your heel catches on the edge of the floor. His hand is on your elbow before either of you thinks about it. It’s steady and instinctive—the contact lasts barely a second, but you both notice. Your eyes flick down to his hand, then back up to his face. Neither of you says anything, and Jack clears his throat first before he lets go, "You good?"
You nod immediately, "Mhm. Yep." Then point at him. "I need to go tell them I'm not being kidnapped by you."
The laugh that escapes him is helpless, "You go do that."
You grin, "Okay.” Before turning toward the dance floor, you lightly tap his arm. It’s a small gesture, mindless and affectionate. The kind of touch friends make without thinking. Yet Jack feels it long after you've disappeared into the crowd. He watches you weave through the dancers. Watch you throw your arms around one of your friends.
You laugh at something that makes your whole face light up, and standing there in the middle of a crowded nightclub, surrounded by strangers and flashing lights and music loud enough to shake the floor—Jack suddenly realizes he's smiling. He's smiling because you're happy and somewhere deep down, in a place he has been carefully avoiding for a very long time—he knows that's becoming a problem.
You weave your way through the crowd, dodging dancers and spilled drinks, until you finally find your friends near the center of the dance floor. One of them immediately grabs your arm, "There you are!" You laugh, "Apparently, I'm leaving."
"What?" another groans theatrically. "Already?"
You point toward the edge of the club—toward Jack. Standing near the entrance with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, waiting. The second your friends spot him, several heads swivel at once. Then all of them turn suspiciously slowly back toward you.
"Ohhh."
You immediately know that tone, you shake your head, "No."
"That's the doctor."
"No."
"The hot doctor."
You cover your face, "Oh my God." One of them leans closer, asking, "Is he your boyfriend?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Very."
"Because he definitely looks like he's here to pick up his girlfriend." Heat floods your face instantly, "No, he does not."
Across the room, Jack glances over, as if sensing he's being talked about. But when he spots you, his expression visibly relaxes. And unfortunately, your friends see that too. "Oh my God."
You groan, "Stop."
"He likes you."
"He does not."
"He drove here to rescue you from yourself."
"That's called friendship."
"That's called middle-aged pining." You nearly choke, "Please never say those words again."
Laughter follows you all the way back toward the entrance, and Jack looks mildly concerned the closer you get. "You okay?"
"Apparently not."
He narrows his eyes at your response, "What happened?"
"My friends are terrible people."
"Fair."
You point at him, "Don't encourage them."
"I'm not encouraging anybody."
"Liar."
The corner of his mouth twitches, and just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The simple fact that he's here has solved half the problem already. Then you take two steps toward the exit, but Jack is moving before he even thinks about it. One hand catches your elbow, and the other settles briefly at your waist, steadying you. The contact is innocent, but your breath catches anyway. It’s practical and necessary, at least that's what both of you tell yourselves.
"Whoa there." Jack says, and you blink up at him, then immediately start laughing, "I think the floor moved."
"The floor did not move."
"It absolutely moved."
"Lifeline."
"I'm just saying." Jack shakes his head, and his hand doesn't immediately leave your waist. Neither of you seems to notice. Or maybe both of you notice too much. "Come on."
You allow him to guide you outside, and the cool night air hits immediately. Rain lingers on the pavement, turning the streets into rivers of reflected neon. You inhale deeply, then sway again. Jack catches you before it becomes a problem. His hand settles more firmly against your side this time, and your body immediately relaxes into the contact like it's familiar.
Jack notices that too. "You good?" He asked, and you nod, "Mhm." A beat, and then you add, "The ground's still suspicious."
That earns a real laugh out of him, and you love that sound.
The parking lot isn't far, but Jack keeps his hand on your waist the entire walk there. Just in case… well, at least that's what he tells himself. Not because he likes the feeling of you beside him or how perfectly you fit there.
Just in case. That's all…. at least for tonight.
Jack sighs. The long-suffering sigh of a man who spends his life dealing with stubborn people. "Come on."
You allow him to guide you… well. at least until you nearly walk directly into a group of people entering the club. Jack catches your shoulder and redirects you gently, "Okay."
"What?"
His hand settles more firmly against your back, "Maybe we're graduating from independent walking." You gasp dramatically, "I am fully capable." But your words come out slightly slurred.
Jack raises an eyebrow, "You just tried to walk through three people."
"They were in my way."
A laugh escapes him. God. You're something truly special.
Now he has a new problem. Namely, getting you safely into his truck before you attempt something stupid.
The passenger-side door swings open, and you stare at it, then back at the seat. Jack immediately knows what's happening. "Need help?"
"No." A pause as you squint at the truck suspiciously. "Maybe."
"It's higher than it looked five seconds ago, isn't it?"
"It definitely wasn't this tall before."
Jack bites the inside of his cheek, hard, trying not to laugh.
"Okay."
Before you can protest, his firm hands settle at your waist, and suddenly you're being lifted just enough to get into the passenger seat. The whole thing takes maybe two seconds, except neither of you feels normal afterward. You freeze, and Jack also freezes. His hands are still on your waist, and you're looking directly at each other—far too close.
For a brief, dangerous moment, neither of you moves. Then Jack clears his throat, immediately stepping back. "Seatbelt."
Your brain takes several seconds to reboot, "What?"
"Seatbelt."
"Oh."
Of course, duh. You fumble with it and miss the buckle twice before Jack reaches over and clicks it into place. His face is suddenly very near again. Near enough to see the tiny scar near his jaw, and that your heart starts doing things it absolutely should not be doing. "There." His voice comes out lower than usual. You swallow, "Thanks."
Neither of you acknowledges how strange the moment felt and the warmth lingering where his hands had been. Or the way Jack has to grip the steering wheel a little tighter once he's behind it. Because some things are easier left alone. At least for now.
JACK ABBOT’S APARTMENT — NIGHT
The drive back to your apartment is quieter than the nightclub. The city has settled into that strange hour between night and morning, when the roads are mostly empty, and the traffic lights seem to change for no one. Rain taps softly against the windshield as Jack drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. You are attempting to stay awake. Attempting being the important word here. Every few minutes, your head tips toward the window before jerking upright again.
Jack notices every single time, "You can sleep."
"I'm not sleeping."
"You were asleep thirty seconds ago."
"I was thinking."
"You were drooling."
You gasp in offense, and Jack doesn't even look at you as he commands, "Go to sleep."
"You're mean." A laugh escapes him at your comment. He realizes that he’s been doing it a lot when he’s around you.
By the time you arrive at your apartment, you’re humming a song, trying to stay awake. Then Jack pats his pocket, and freezes when he realizes, "...Shit."
You blink, "What?" He closes his eyes, "I forgot your spare key." You stare, then immediately start laughing.
Jack groans, "Oh my God."
"You drove all the way there."
“Don’t.”
"You forgot the whole reason you picked me up."
"Don't."
Your laughter gets worse, and for the first time in years, Jack lets out a full belly laugh too. He begins to drive to his apartment, and since it’s late, he offers for you to crash at his place.
By the time he pulls into his apartment complex, you're visibly losing the fight against exhaustion and alcohol—mostly alcohol. The second you step through the front door, you kick your heels off exaggeratedly. One lands near the couch, and the other somehow ends up halfway down the hallway. Jack silently watches this happen. Then watches you attempt to unbuckle whatever complicated contraption is keeping your outfit together. "Okay," he says immediately.
"What?"
"Maybe let's not do that."
You frown at him, "Why?"
Because you're drunk—very drunk, and apparently completely unaware that you're standing in the middle of his apartment trying to peel yourself out of an outfit that has occupied far too much of his attention already. Jack suddenly finds the ceiling fascinating, the wall too. Actually, maybe the floor. Anywhere except you.
"Because," he says carefully, "you need pajamas."
"Oh." You consider this, then nod solemnly. "Pajamas are smart."
"Thank you."
"I am smart."
"You are." He nods, and you point at him, "I knew you'd agree."
Jack presses his lips together. God help him. Somehow, over the years, you've become one of his favorite people. A few minutes later, after much negotiation and several failed attempts to convince you that sleeping in sequins is a terrible idea, Jack disappears into his bedroom closet. He returns holding an old Army shirt—worn soft with age, the fabric faded from years of washing, along with a pair of boxers. You stare, then grin. "These yours?" Jack immediately regrets everything, "Yes."
"Cool."
Then, before he can stop you—you start changing.
"Jesus Christ."
You blink, "What?"
Jack is staring firmly at the opposite wall. "You could've warned me."
"Why?"
Because you're still drunk enough that embarrassment hasn't caught up with you yet. Meanwhile, Jack is discovering entirely new levels of self-control.
"Bathroom," he says.
"Right." You pause, then gesture wildly. "The bathroom."
"Correct."
Five minutes later, you emerge wearing the oversized shirt. The hem brushes your thighs while sleeves hang past your hands. The sight nearly kills him, because you look comfortable—like you belong here. Which is a thought he immediately shoves into a locked box and throws into the ocean. Nope. Not touching that. Absolutely not. That’s reserved for a future therapy session. Boy, is his therapist going to love that.
"Sit."
You immediately sit on the edge of his bed.
"Drink."
You obediently accept the water bottle, and Jack blinks, "That's new."
"What?"
"You listened."
You point at him, "You're bossy."
"Drink the water."
You drink the water, then he hands you a spare toothbrush and makes sure you actually use it. Then spends several minutes making certain you don't accidentally fall asleep face-first into the sink. By the time he's satisfied you're hydrated and functional enough not to accidentally die overnight, you're sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed, wrapped in one of his old shirts and looking increasingly sleepy.
You dig through your purse. "There are makeup wipes in here."
Jack pauses, asks, "You carry those around?"
"My eyeliner smudges." You shrug. "My mascara too."
Jack shakes his head, "Prepared for everything."
"It's literally why we carry purses."
"Pretty sure that's not why."
"It absolutely is."
He finds the packet eventually and pulls one free, then gestures to you, "Come here." You blink, dazed, "What?"
"Your mascara's halfway down your face."
Well, that’s fucking mortifying—immediately you cover your face, "Oh my God." Jack laughs softly; the sound is low and warm. "You're fine."
"No, I'm not."
"You really are."
Gently, he pulls your hand away and carefully brushes the wipe across your cheek. His touch is light, patient, and unhurried. The same hands that place chest tubes and suture wounds and perform procedures under pressure somehow become impossibly gentle. They always do around people he cares about. You go strangely still, and the room suddenly feels too quiet and small. Jack is close enough that the details become impossible to ignore. The silver was woven through his hair. The exhaustion that never quite leaves his eyes. The traces of loss he carries with him even now. And still, despite all of it—or maybe because of it—he remains devastatingly, painfully beautiful.
"You've done this before." The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.
Jack's hand stills briefly, then resumes. "Mmm." His voice is soft, a little distant. "She hated taking her makeup off."
The ache arrives instantly—it’s deep and familiar.
"She'd fall asleep on the couch." A small smile touches his mouth. "Every time." His gaze drops to the wipe in his hand, "Eventually, it was easier to do it myself."
A tender silence settles over the room, and suddenly your eyes sting. Because even now—all these years later—he still misses her. Of course he does, he always will.
"Jack." He looks up, and you swallow hard. "I'm sorry."
His hand pauses, and he asks, "For what?"
Your throat tightens painfully, "I know you miss her." The words come out small, but completely honest, and are barely above a whisper. Jack looks at you, and what he sees nearly unravels him. Because you're crying for him—not for yourself, or because you're drunk. You're crying because his pain hurts you. Because somehow you've always carried pieces of everyone else's heartbreak as if it belongs to you too.
A tear slips down your cheek, and before you can wipe it away, Jack reaches up, his thumb tenderly brushes gently across your skin.
The touch lingers slightly.
"Hey." His voice is impossibly soft, "Don't cry, honey."
The endearment slips out before he can stop it. The second it does, the room changes. Your breath catches, and Jack freezes. Neither of you moves. For one suspended second, the entire world narrows to that single point of contact. His hand against your cheek, your eyes locked on his. The silence between you is suddenly filled with things neither of you knows how to say. Then Jack does the only thing he can think of—he opens his arms, and you go willingly. The hug is immediate, warm, and safe. Your forehead presses against his shoulder, and his strong arms wrap around you while you melt into him without hesitation. Trusting him completely, the way you always have. Fuck—that might be the most dangerous thing of all. For a moment, neither of you lets go, because none of you wants to. Jack can feel your heartbeat through the thin cotton of his shirt and feel your breathing gradually slowing. He can feel himself becoming far too aware of how perfectly you fit against him.
He closes his eyes for a second.
A mistake.
Because the truth waits for him there—the truth that somewhere along the way, you stopped being just his friend and just his favorite nurse. Stopped being just the person he trusted most and became something he doesn't know what to do with.
Eventually, your breathing evens out. Then slows….then slows again. Jack glances down and realizes you've fallen asleep curled against him. Carefully, he shifts and lowers you onto the bed, pulls the blanket over you, and tucks it beneath your shoulder. The motion is automatic, and for a moment, guilt rises sharp and sudden. Not because you remind him of his late wife. You don't, and you never have. You never will. But somehow that realization doesn't hurt. It simply feels true. You are different—entirely your own person. Entirely your own place in his life. Jack stands there for a long moment, watching you sleep peacefully. Then quietly, he reaches for his crutches resting beside the nightstand.
The apartment is dark now, silent, as he pauses at the doorway, looks back one last time, at you sleeping in his bed. Wrapped in his shirt, breathing softly against his pillow, and despite every effort not to—Jack smiles. Then he switches off the light and heads toward the couch. Completely unaware that he's already fallen far deeper than he ever intended to.
JACK ABBOT'S APARTMENT — MORNING
The first thing you notice when you wake up is that you're comfortable. Suspiciously comfortable. Wrapped in sheets that smell faintly of clean laundry and something familiar you can't quite place. For a few blissful seconds, you remain exactly where you are, half-buried beneath the blankets, eyes still closed. Then your brain starts working slowly… like an old computer booting up. Your mouth is dry, your head hurts, and you have absolutely no idea where the hell you are.
You crack one eye open, and a ceiling you don't recognize stares back. Your stomach immediately drops. "Oh no."
Then the memories start returning. The nightclub, losing your keys, calling Jack… Jack picking you up. The drive to his apartment, the makeup wipes, and the hug. Oh God. The hug.
Your eyes fly open, fully awake now. Mortification floods your entire body with terrifying speed. "No, no, no, no..."
You immediately bury your face in your hands. Maybe if you stay here long enough, you'll evaporate, and the earth will open up and swallow you whole. Maybe cardiac arrest—you'd accept cardiac arrest. Slowly, you peek out from between your fingers, and a glass of water sits on the nightstand. Beside it is a bottle of ibuprofen and a neatly folded note in Jack's handwriting.
Drink water before standing up.
Your heart does something deeply unhelpful as you groan, "Oh, my God."
Because that's such a Jack thing to do, he’s practical, thoughtful, and annoyingly sweet. You whimper and flop backward onto the pillow.
Unfortunately, reality remains—and reality is that you are currently in Jack Abbot's bed. His bed—his actual bed, the place where he sleeps. The place where—You immediately shove that thought into a dumpster and set it on fire. Nope. Absolutely not. Not going there.
You drag yourself upright before your imagination can make things worse. The oversized Army shirt hanging off your shoulders shifts as you move. Your eyes immediately drop. Jack's shirt. You are wearing Jack's shirt. You consider throwing yourself out of the nearest window.
The bathroom is somehow worse. Because now you're sober, fully sober. Which means you remember everything… mostly. You splash cold water onto your face repeatedly. Trying to wash away the embarrassment and the memory of crying. The image of him calling you honey and you falling asleep against him.
"Oh, I'm never recovering from this." You groan into the sink before you force yourself to look in the mirror. You survive trauma shifts and twelve-hour nights. You went through fucking COVID. So… you can survive breakfast. Probably.
After one final pep talk that accomplishes absolutely nothing, you step out of the bathroom and immediately stop. A framed photograph sits atop the dresser, Jack and his wife, both smiling. The picture looks old, well-loved, the edges slightly worn. Guilt arrives like a punch to the ribs. Because no matter how much time has passed, she's still here. In photographs, memories, and the quiet spaces, he doesn't talk about. You stare at the picture for a moment longer, then look away. The guilt lingers anyway.
The smell hits you before you reach the living room. Coffee, eggs, and toast, along with something frying in a pan. Your stomach growls traitorously, then you turn the corner, and nearly walk directly into a wall. Because Jack is standing at the stove, shirtless. You stop functioning completely. Gone. No thoughts. Head empty. Just panic. Because somehow, in all the years you've known him, you've never actually seen him like this.
At work, he's always covered by scrubs, layers, a jacket, and PPE. Now—now he's standing barefoot in his kitchen wearing nothing but athletic shorts and his prosthetic. Morning sunlight spills through the apartment windows. Across broad shoulders, freckled skin, and muscle earned through years of physical therapy, stubbornness, and sheer determination. The prosthetic is already attached as part of him, as familiar and unremarkable as breathing. You know the story and what happened, and understand now the work it takes to live with it.
Still—seeing him outside the hospital feels strangely intimate, and very human. Your jaw nearly hits the floor as Jack turns. He immediately catches your expression, and to his eternal satisfaction, you look horrified. Not by him, but by being caught staring. His mouth twitches, "Morning."
You blink once, then twice, and you begin rapidly looking anywhere else.
"Morning." Your voice cracks. Well, that’s spectacular. Jack's eyebrow rises, "Rough landing?" You clear your throat. "Oh, absolutely."
His smile grows slightly. "There are worse hangovers."
"Don't."
"You called me at midnight because you lost your keys."
"Jack."
"You accused the floor of moving."
"Jack."
"You tried to negotiate with a coat rack."
Your eyes widen as you sputter, "I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"Oh my fucking God."
Jack laughs—there it is again, a little lighter than it used to be. "Come eat." You hesitate, still standing awkwardly in his shirt, and painfully aware you're in his apartment—his space. Then Jack glances over his shoulder, "You need food before your headache gets worse."
There it is. His doctor voice—the one that brooks absolutely no argument. You sigh dramatically and obey. Because apparently that's become a habit. Jack places a plate in front of you. Eggs, toast, fruit, and a giant glass of water.
You stare, and then at him, then back at the plate, "You made breakfast."
"You sound surprised."
"You made breakfast."
"You were hungover." You blink because he says it so simply, as if taking care of you is the most natural thing in the world, and maybe that's what gets you. It's how easy it seems for him—the quiet way he shows up. Again, and again. So instead of saying any of that, you pick up a piece of toast. "Thanks." Jack glances up from his coffee, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. "Anytime, Lifeline."
You lower your gaze quickly and focus on your breakfast instead. Unfortunately, that only makes things worse because now you're sitting at Jack's dining table, in Jack's apartment—wearing Jack's shirt.
Eating breakfast, he made for you. The domesticity of it settles wrong inside your conscience. Not because you or him have done anything wrong. But because it feels like you're standing in a place that once belonged to someone else. Your eyes drift toward the bookshelf across the room. A framed photograph sits among the books, showing Jack and his late wife. They’re smiling and happy.
The familiar guilt immediately curls around your throat. You look away, and your appetite suddenly harder to find. Jack notices and asks, "You okay?"
You force a smile, "Mhm." Jack raises an eyebrow. The same look he gives patients who claim their pain is a three out of ten while actively dying. "Lifeline."
You sigh at being caught, again. "It's stupid."
"If you're saying that, it probably isn't."
The concern in his voice makes the guilt worse. You stare down at your plate, picking apart a piece of toast. "You've done so much for me."
Jack frowns immediately, "Okay."
"And I kind of crashed into your life last night."
His confusion visibly increases as he points out the obvious, "You lost your keys."
"I know."
"You called me."
"I know."
Jack waits as you groan softly because this sounds ridiculous out loud. "It just feels like I'm imposing."
Jack's expression softens as he says, "Lifeline." You hate it when he says your nickname like that—as if he's trying to talk you down from something.
"You are not imposing."
You look away, stubbornly mutter, "Still."
"No." His answer comes immediately.
You glance up, and Jack is looking directly at you now. Completely serious. "You called because you needed help. That's what people do."
"But—"
"It's not a burden."
You open your mouth; however, Jack cuts you off again. "You would've done the same thing for me."
And unfortunately—he's right. You would've, without hesitation. At three in the morning, or in the middle of a thunderstorm. Without a second thought.
Jack sees the realization cross your face. A faint smile touches the corner of his mouth.
"Exactly."
You look back down at your plate, suddenly embarrassed. Because he's making it sound so simple. Meanwhile, your brain is spiraling. You risk a glance upward and immediately regret it. Because Jack is leaning against the counter. Coffee mug in hand. Morning sunlight spilling through the kitchen windows behind him. Now that you're sober, you're trying very hard not to notice things. Like the freckles scattered across his shoulders. Or the way years of physical therapy and hospital shifts have built quiet strength into him. Maybe the fact that he looks unfairly good for someone standing barefoot in his kitchen at eight in the morning. Your eyes immediately dart back to your eggs because you’re a coward.
"So." Jack takes another sip of coffee. The amusement in his voice is impossible to miss. "You gonna keep staring at your breakfast like it’s inedible?"
You nearly choke, "What?"
"The eggs."
"Oh." Your face feels suspiciously warm. "They're intimidating."
Jack stares at you, then laughs.
Somehow and somewhere along the way, Jack stopped being your soulmate, the impossible person at the end of a red string, and became Jack. The man who remembers your coffee order, and the one who checked on you when you had COVID, who keeps spare electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at taking care of yourself. The man who made you breakfast because you were hungover, and the man who still loves his wife. The guilt returns instantly. You glance toward the photograph again. Jack follows your gaze this time. His expression changes subtly. The smile faded into something quieter, more thoughtful. Neither of you says anything for a moment. The apartment settles into a small, comfortable, sad silence. The kind that comes from old grief that never fully disappears. Finally, you clear your throat. "I'm sorry."
Jack immediately looks confused. "For what?" You gesture vaguely around the apartment. "Sleeping in your room." His expression somehow becomes even more confused. "Lifeline."
"I'm serious."
"Why?"
You stare at him, "Because it's your room."
"Correct."
"And your bed."
"Also correct."
You narrow your eyes because Jack is enjoying this. The asshole. "Jack."
"What?"
"I feel bad."
His expression softens immediately into a quiet gentleness. "It's fine." He replied. You shake your head, "But—"
"No." His voice is calm. "I wasn't going to wake you up so you could sleep on the couch." You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. You try to rebut, "But—" Jack points toward your coffee, "You would've fallen asleep sitting upright."
"That's not true."
"It absolutely is."
"It happened one time."
"It happened three times."
"Allegedly."
Jack laughs into his coffee, and for a moment, just a moment, the guilt eases. Because he's looking at you like you're welcome here. As if your presence isn't an intrusion or that helping you wasn't an obligation. It was just something he wanted to do. That realization follows you for the rest of breakfast. Maybe that's why loving him has always felt so dangerous. It's the spare apartment key he keeps on his keyring. The electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at remembering to drink water. The bottle of ibuprofen is waiting on the nightstand before you even wake up. The way he remembers—he doesn't even realize he's doing it.
Eventually, breakfast ends, and you help carry plates to the sink despite Jack's protests. "I'm perfectly capable of washing a plate."
"I know."
"You sounded doubtful."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
Jack rolls his eyes, and you grin.
For a moment, it feels normal. As if this is something the two of you do all the time. Then Jack glances toward the hallway. "I should shower."
Your eyes immediately dart away.
Why are you suddenly embarrassed? You've seen this man covered in blood during trauma activations, and somehow, showering is what's awkward.
"Okay." Jack nods, then pauses, a small frown appearing. "You don't have clothes."
You blink, "Oh." You hadn't actually thought that far ahead. Your club outfit is currently somewhere in the apartment and likely smells like spilled alcohol, perfume, and poor decisions.
Jack disappears down the hallway before you can offer a solution. A moment later he returns carrying a pair of gray sweatpants and another shirt. You immediately recognize the Army logo faded across the front. "Here."
You stare at him, then back at the clothes. "I can't take your clothes."
"You're already wearing my clothes." Unfortunately, he has a point. You glance down at the oversized shirt hanging off your shoulders. Jack's mouth twitches, "The sweats have a drawstring."
"Oh, good."
"They should fit."
"Should?"
"Mostly." You narrow your eyes, but Jack looks entirely unapologetic. "You can keep the shirt." Your heart immediately forgets how to function, breathless, "What?" Jack casually shrugs, "It's old." You can’t fucking breathe, so you settle for, "Oh."
The thought of keeping it, taking it home, and sleeping in it. Smelling his laundry detergent every time you wear it is incredibly intimate. "Thanks."
Across his expression is as soft as his response, "You're welcome." Then he gestures toward the hallway. "I'm gonna shower."
You nod, "Okay."
"The shower chair's in my bathroom, so I'll be in there awhile." The statement is matter-of-fact and unremarkable. The same way he always talks about it. Not because it doesn't matter. But because Jack long ago learned there was no point treating every accommodation like a tragedy. It's simply part of his life—part of him. You nod again, "Take your time."
Jack studies you for a second; he's checking for lingering hangover symptoms. Then apparently decides you'll survive. "I'll drive you home after."
"Sounds good." You agree. There’s a pause before Jack says, "Try not to break anything while I'm gone." Your gasp is immediate, "Rude."
"I know you."
"You wound me."
Jack laughs, then walks down the hallway. A few moments later, you hear the bathroom door close. The apartment becomes quiet—the one that only exists in the homes of people who live alone. You wander slowly—absolutely not snooping. You were observing, there's a difference. The apartment itself feels like Jack. Comfortable, practical, and unpretentious. Bookshelves line one wall of the living room. Medical textbooks, military history, and novels with dog-eared pages. A few framed photographs scattered throughout the apartment—friends, coworkers, and people who matter.
You pause near one shelf. A photograph sits there. Jack and his late wife, when they were younger, were laughing. The picture caught in the middle of a moment rather than a pose. She has her head tipped toward him, and Jack is looking at her like she hung the moon.
Your stomach lurches. Because even now—years later—she still belongs here. Of course she does. This was their home, their life. You gently set the frame back exactly where you found it. Suddenly feeling like an intruder again, your gaze drifts around the apartment. There are signs of her everywhere if you know where to look. It isn’t overwhelming or frozen in time. There’s a photograph, a ceramic mug, and a framed postcard tucked between books. Evidence that she existed, and you hate yourself a little. Because standing here, wrapped in Jack's clothes, waiting for him to finish showering, part of you wishes things were different. Part of you wishes you weren't standing in the aftermath of someone else's great love story. The guilt settles heavily, along with the red string hidden beneath your sleeve. You glance toward the hallway, and the sound of running water. Toward the man you've loved for years. Because no matter how badly you want him—you've never wanted to replace her. Not for a second. Never. You just...wanted him to be happy, even if it was never with you.
The drive back to your apartment is quiet, but not uncomfortable. You sit curled into the passenger seat, your folded dress resting on your lap alongside your heels. The sleeves of Jack's old Army shirt hang past your wrists, and the sweatpants are too big with the drawstring pulled tight enough to keep them from falling. You feel ridiculous, like a child playing dress-up. Outside the window, Pittsburgh drifts by in shades of gray. You keep your eyes fixed on it. Because every time you glance at Jack, your heart hurts. Especially after last night… the makeup wipes, the hug, his hand on your face, honey. You don't trust yourself anymore, not even a little. Beside you, Jack steals another glance. You're unusually quiet, and that alone is enough to make him nervous. Normally, even hungover, you'd be talking, making terrible jokes, or complaining about your headache.
Instead, you're staring out the window like you're already somewhere else. His fingers tighten slightly on the steering wheel as he asks, "You okay?" You nod immediately, humming, "Mhm."
A lie that Jack recognizes instantly, but he lets it go for now. When he finally pulls up in front of your apartment building, neither of you moves immediately. The truck idles softly as silence stretches, then you suddenly unbuckle. Before Jack can process what's happening, you lean across the center console and wrap your arms around him. The hug catches him completely off guard, and for a moment, he freezes. Then instinct takes over. His arms come around you automatically. Your face presses briefly against his shoulder. Jack's heart does something strange and painful. Because it feels like goodbye, and he has absolutely no idea why.
"Hey." His voice comes out softer than intended. You squeeze him once before you let go, because if you hold on any longer, you won't be able to leave.
"Thanks," you whisper. Your eyes sting immediately, but you force a smile anyway. "For everything." The words shouldn't sound final, but they do. "Anytime, honey." The endearment slips out effortlessly and naturally now. Neither of you acknowledges it. Jack studies your face, trying to figure out what's wrong, to understand why you suddenly look like you're trying not to cry. So he asks carefully, "I'll see you later at work, yeah?"
Your throat tightens while you nod. "Mhm." It's not technically a lie. The second you step out of the truck, you don't look back. You can't. Because if you do, you'll stay. So you practically run inside your apartment building.
Leaving Jack staring after you, confused, worried, and somehow strangely unsettled.
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — DAY
Dana and Lena listen quietly. The three of you sit in an empty conference room before shift change. You make it approximately halfway through your explanation before you start crying. Not graceful tears, pretty tears, but the ugly kind. The tears you've spent years swallowing, "I'm sorry."
Dana immediately reaches for you, "Hey." You shake your head, "I'm sorry."
"Hon." Dana rubs circles against your back, her voice gentle, maternal. "Why are you apologizing?" You laugh through your tears because the answer feels obvious and impossible. "Because I'm in love with him."
The room falls silent as Lena and Dana exchange a glance. A look. One that says they already knew. Everyone always knows except the people involved. "It's just for a little while," you whisper while you wipe furiously at your face. "I just need some space." Dana's expression softens. She asks, "And what about your heart?"
That's the problem, isn't it? Your heart—your stupid, stubborn heart. You stare down at your hands, "Until it relearns how to stop beating for him." Then quietly you hear Lena ask, "So you're not gonna tell him?" You shake your head immediately, "I can't."
Because how do you tell someone that you've been tethered to them for seven years? That you've loved them through a marriage, grief, and loss. Through healing. How do you tell someone that? Especially when he never chose you. So you don't.
THREE DAYS LATER…
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
Three days later, Jack notices immediately, the second he walks into the ED, you're gone. No coffee sitting beside your workstation and sarcastic comments from Central—there’s no you. He finds Lena first and asks, "Where is she?" Lena doesn't even look up from her charting, "Where's who?” Jack stares, "Lifeline."
"Oh." She clicks something on her computer. "Day shift." His stomach drops, "What?"
"She switched."
"When?" Lena shrugs at him, "A few days ago."
Jack blinks slowly. "Why?"
"Ask Dana." Suddenly, Lena becomes very interested in her chart.
A week passes, then two, and Jack begins losing his mind. Because you are avoiding him, deliberately and aggressively. You leave before he arrives, or arrive before he leaves. You disappear down hallways and take lunch at different times. Find literally any excuse not to be alone with him. The few times he manages to catch sight of you—you smile and wave.
Then vanish again, like smoke, as if you're afraid of him, and that hurts. Because Jack keeps replaying that night. The club, his apartment, the hug, and the morning after. What did he miss? What did he do? Did he cross a line? Did he make you uncomfortable? Did he somehow ruin the one friendship he can't bear to lose? Every answer leads nowhere, and every day you drift a little farther away. Three weeks later, during shift change, Jack finally spots you. Walking quickly through the corridor, badge swinging from the clip of your scrub pocket, and iced coffee in hand.
He immediately changes direction. "Lifeline." You freeze for a second, then keep walking. Fuck. Jack follows and calls after you, "Lifeline." Your pace somehow gets faster, and now he's genuinely irritated and hurt. "Hey."
Finally, you stop, turning around, with a careful smile already in place, too careful. But not him, never him, not until now. "Hi, Jack." The distance between you feels enormous as he asks, "What is going on?" Nothing. Everything. You force a shrug, "Nothing."
That’s bullshit, and Jack knows it's bullshit. You know he knows, but neither of you says it. Then somebody calls your name from down the hallway, and relief floods your face at escaping him. The realization dawns on him like a punch.
"I gotta go."
"Lifeline—"
"See you around." Then you're gone, again. Practically running.
That's when it happens—Jack stares after you, heart pounding, confused, angry, and hurt. Suddenly—pain flares around his wrist. It’s sharp and hot. He physically flinches, "What the—"
A red thread appears beneath his skin, bright and impossible, but all too real. Jack freezes as the world tilts. No. No. No. The string winds itself slowly around his wrist. As it has always belonged there, it was simply waiting.
His breath catches because he knows what it is; everybody knows what it is. His pulse begins hammering. The thread stretches down the hallway, past nurses, residents, and stretchers, straight toward—You. Jack stumbles, his hand slamming against the wall to keep himself upright as the hallway blurs and his vision tunnels.
No. No, that's impossible. His heart pounds so hard it hurts. The red string glows softly between his wrist and yours, unbroken. Years… all these years. Every conversation, every shift, every cup of coffee, and every moment. Every time you'd looked at him and then looked away, or when you'd disappeared when things became too close. All the times you'd chosen distance. The truth crashes into him all at once. You knew. Oh God. You knew, and somewhere down the hallway—completely unfazed—you kept walking.
While Jack stands frozen in place, one hand braced against the wall, staring at the impossible thread connecting him to the woman he's been desperately trying not to admit he's fallen in love with.
2025
6:00 PM
PTMC, CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY
The emergency department shifts from busy to catastrophic in less than thirty seconds. One moment, people are charting the next—every television screen in the department lights up with breaking news.
There’s an active shooter at PittFest—mass casualty incident. Every healthcare worker in the room recognizes it instantly. The moment before impact… before disaster arrives.
"Hey, what's going on?" McKay asks.
Robby strides into Central, already moving and planning. Carrying the weight of what is coming. "Mass casualty at PittFest."
Samira looks up sharply, "How many victims?"
"We don't know." Robby's face is grim. "Expect the worst.” A terrible silence settles, while someone else immediately reaches for a phone. "Did the police find David?" McKay asks. Robby shakes his head, then raises his voice, "Okay, everybody, listen up."
Every head turns to pay attention to Robby.
"There is an active shooter at PittFest. As the nearest trauma center, we are going to be getting the majority of the victims." The room goes completely still. "We don't know yet how many we're getting, but we are instituting hospital-wide emergency protocols. We need to move every patient out of here. Either home, upstairs, or Family Medicine. Call your loved ones now if you need to."
Robby glances toward the windows, toward the city. Towards the disaster unfolding somewhere beyond it. "I can guarantee cell service will soon be overwhelmed. Eat something. Stay hydrated. Use the bathroom while there's time and meet back here for a full briefing in five minutes."
Then his gaze lands on someone entering through the ambulance bay doors, relief flashes across his face.
"Brother." Robby exhales. "I'm so fucking glad to see you." Jack, carrying his backpack and wearing his black scrubs, briefly hugs Robby, "Heard it on the scanner."
Jack drops his bag onto a workstation. "How many are we expecting?"
"I don't know." Robby's expression darkens. "But it doesn't sound good."
After placing his things down, Jack looks up directly at you. The breath leaves your lungs. Already focused entirely on you.
Your stomach drops. Oh no. No. No. No. He knows. The realization slams into you so hard it feels physical. You don't know how or when. But something in his expression tells you immediately.
He knows about the string—your secret. The thing you've spent seven years burying. Your pulse begins hammering, and blood rushes up to your ears. Across Central, Jack doesn't look away; his jaw flexes, hard, angry. You know that look—you've seen it directed at negligent parents, reckless drivers, people who made choices that hurt others.
Five minutes. That's all you have before the briefing. Before the entire hospital erupts into chaos. Apparently five minutes is all Jack needs. The second he catches you alone, a hand closes firmly around your elbow. "Lifeline." You freeze, your heart immediately dropping into your stomach. "Jack—"
"We need to talk." The words come out low and controlled. He steers you toward an empty supply room. A narrow space lined with IV fluids and sterile procedure kits. The door swings shut behind you, and the silence is deafening.
You turn toward him, trying to keep your face neutral, and completely fall apart. "What's going on?" The question sounds pathetic even to your own ears. Jack stares, and for a moment, he says nothing. Which makes everything worse, because his eyes are furious.
Furious at being hurt and at being lied to. At realizing something important happened without him knowing. His jaw clenches, "You knew." Your vision immediately blurs, "Jack—"
"You knew." The repetition is softer, devastated. You feel your tears threatening already.
"Don't." Your voice cracks. "Don't look at me like that." Something flashes across his face—pain, but then anger returns to cover it. "So what was the plan?" His words come out sharp.
"Jack—"
"What?" His voice rises, years of confusion finally boiling over. "What were you doing?"
You flinch, and Jack immediately hates himself for it, but he can't stop, not now. "Were you just waiting?" The accusation hangs between you, ugly, unfair, and born entirely from hurt. "Were you waiting for your chance?"
Your eyes widen as the tears come instantly, and suddenly you're angry too. Years of restraint snap all at once.
"No." The word echoes off the walls. "No." You step toward him, furious, heartbroken, and shaking.
"I buried it." Your voice breaks. "I buried every part of it." Jack freezes as you keep going, "You don't get to stand there and act like I wanted this." The tears are falling freely now. It’s hot and humiliating. "I buried every chance of loving you so deep I could barely breathe around it."
The room goes silent as Jack stares while you choke on the next words, because they're true, every single one. "I buried my wanting for you." Your voice cracks again. "And don't you dare accuse me of waiting." The anger disappears, leaving only raw, ancient grief. "You don't get to accuse me of that when I respected it."
Jack's face changes back to confusion and regret. But you're not finished, "I respected her." The words nearly destroy you while you wipe at your face, failing miserably. "I respected both of you."
A photograph flashes through your mind. Then she laughed in the department, bringing Jack lunch, loving him. Being loved by him, the woman you'd genuinely cared about. The woman who had never done anything except be kind to you.
"She was brilliant." You laugh bitterly as another tear slips free. "Beautiful. And I knew I'd never measure up."
Jack physically recoils, as if you'd struck him. "What?" The word comes out strangled. You look away because you can't bear seeing his face. "I know that."
"No." Pain flashes across his expression. "No, you don't." You laugh again, broken, "I do." Then quietly, you add, "The first time I saw the end of the string." Jack goes completely still at your admission.
"The first time I saw it unfinished." Your voice drops, barely above a whisper. "I knew I was going to lose you either way."
Silence—absolute silence. Jack feels like the floor has vanished beneath him, because suddenly, he understands. All those years, smiles, retreats, your careful boundaries. How you'd chosen distance instead of possibility. You weren't waiting. You were grieving the entire time.
The supply room door suddenly swings open, and Robby appears, already halfway through speaking. "Abbot, I need—"
Then he stops, immediately, because you're crying, and Jack looks wrecked. The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.
"...Whoa." Robby looks between both of you a few times, then decides he absolutely does not want whatever this is. "What the hell is—"
You move first, past Robby and Jack. Past all of it. Your shoulder brushes the doorframe as you leave. You don't stop, and can’t look back. Because if you do, you'll fall apart. While Jack just stands there, watching you go, understanding too late. For the first time in seven years, understanding exactly how much it must have hurt. Then, somewhere outside the room—an overhead page sounds. The first ambulances are arriving, signaling that the mass casualty has begun. However, the conversation isn't over. Not even close.
7:00 PM
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
All at once, the emergency department is already overflowing. Trauma bays filled, hallways lined with stretchers, and blood smeared across floors that Environmental Services doesn't have time to clean. The overhead speakers haven't stopped paging for nearly twenty minutes. Victims keep coming. Gunshot wounds, shrapnel injuries, and crush injuries from the stampede that followed.
The air feels thick with adrenaline and fear. Every single person in the department is running on instinct, training, and experience.
You haven't looked at Jack since the supply room, not really. You can feel him occasionally, like a gravitational force somewhere at the edge of your awareness. A pull you refuse to acknowledge. Every time your eyes accidentally find his across Central, you immediately look away. You don't have the luxury of falling apart right now, because people are dying, you know that, and so does Jack.
So, whatever happened between you has been shoved aside by necessity.
"Let's go!" Langdon's voice cuts through the noise. Another victim on a gurney in Central. Male, approximately late twenties, multiple injuries, semi-conscious, and blood soaking through his shirt. Samira immediately moves to the stretcher, "Who do you have?"
"Semi-conscious. Responds only to pain. Decent carotid."
"Strip him." Mateo reaches for trauma shears, and so does Tim, "Let's go." The team descends immediately, beginning to cut clothing, assessing injuries, checking his airway, and breathing. Everything is moving with practiced efficiency. Then—something feels wrong. You don't know why, it’s just a feeling. A prickling sensation along the back of your neck.
The patient suddenly jerks, and the nurses yelp. A hand disappears beneath the shredded remains of his shirt. Langdon freezes, then shouts. "Whoa!" Everything happens at once.
"Gun!" The word detonates through Central. "Gun! He's going for his gun!"
Every person in the room reacts instantly; some hit the floor, and others dive behind workstations. The patient somehow manages to yank a handgun free. His eyes are wild, disoriented, and terrified. The muzzle swings wildly across the room and lands directly toward Robby and Jack.
Time slows for you as you watch. Later, you'll never be able to explain why you moved, whether it was instinct, training, love… or something much darker. A part of you wonders if maybe you were simply tired—tired of carrying this, of loving him, maybe of being afraid. You never figure it out, because your body moves before your brain does.
One second, you're standing near Central, the next you're running.
The gun fires, and the sound is deafening. A violent crack that echoes through the department. For one suspended moment—nobody moves or breathes. Then pain explodes through you, white-hot, blinding.
You stagger as your knees immediately buckle while the floor rushes upward. Somewhere nearby, people are screaming while others are shouting for security. The world becomes noise, blurred shapes, blood—too much blood. Then, you hear Jack scream your name, and it tears straight out of him. Raw, animal, nothing like you've ever heard before. The resident beside him barely has time to react before Jack is already moving. He’s running—ignoring everyone and everything. None of it matters, not anymore. Because you're on the floor, and you're bleeding. Suddenly, the worst thing Jack has ever imagined is happening right in front of him.Again.
He drops to his knees beside you, not caring that his stump is aching, hands immediately searching, assessing, locating the wound, trying to stop the bleeding while SWAT restrains the man who shot you. His trauma training takes over automatically, even while the rest of him is breaking apart.
"Pressure!" Somebody throws him gauze, Jack slams it hard against the wound. Too much blood—so much fucking blood, and the sight makes his stomach turn. "No."
Your vision swims, and you can barely focus. But somehow—somehow—Jack is all you see. Always him, maybe it was always going to be him. His face is pale, terrified—more terrified than you've ever seen him, and somehow that hurts worse than the bullet.
You manage a weak laugh, and blood touches your lips. Jack immediately hates the sound, "Don't." Your eyes find his, and for the first time in years, you stop hiding. "It was painful."
Jack freezes, "Lifeline—"
"When you looked at me." Your voice trembles, blood continues soaking through the gauze. "When you smiled at me."
"No." His hands shake, just slightly, but you feel it. "When you believed in me." Tears blur your vision. "It hurt."
Jack's face completely crumples because now he understands all of it.
"It tore me apart." The words barely make it out, and an unfiltered sob escapes him. Because you're dying, and he just found you. He spent seven years standing beside you without seeing it. "No." His voice breaks. "No, no, no."
Someone is calling for Trauma One and bringing a stretcher. The department is moving around him. But Jack doesn't care, because the world has narrowed to you—only you.
"I just got you." The words rip from his throat, his eyes shine, desperate, furious, and every bit terrified. "I just got you." Your breath catches. You love him, you always will. So maybe—maybe honesty won't kill you now. "I love you."
Jack closes his eyes, as if the words physically hurt. You smile weakly, doubling down, "I love you, Jack Abbot."
Silence for a moment, then, firmly, "No." The answer comes instantly, violently, as if he's rejecting reality itself. "No." His forehead presses briefly against yours. "You're not doing this."
Tears slide down his face, but he doesn't even notice. "You hear me?" His voice cracks. "You're not doing this to me."
The stretcher arrives, and Robby appears, blood on his gloves. Panic hidden beneath professionalism. "Jack." Nothing… Jack doesn't move. "Jack." Still nothing.
"Abbot!" Finally, Jack looks up, and Robby immediately understands. Oh. Oh no. "We need Trauma One." Robby's voice softens. "Now."
Jack nods once, then helps lift you onto the stretcher himself. Refuses to let go or step away. He refuses to leave your side as they race down the hallway. Trauma One is already being prepared. Blood products, thoracotomy tray, massive transfusion protocol—Everything and anything. Whatever it takes.
Dana meets them at the door, and one look at Jack's face tells her everything, every awful piece of it. "Oh, honey." Jack doesn't even hear her; his eyes never leave you, not once. Dana steps close, careful. "Jack." No response from him, so she tries again, "You need to let them work."
His jaw tightens, "No."
"Jack."
"No." His voice breaks again. Because he knows—he knows exactly how bad this is. Knows every possible complication, terrible outcome, and statistic. Every nightmare, and he cannot survive another one. Not you, God, please, especially not after all this—after finally finding you.
The trauma team begins crowding around the bed. Voices overlap, orders fly, blood pressure dropping, airway concerns, surgical consult from Garcia, massive transfusion. Yet, Jack refuses to move, standing beside your stretcher, his hand wrapped around yours. As if letting go might somehow allow death to take you, or sheer stubbornness can keep you here.
As if love might finally be enough this time around.
PTMC, ICU — DAY
The surgery lasts hours—too many hours, long enough for the adrenaline to burn away, and for exhaustion to settle into everyone's bones. Long enough for Jack to memorize every crack in the ICU waiting room floor.
The bullet had done catastrophic damage. A through-and-through gunshot wound with massive internal bleeding. Multiple units of blood transfused. Emergency surgery. Complications halfway through that had nearly sent the entire operating room into a panic. At one point, Robby had physically forced Jack to sit down because he looked seconds away from collapsing. Jack couldn't remember most of it afterward, only fragments. Your blood on his hands. Your voice. I love you, Jack Abbot.
The terror of watching your blood pressure disappear from the monitor. The awful realization that he might lose you before he'd ever gotten the chance to tell you—I love you too. But somehow, you survive. The surgeons manage to stop the bleeding and repair the damage. They brought you back. It feels less like medicine and more like a miracle.
Three days later, you're still asleep, intubated, and hooked to enough machines to make the room hum softly around you. But you're alive, and right now, that's enough.
Jack hasn't left at all. Dana, Robby, Lena, and even Whitaker—all of them fail. Because every time someone tells him to go home, he looks at you lying in that hospital bed and refuses. The man is impossible when he decides on something, and he decided he was staying.
So he stays, wearing scrubs more often than not. Surviving almost entirely on hospital coffee and vending machine food, and sleeping in the uncomfortable chair beside your bed. If you could see him, you'd probably yell at him. Tell him he's being ridiculous, and that he should shower. To stop looking like a man who personally lost a fight against a tornado. Unfortunately, you're unconscious, which means nobody can stop him.
The red string remains, that impossible thread winding around his wrist before disappearing into yours, completely visible now. Neither of you is hiding anymore. Sometimes Jack simply stares at it, as if he's afraid it'll disappear—a chance he'll wake up and discover this was some cruel fever dream. Because for years he believed he'd had his soulmate, then he lost her. And now—now the universe has somehow handed him another sacred thing. A second chance he never expected. One he's terrified of losing before it even begins.
The ICU room is quiet that afternoon as sunlight spills through the window. Your face is pale against the white pillow. Your hair is messy, and there's bruising along your neck from procedures, tape securing lines, and dressings. Evidence of how close death came for you. Jack reaches forward, his fingers brushing gently through your hair. The movement reverent, as if touching something precious. Something fragile and almost lost.
His thumb traces softly across your cheek. "You scared the hell out of me." His voice is rough, sleep-deprived, and broken around the edges. You don't answer, but that never stops him.
The door opens quietly as Robby steps inside, coffee in one hand and concern written all over his face. He pauses immediately, taking in the scene. Jack slumped beside your bed, wearing his scrubs, faintly stained with blood—your blood. His hand wrapped around yours, and the red string was visible between them. For a moment, Robby says nothing, simply watches. Understanding settling over him piece by piece. Then finally, he asks, "How's she doing?"
Jack glances up. His eyes are bloodshot and exhausted. "Stable." The word comes out cautious. Because saying it too loudly might somehow jinx everything.
Robby nods, steps closer, looking down at you, at the monitors, then at Jack. A realization flickers across his face. "Is she also..." His voice softens. "...your soulmate?"
The question hangs quietly between them, and Jack's gaze immediately drops to your hand. To the red thread wrapped around both wrists. He can't speak for a little while, then he nods once.
"I think so." The words sound ridiculous even now. "I didn't think..." His voice catches as he looks down at you. At the woman he'd spent seven years loving without understanding why it felt different. Not understanding why losing your friendship hurt more than it should, or why seeing you happy mattered so much. Why he'd kept showing up, again and again. "I didn't think it was possible."
Robby remains silent, letting him continue as Jack swallows. "I didn't think it would happen to me." The confession comes out almost embarrassed—he's admitting something shameful. Robby exhales slowly, nods. "There've been a few reports."
Jack glances up.
"A few studies." Robby shrugs. "The theory is that some soulmate bonds don't form immediately." His eyes drift toward the red string, toward your intertwined hands. "Sometimes they form after loss."
The room falls quiet, neither of them says the obvious thing. That his late had been Jack's soulmate too, and loving her had been real, complete, and true. That none of this erased her.
Jack looks back at your sleeping face, the rise and fall of your chest, and the steady rhythm on the monitor. Alive and still here. His fingers slide gently through your hair again, careful not to disturb anything, as his hand cups your cheek. The gesture impossibly tender. Robby immediately looks away, because some moments aren't meant for witnesses.
Jack leans forward, pressing a kiss against your forehead, lingering there for a second, eyes closed and relieved. Terrified and very in love. When he finally pulls back, his thumb brushes across your skin. And for the first time since the shooting, a small smile appears. Fragile, hopeful, like he's allowing himself to believe it. Just a little.
"Come back to me, Lifeline." His voice is barely above a whisper. The red string glows softly between your wrists, and Jack squeezes your hand gently, as if you're already listening. As if somewhere beneath the machines and medications and healing wounds, you can hear him. Maybe, for the first time in a very long time, he isn't asking fate for anything. He's only asking for you.
PTMC, ICU — DAY
The first thing you become aware of is discomfort, not pain, well, not yet anyway, just wrongness. A strange pressure lodged in your throat—something foreign. Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy, as if someone glued them shut. The effort required to open them feels monumental. Slowly, painstakingly—you manage it, and the world arrives in fragments. White ceiling, muted sunlight, the rhythmic beeping of monitors, and the steady hiss of oxygen.
A hospital room—your hospital room, and immediately your nursing brain starts putting pieces together. ICU, you're in the ICU, which means—Oh. Oh no, the shooting. Memory crashes back all at once: the gun, Jack, blood, Trauma One. I love you, Jack Abbot.
Your eyes widen immediately as panic flares. Because there is definitely a tube down your throat, a ventilator tube, and suddenly every survival instinct in your body starts screaming. You try to move—a mistake, as pain explodes through your abdomen. Pain that says somebody has spent several hours trying very hard to keep you alive. A strangled sound leaves you; your heart monitor immediately speeds up.
Then you feel it, a hand, wrapped around yours. You turn your head, slowly, and there he is… Jack. Curled awkwardly in the chair beside your bed, wearing his black scrubs, asleep. His head was resting against folded arms near your mattress, one hand tangled with yours, the red string winding quietly between your wrists. For a moment, you just stare because he looks awful. His curls are a mess, dark circles shadow his eyes, his jaw is covered in stubble, his scrubs are wrinkled because he hasn't slept properly in days, and he hasn't left. This whole time, he stayed. Your fingers twitch, weakly, barely enough movement to count. Then you squeeze his hand.
Jack jerks awake instantly, years of emergency medicine, and years of sleeping lightly. His head snaps upward, disoriented and confused. Then his eyes land on yours, and the entire world stops. For a moment, he doesn't move or breathe. Doesn't seem capable of either. He just stares, afraid you're another dream, or another hallucination born from exhaustion.
"Hey." The word comes out rough, barely audible, and your eyes immediately fill with tears. Because he's crying, relief floods his face so quickly it looks painful. His hand tightens around yours.
"My Lifeline." His voice cracks completely, and suddenly, tears are sliding down his cheeks, unashamed. Jack laughs once, a choked sound halfway between a sob and a prayer. "Oh, my God."
You try to answer, then immediately regret it, because the tube is still there. Panic spikes again.
Jack notices instantly, "Hey." His hand cups the side of your face, gentle and grounding. "Hey, hey." His thumb brushes your cheek, "You're okay." Your breathing becomes faster, the ventilator alarms immediately begin protesting. "You're okay." Jack is already reaching for the call button, never taking his eyes off you. "You're okay."
Within seconds, the room fills with people. Garcia arrives first. Followed by respiratory therapy, a nurse, and half the ICU, apparently. "Well, look at that." Garcia's grin is immediate. "About time."
You want to roll your eyes, but unfortunately, you still have a breathing tube. The respiratory therapist immediately begins assessing and following commands. Checking your neurological status. Making sure you're strong enough for extubation. You squeeze hands, follow fingers with your eyes, nod appropriately. All while Jack hovers nearby. Trying desperately not to interfere, and failing miserably.
"She's ready." The therapist glances toward Garcia, and then Garcia nods. "Let's do it."
Jack immediately moves closer, instinctively. Like he physically cannot help himself. The ventilator disconnects, the securing device is removed, and the respiratory therapist gives instructions. You barely hear any of them; your entire focus is on the tube. Then—it's out. Immediately, you cough violently because your throat burns. Every breath feels strange and uncomfortable, but you're breathing on your own.
Jack is already helping support you upright, one arm behind your shoulders, the other holding a cup with ice chips. "Easy." His voice is impossibly soft. "Slow down."
You cough again, eyes watering. Jack looks ready to fight somebody on your behalf. Possibly the tube or the entire ICU. Eventually, the coughing settles enough for you to breathe comfortably, and the monitors stabilize, everyone visibly relaxing.
Garcia steps forward, professional mode fully activated. "Okay. The surgery went well." She begins carefully. "You sustained a gunshot wound to the abdomen." Jack's jaw tightens visibly as she continues, "There was significant internal bleeding." Garcia continues. "We had to perform an emergency exploratory laparotomy."
Your nurse brain immediately fills in blanks, searching for damage, complications, and probabilities. Garcia notices this and says, "We repaired injuries to your small bowel and controlled several bleeding vessels."
Your stomach drops.
Jesus.
"You required multiple transfusions." Garcia continues. "But you're stable now."
Stable—the most beautiful word in medicine. You glance toward Jack; he's staring at the floor, hearing the details physically hurts. Garcia notices that, too, a tiny smile appears. One that says she understands far more than she's commenting on.
"Recovery's going to suck." You manage a weak laugh; the sound comes out raspy. Garcia points immediately. "There she is. Don't make me regret taking that tube out."
For the first time since waking, you actually smile. Garcia gathers her chart and steps toward the door, then pauses, looking between you. Then Jack, the red string, then back again.
"Oh." A knowing expression crosses her face. "Right."
Jack immediately looks uncomfortable, which is almost impressive considering everything that's happened.
Garcia grins. "Try not to stress her out." Then she points at you. "And try not to get shot again."
The door closes behind her, and the room suddenly feels much quieter. Much smaller and more intimate. Silence settles; neither of you quite knows what to say. Because there are too many things, seven years' worth.
Jack remains seated beside the bed, his hand never leaving yours, not once. He's afraid the second he lets go, you'll disappear again.
Your throat hurts—everything hurts, but somehow none of it matters right now. Because Jack is looking at you, really looking at you, and there are tears still caught in his eyelashes. Evidence of how terrified he'd been, your fingers tighten weakly around his. "Hi." The word comes out hoarse, barely audible. A wet laugh escapes him, disbelieving, and relieved. "Hi."
His thumb brushes across your knuckles, again and again. As if he needs the contact—he needs proof. Then Jack lowers his head, pressing his forehead gently against your joined hands, his eyes closing. Breathing shakily, and in that moment, you realize he was just as afraid of losing you as you'd always been of losing him.
Finally, Jack swallows hard, then asks quietly, "How long?" You know exactly what he means, not the shooting or the string. All of it. You stare down at your intertwined hands. At the red thread winding around both wrists, then back at him, and answer honestly. "Since my first day.”
Jack blinks, once and twice. He genuinely thought he'd misheard you, "Your first day?" You nod, a sad laugh escaping. "Yeah."
His mouth opens, then closes, and opens again. The physician in him is clearly attempting to process impossible information. Unfortunately for him, he's currently operating as a man in love, not a doctor, which means none of this is going well.
"Seven years?" The words come out strangled, and you give a tiny nod. Jack leans back in his chair, looking dizzy. "Jesus Christ."
A weak laugh escapes you. "That was more or less my reaction too." His hand tightens around yours to reassure himself.
"Why didn't you tell me?" The question is quiet, not accusing anymore, only hurt. He’s trying to understand. You look away first, toward the window. Because this part is harder. "You were married." The words are simple, obvious, and true, Jack's expression immediately softens.
"You loved her." You smile sadly. "Of course you did." Because he had, you'd seen it, every day, in every smile or phone call, at the mere mention of her.
"I wasn't going to be the woman who showed up and destroyed that." Your voice trembles. "I couldn't. It's why I never said anything." A tear slips free, and you don't bother wiping it away.
"I respected her too much." Your laugh cracks. "And honestly?" You finally look at him, unwaveringly, you admit, "I loved you too much.” Jack closes his eyes, processing the truth of it all. "I knew you were happy." You smile weakly. "I thought… I thought if I couldn't be the person you loved, then I'd settle for being someone you trusted."
Jack stares at you, completely speechless. Suddenly, every memory makes sense, every retreat or careful boundary. You chose distance over possibility. You weren't waiting. You weren't hoping for his wife to die. Goddamit. The thought makes him sick now. You were protecting him—protecting both of them, at the expense of yourself, for seven years.
"That's insane." The words slip out before he can stop them. You blink, offended. "Excuse me?" Jack actually laughs, a wet, exhausted sound. "You loved me for seven years."
"You make it sound like a disease." You frowned.
"It kind of is."
You point weakly, "I got shot."
"Exactly." For the first time since waking up—you both laugh. The sound fades slowly, leaving only the truth behind. Jack shifts closer, his chair scrapes softly against the floor, until he's sitting right beside the bed, close to you, so that there's nowhere left to hide.
"I need you to understand something." His voice lowers, gentler now, and more vulnerable than you've ever heard it. Jack looks down briefly, then back up. "She was my soulmate." The words settle softly between you, simply true and not at all cruel. You nod, because you know—you've always known.
"I loved her." His eyes shine, "I'll always love her."
You squeeze his hand, "I know." Jack exhales shakily, then continues, "But somewhere along the way..." His voice falters, and you can’t recall if you've ever seen him this scared. His thumb brushes your cheek, the same way it did the night you almost died. "You became my favorite part of the day. The first person I wanted to talk to." Another stroke of his thumb. "The person I looked for first." His eyes never leave yours. "And when you started avoiding me..."
He laughs once, humorless and every bit painful. "It felt like somebody was ripping pieces off me." The confession steals the air from your lungs, and Jack leans forward slightly, and your heart starts racing.
"I thought I was losing my mind." A tiny smile appears at the corners of his mouth. "Turns out I was just in love with you."
Everything disappears—leaving just him and tears blur your vision instantly.
"Oh." It's all you can manage. Jack smiles, soft, beautiful, it’s entirely his. "Yeah."
Suddenly, you're crying. Because after seven years—after all that grief and silence and fear—he chose you. Not because of the string or fate. Or because destiny told him to. But because he loved you.
"You idiot." Your words wobble and Jack laughs, "I know."
"You absolute idiot."
"I've been told."
You laugh through your tears, and somehow, he wipes them away before they can fall. The gentlest touch imaginable, as if you're something precious. Then his forehead rests against yours, and neither of you speaks. You don't need to. The red string glows softly between your wrists, a silent witness, and for the first time—it doesn't feel like a chain. It feels like a beginning.
Jack's gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then immediately back to your eyes. Giving you every opportunity to stop him. Every opportunity to say no. You don't. Not even a little.
So, he kisses you, softly, as if you're something holy. Something he spent seven years searching for without realizing it. His hand cups your cheek, while yours finds his wrist. Right where the string wraps around him, the kiss is gentle and tender. A promise rather than a fire.
When he finally pulls back, neither of you moves very far, foreheads touching, breathing the same air. Jack smiles, the kind of smile you've spent years secretly collecting. "Hi."
A laugh escapes you, "Hi." Then his eyes soften, filled with something warm enough to last a lifetime. "There you are."
After seven years of loving him in silence—you finally get to stay.
End Notes:
Where do I even begin? This idea has been cooking in my head for MONTHS. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how I wanted this story to go. But then you know how things just suddenly click and fall into place? That’s exactly what happened.
It was absolutely euphoric—once I got the plot beats down, I just couldn’t stop writing lol.
I wanted you, the reader, to know how much you respected Jack’s wife and that you weren’t trying to replace her.
Also.. do you get it? Lifeline = Line = String…. Ha ha ha. You are his Line…
Everyone blame Noah Kahan for making me cry to Orbiter.
LOWKEY, wasn’t expecting a lot of people to read this…
Taglist: @gennywennypenny @kneelforloki @unknownhuman102 @thebewitchingvagabond @danah-20 @i-do-not-care-bear @nerdgirljen @silksepia @rathatosy @proudlyvastlake @coconuthoneyandjaguars @acciotwinz @thefemininemystiquee @rei-scorpio @buckystwilight
the anon who requested the Jack-Ducky-Robby scenes here, thank you so much for writing it!! the dynamics between them are just so good, I loved reading it so much🥹🫶🏽
HI ANON!
I'm glad you enjoyed it heheh, I had a lot of fun coming up with that little blurb, and I appreciate your support! LOTS OF LOVE TO YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!
Have so many requests I’d love to ask for, but I just want to say instead. You’re honestly my favourite writer. Like anywhere. Haven’t been on tumblr in years until recently and thankfully found your ducky fanfic. Hooked
HIIIIIIII
AWWW thank you so much for reading my fic and I'm so grateful and honored to know you enjoyed Ducky and Robby!!
Reading comments or asks like this truly gives me the motivation to write and keep posting on here tehe. Thank you again, you are too kind! :D
Hello grace just wondering for the firefly x jack fic who will be firefly’s work bestie??? Or will she be mostly isolated at work??? Can you please give us a hint pretty please 😭🥹
HIYA!
ERMMM, tbh, I feel like her work bestie is John Shen lol. They just vibe well :D
If she's isolated at work... that's on her own volition due to... reasons... that I can't reveal just yet tehe!
Thanks for the ask, anon!


